Pytor, nodding in approval, said, “These American men live in the gray area between their loyalty to country and their own lust for money.”
Kiselev asked, “So what is it you wish us to do?”
Khrushchev answered, “Comrades, after we eat some dinner, you will both leave here and, later tonight, be killed in a plane crash. There will be great funerals, tears, and then you will each take control of one of the assets in the US. We will give you the details after dinner. Now we eat and drink.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Jack made it back to the office around 8:00 p.m. He had gotten a few hours of sleep, a shower, and was back in the game. Most of the analysts had gone, except for the one who was just coming out of Dewey’s office. The analyst said, “Culberson will want to see you; we just got an update on Kiselev and Chistyakov from Moscow.”
“Thanks.” Jack didn’t know his name or care. He walked in, and Dewey was pouring himself some vodka, which he did whenever they were discussing intelligence from Russia. “I hear you got some news on Kiselev and Chistyakov?”
“You know Gilbert is going to say ‘I told you so’?”
“About Kiselev and Chistyakov?”
“No, about waiting to bug the detective’s office.”
Jack shrugged and said, “I’m sleeping with Gilbert’s secretary and I’ve been waiting to tell him.”
“You want some vodka?” Dewey asked and continued, “I'm going to need you to hold off on that bomb shell until another day. I need all hands on deck, and you know that will fry his circuits.”
“Okay, boss, I’ll let him have that one. You want me to bug the office now?”
“Yes, do it tonight. We've been at this for a long time now; people are starting to question the direction this has gone. I can’t say I blame them. I need you to keep this between you and me.” He waited for Jack to nod.
“I mean it. Nobody else knows.”
“I got it. What’s up?”
“We started out with a theory, one Gilbert put together, which I believed and still do. It’s not looking good, and people are starting to say we are tilting at windmills. The mountains of data we've gathered points to a vague hint that somebody somewhere might be up to something. That isn’t good enough. When Robert Lohman was killed, I suspected it was the first move...that the game was afoot.”
“It does seem like we touched a nerve.”
“The problem is that there hasn’t been any noise. Every report is the same old thing; daily meetings, their spies watching us while we look back at them. Nothing is happening. I was sure that with this new KGB and Serov at the helm they would start to make some moves. We've been waiting, ready to counter them, but nothing.”
“So what happened with Kiselev and Chistyakov?”
"The reports have been coming in hourly, twenty-four seven. They were both summoned to the Kremlin yesterday and were there for over four hours.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. It's strange as the worst kept state secret is their hatred for one another.”
“Do you know if they were in the same meeting?”
“No, but they arrived fifteen minutes apart, after most of the staff had left. They exited together and got into a car which took them to a private airfield outside of Moscow.”
“Was Serov at the meeting?”
“As far as we know, he was in Stalingrad.”
Jack had a strange look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
Gilbert, almost running, came through the door. “I just heard about Oleg and Pytor.” He had a habit of referring to foreign operatives by their first names. It annoyed Jack.
“I was just getting to that. They took off on a private military flight that…”
“You know what this means?” Gilbert said, sounding almost frantic. “We are screwed!”
Dewey gave Gilbert a long look and then continued, “The flight went down in the Ukraine. Though we don’t have any confirmation, the reports out of Moscow are that there weren’t any survivors.”
“We are completely screwed.” Gilbert said again as he paced.
Jack smiled ever so slightly to himself. Gilbert noticed and went crazy and yelled, “Oh, you think it’s funny? A couple of commie bastards die, and it's a happy day. Let me tell you something, knowing your enemy takes years. These men were brilliant adversaries, and, yes, it will hurt Moscow to lose them, but it hurts us worse. We have no idea who will step in; there are dozens of possible successors to take over their operations. Every one of these men could be considered a wild card. All of our work is completely down the toilet. We are screwed.”
Jack said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. You're right, of course.” His conciliatory tone was noticed by Dewey and appreciated. It also seemed to catch Gilbert somewhat off guard and calmed him down.
Dewey continued, “What we need to do is think this through. Before the news, we thought they were about to make a move, and either Pytor or Oleg would drop out of sight.”
Jack thought, I guess they both did. He was still glad. “If there are to be new people taking over their operations, they will need to start by making contact. Wouldn’t they?”
Gilbert looked at Jack. “He’s right.” He grabbed a yellow pad and started writing. Dewey and Jack just watched as he scribbled two dozen names on the pad in under a minute.
“Any of the analysts still around?” Gilbert asked.
Dewey answered, “Only a couple.”
“Get them back...all of them. We need a status report on every one of these names. Someone, or likely two people, will be summoned to Moscow. They will be the replacements.”
Dewey got on the phone and told his secretary to call everyone back in. It was going to be a long night.
Jack decided to take his medicine and said, “You want me to bug the detective’s office now?”
Gilbert looked up and said, “Good idea, you should be able to get in there tonight…and great idea about the contact.”
Jack looked at Dewey who just gave a shrug. Gilbert was writing again, and Jack left, not letting them see his little grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The game was in the book and the Dodgers had won. The 1955 season was off to a great start. Henry and the others enjoyed a pizza afterward, then he took Luna home.
Luna lived with her father, who seemed quite fond of Henry and didn’t mind her seeing so much of him. Henry liked Mr. Alexander, too. After spending about forty-five minutes talking baseball with Mr. Alexander, Henry said good night and drove home.
It seemed as if every traffic light turned red as he pulled up. It had been a beautiful day for the game, but clouds had rolled in, and it was raining. A car pulled out in front of Henry, and he had to slam on the breaks. “Damn it!”
For some reason, Cynthia Pollard’s lifeless body flashed across his mind. His muscles twitched. He wanted to move, to slam the accelerator to the floor and feel the car lurch forward.
Henry rarely swore and certainly not at trivialities, but he wasn’t angry at the red lights or being cut off. He was angry at himself for Cynthia. He couldn’t be sure why, exactly, as he hadn’t killed her, but still, in his mind, her blood was on his hands. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the timing.
Did she know something about Kupton’s death?
If she did, why did the killer wait so long?
He had over a week.
Was it a he?
Henry couldn’t remember what Amy had said about Mrs. Kupton. Had she known about Cynthia? He remembered her mentioning the affair and saying something, but his memory seemed to be failing him.
Henry made it home to Brooklyn and parked the car. He got out, slamming the door to blow off some steam. His coat got caught. He made a guttural noise and, with a clinched jaw, opened the door. The second attempt at slamming the door went better and made a satisfyingly loud thwack.
Henry walked up the stairs, checked the mailbox, and tucked the bills under his arm.
Once inside, he hung up his coat, grabbed a beer, and sat down at the kitchen table. He had left his notebook at the office, something he never did. The notes he had from Amy might answer his nagging question about Mrs. Kupton. He wondered if jealousy could have been the catalyst.
Henry walked around the kitchen. He sat down. He stood back up and took a drink of beer. He was annoyed. It was irrational and that annoyed him, too. Henry had to work, but he needed the stupid notebook. Two more laps around the kitchen and the beer was gone.
Henry decided the only thing he could do right now was listen to some more music from the future. It was on his list anyway and maybe being productive would ease his angst. The eighth song on the song list seemed to jump out at him. He clicked the button until the screen read, “Get It Right the First Time.”
The line, “Get it right the next time, it’s not the same thing,” seemed to pour salt in the wound. Getting it right now wouldn’t bring Cynthia back. It wouldn’t bring Kupton back, either, but that was different. When he died, Henry had never heard of him.
He had shared a meal with Cynthia. He wondered if something she might have said at the restaurant had gotten her killed. Was there anyone who seemed out of place? Was there someone watching them?
“Damn it.” Henry had let his senses get dulled by her beauty. He remembered her hair, how she smelled, the curves of her dress, and he could picture those lips. Just thinking of them made him feel guilty.
There was much about her and about who she was that he found ugly and uninteresting, but it was her searing exterior that had been blinding. For all Henry knew, they might have been alone in the restaurant. There must have been a waiter because food had arrived. Henry remembered the bartender, and he remembered sitting and waiting. He could see the people, mostly in pairs, sitting at their tables. Nothing out of the ordinary there, nobody else waiting. What he couldn’t remember was anything after she walked in. It was amateurish.
It had been a long night, and he was exhausted. Henry grabbed another beer and played the seventh song, "Always A Woman." It made him think of Luna, which was good. When it finished, he played it again. The stress left him, and he drifted off at the table.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Martin Van Sythe stood up, and the quiet conversations around the table died out. The conference room door was closed, all the staff had gone home long ago, and, except for a few briefcases and two pitchers of water, the room was empty. Martin had prepared notes but didn’t need them.
In attendance were Charles Wayne Hudson, William Darby, John Fleming, Sir Richard Besserman, and the new man at the helm of Kupton Manufacturing, Matthew Kerwin. They all were focused on Martin.
“It has been over a year since Daniel Kupton approached William and me. His vision and plan was so complex that he only gave us the tip of the iceberg. His company was swimming in red ink, but he had a way out. He needed money and explained the risk. We both believed his discovery was worth the risk, and it was then we approached the rest of you. You each contributed generously, despite having only a cursory knowledge of his entire vision.”
Sir Richard Besserman said, “I can’t speak for the others, but for me, it was the results he had in the material testing that won me over.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Martin continued, “Thank you, Richard, I appreciate your enthusiasm and trust. Daniel provided few updates to the group because he thought it was important to maintain absolute secrecy. He did keep me informed, and I passed along those details that I felt were necessary for you each to know. His recent death has caused considerable concern, and though I've tried to assure each of you that the plans are still moving forward, I wanted to put any remaining fears to rest. This is the first reason I called you here tonight. In addition to keeping me in the loop, Daniel had his number two, Matthew Kerwin, involved in every step of the project. This was his idea of an insurance policy. I'm glad he had the foresight to take this step.” He made a slight motion towards Matthew. “I would like Matthew to introduce himself. He has a few items to share with you.”
Matthew stood up, took a drink of water, and said, “I'm pleased to be here this evening despite the unfortunate circumstances that made it a necessity. In order to put your minds at ease, we thought it was best to give this update. Without boring you with endless technical detail, I can say that the original plans are being exceeded. When you were first approached, it was because our material sciences R&D team had succeeded in creating pipes that could withstand pressure at three times the previous record. They then applied what they had learned to a set of gauges. This is important because, as you know, the building of submarines requires this technology if they are to improve. A submarine may only head down to a depth at which its weakest link can handle. Furthermore, when in battle, the pipes must remain working even when…”
Charles Hudson said, “Not to interrupt, but we understand the importance and are aware that these advancements were key in gaining the Navy contracts. It’s awfully late. Why do these meetings always happen so late?”
John Flemming said, “Past your bedtime, Charlie?”