The Sixth Idea

by P. J. Tracy

  “I appreciate the generous offer very much, Mr. Davidson, but I have been looking over my shoulder my entire life and made all the necessary arrangements long ago.” He tipped his head at Lydia. “And you, my dear girl—what will you do now?”

  “Live my life. Try to make a difference. Get a bigger gun.”

  “Good for you. Above all, be safe, but when things finally settle—and they will—don’t run, don’t hide. I spent two years hiding, living as a coward in a silent hell when I should have done something that might have prevented all the death the Sixth Idea left in its wake. I’ve done many regrettable things in my life, but that is the one that will haunt me most.”

  Magozzi was watching Grace, mainly because he always watched her when they were in the same room together, but also because he knew what Friedman had just said resonated with her. Her face was as still and indecipherable as it always was, but there was a low-level frisson to her demeanor that hadn’t been there moments before.

  Gino cleared his throat. “Leo, we’ve got a meeting with the chief in half an hour, we should make tracks back to City Hall.”

  “Right. Is there anything we can do before we leave?”

  “We’re good, Magozzi,” Grace said. “I’ll let you out.”

  The short elevator ride down to the main floor was quick, and Grace didn’t say anything until he and Gino were almost to the door. “What kind of safe house are the Feds offering to Lydia?”

  Magozzi shrugged. “We don’t know yet, and Dahl probably doesn’t either. He’ll lay out some options when he debriefs her later today.”

  “We’ll keep her here until the Feds present something suitable.”

  “That’s really generous, Grace, but way above and beyond the call. You and Harley have done enough already.”

  “We’re not going to shove her off alone to a questionable safe house with a couple agents she doesn’t know.”

  “Hopefully, she won’t need a safe house for long and she’ll be able to go home soon.”

  “She’s selling it.”

  “The lake house?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes.”

  Magozzi’s eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

  SIXTY-ONE

  Later that night, Magozzi knew his future at last, and realized that it would simply be a continuation of the past. When Grace was asleep, as she was now, he could live out his fantasies, touching her as he would never dare when she was awake. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about her skin that shocked his fingers awake and sometimes pushed him so close to losing control that he shuddered with the effort of holding everything inside.

  Oh my God. That was nearly Neanderthal. And that meant he had gone over the edge.

  But for this brief moment, he felt the curve of her back against his stomach, felt the soft press of Grace’s back against his lower stomach, and thought maybe he could live with this for the rest of his life. Maybe it was enough. The trick was, you had to live for the moment, love the moment, in case there was never another.

  Grace was blissfully asleep now, limp in his arms, and this was a rare thing. Life had taught her to be always alert, on guard, even in sleep, and he hated to think what had instigated that intense fearfulness.

  But something had changed.

  His eyes opened in the dark and his breath stilled. His hand went quiet, cupping her belly, feeling that tiny swell that had never been there before, as if something beneath his hand was talking to him.

  Obviously no one knew yet. She was slender as always, you couldn’t see it, you had to feel it—that soft rise of a normally nonexistent belly. He realized in that moment it wasn’t just that something had changed. Everything had changed.

  He was smiling as he fell asleep.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Max was sitting on the front porch of his Montana ranch with a strong cup of tea and a plate of warm black bread with trout from his very own pond. Vera had done an excellent job pickling it. As it turned out, she was a superb cook.

  His two golden retrievers were sound asleep at his feet. The vista in front of him was stunning, especially at sunrise—hues of purple and orange and pink painted geometric figures on the face of the distant mountain range in such a way he’d never seen in Russia. In the foreground was his herd of horses, grazing peacefully in abundant, flower-studded pastureland. Occasionally they would look up, as if they were enjoying the sunrise as much as he was. There had been times in his life when he’d had to eat both horses and dogs, but he so much preferred having them as companions.

  Max didn’t own a cell phone anymore, and he didn’t have a landline. He didn’t need any of that. He did keep a radio on hand for any emergencies with the animals or with his property; and he also kept a satellite phone, just in case he had an emergency of another sort. There was only one person in the world who knew how to contact him through the sat phone, and that person was calling now. He could answer or not. Nothing would come of it either way. But he did have a certain curiosity about how things had turned out for Ivan.

  “Dobroe utro, Ivan.”

  “Maksim! You just said ‘good morning,’ and narrowed down my search for you.”

  “There are many places in the world where it is morning right now.”

  Ivan uttered one of his rattling chuckles. “I’m not searching for you, tovarish. Just inquiring about your welfare. You sound well.”

  “I am. And you?”

  “I am enjoying my retirement. Our last mission was an interesting one, was it not?”

  “Not really. Business as usual.”

  “I found it unsatisfying.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The Sixth Idea. I want to know what it is. So do our employers.”

  “We don’t have employers anymore, Ivan. Besides, the Sixth Idea never existed. It was a simple American decoy, and look how well it worked. Idiots are still chasing a myth sixty years later.”

  “I’m not so certain it is a myth, Maksim. And there are others who share my sentiment. Arthur Friedman is still missing, and he is the only person in the world who would know.”

  “Arthur Friedman is missing because he’s dead, they just haven’t found his body yet. And even if he were still alive, his brain has been dead and gone for a long time. Vera and I were there with him at the clinic, Ivan. We know this.”

  “Yes, I suppose. But perhaps we should meet again to discuss this further.”

  “I don’t think so. And what does it matter to you? You should take your retirement more seriously. Chasing dragons is a young man’s folly.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. So we part company at last. Enjoy the American Dream, tovarish.”

  As Max ended the call, the dogs started whining in excitement and brushing their tails against the porch floor when they saw Vera walking up the stone path from the barns and gardens. She was carrying one basket of eggs and another basket of freshly harvested vegetables. This was indeed the American Dream. “Ivan just called.”

  Vera made a sour face. “Trouble never dies.”

  “Ivan would be difficult to kill. I believe those Troika cigarettes are what will ultimately get him in the end.”

  They both looked up when the distant report of a fine Barrett sniper rifle cracked the still, silent morning air. Vera set her baskets down on the steps. “Our ranch hand must have spotted a coyote.”

  “He said they’ve been very aggressive lately,” Max agreed. “I knew that rifle would come in handy here.”

  EPILOGUE

  Magozzi was sitting on the bench at the end of the dock, beer in one hand, fishing pole in the other, just like he’d imagined on a cold December day five months ago. The lake reflected the deep blue of a perfect May sky and some purple flowers he couldn’t identify perfumed the air from their terra-cotta pots on the shoreline terrace. It was a nice touch—something he never would
have thought of, something he never would have done himself. Women were amazing creatures, creative in all sorts of ways most men would never be.

  He smelled garlic and herbs wafting down from the open windows of his house. He heard the clink of glasses, the muted din of music, the rattle of the refrigerator’s ice maker. And then the crackle of twigs and soft footsteps on the mossy path that led down to the lake.

  “Catching anything?”

  Magozzi turned and held up his beer. “Bottle bass.”

  Grace smiled and handed him a glass of iced tea flourished with a lemon wedge and a sprig of mint. “I’m here to save you from that swill.”

  “Well, thank the Lord. Without your civilizing influence, I’d turn into a full-on barbarian out here, drinking cheap beer and trying to kill innocent fish.”

  Grace was in a sundress and sandals, as slender as she’d always been except for the growing swell of her belly. She’d been spending most of her time here with him, which made him happy; and she seemed happy here, too. For the entirety of their relationship, Magozzi had clung to tiny glimmers of hope that made him believe their lives might finally come together in an unexpected way. And now they were.

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  “I think he’s turned into a barbarian, too. Last time I saw him he was terrorizing squirrels in the woods.”

  “No better job for a dog.”

  “Harley just called. They’re almost here.”

  “So are Gino and Angela and the kids.”

  Grace smiled. “Harley bought some toys for the lake.”

  “Oh yeah? Some floating loungers with cup holders in the arms, I hope.”

  Grace gave him a mysterious smile. “Actually, I think it’s a little more dramatic than that.”

  They sat in comfortable silence, sipping iced tea while they watched the sunlight break into shards on the water. It was quiet here, but full of life—fish jumped, turtles popped their heads out of the water, a pair of bald eagles soared overhead. Somewhere in the distance a horse neighed. It was a perfect day. Every day here was perfect. He’d stopped thinking of this as Lydia’s house months ago.

  Charlie started barking abruptly from somewhere in the woods, and they heard the honk of a horn, then car doors slamming.

  “That’s Harley,” Grace said, taking his hand. “Let’s go see the toys.”

  They walked up to the house hand in hand, which seemed like the most natural thing in the world to Magozzi. When they crested the hill, he saw Roadrunner, Annie, and Harley waiting for them at the edge of the lawn with big smiles and even bigger coolers, blocking the view to the driveway.

  “We’re going to tear up the seas today, Leo,” Harley called down, then stepped aside to reveal a trailer with four WaveRunners. “Pontoon is getting delivered later this week, along with a boat lift and everything else you need. Sorry, bud, but when you bought a lake house, you and Grace kind of gave up your privacy for the summer.”

  Magozzi couldn’t stop smiling, because Harley had used inclusive language. He hadn’t said you gave up your privacy, he’d said you and Grace had.

  You and Grace. And in a few months, someone else.

  AFTERWORD

  To Donald Hepler, a wonderful father and grandfather, who carried a heavy burden for many years; and to “Chuck Spencer.” Although this is a work of fiction, portions of this story are based on actual events, both past and present, and are a part of our family history.

  The flight from Los Angeles to Minneapolis as depicted in the second chapter, where Chuck Spencer meets Lydia Ascher, is written almost exactly as it happened to Traci a few years ago. In the book it seems like a freak encounter between two people who share an unusual family background, but in real life it was even more astounding than that—the real “Chuck” was never supposed to be on my flight. It was only a last-minute cancellation and rebooking on a different airline departing from an entirely different airport that brought him to the last remaining spot on my flight—sitting next to me.

  Also, very special thanks to Phillip Lambrecht and Michael Ebsen. Both made valuable contributions to the story.

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