by Greg Wilson
They had lived in Moscow as a family when Kelly was a teenager and despite the weirdness of the place she still remembered those years, as happy times. Good times. Then after her mother’s death her dad had been so lost and despondent that Kelly hadn’t known what to do with him.
They were as close as they had ever been – perhaps even more so – but the pull of her own life was starting to tug her away from him. She had been living in New York for almost five years then and was wrapped up in the excitement of her first job at the UN. And by that time David had been on the scene for almost a year and she was beginning to believe that she was falling in love.
So, with her prompting, her father had taken the Russian job. And then, just two months later – and more significantly it seemed to Kelly, only a few days after she had called him to tell him that she and David were engaged – he had suddenly and unexpectedly returned to the States.
He made contact with her the day after he arrived. Told her he’d taken leave from the Agency and was going up to Tarrytown for a while. When she asked why he had come back so soon all he would say was that he needed a break. Needed some time out for himself.
He wanted her to go up to Westchester and spend the weekend with him but she and David had already made plans so instead he told her he’d come down on the Friday and they arranged to meet for dinner at a restaurant in Little Italy. He was already there when Kelly arrived, tucked into a corner booth, playing with a breadstick, an untouched glass of red wine by his elbow. When he saw her his face lit up like a lantern but then after they embraced the smile folded, almost as though it had been a strain to manage it in the first place.
It wasn’t a successful evening. The food was lousy and the conversation worse, with her father uncharacteristically quiet, almost morose. When Kelly pressed him on the reason for his sudden return he had avoided the issue, shifting the discussion someplace else, and for the first time in her life it felt as though some bleak void had begun to open up between them. A dark crevice that was absorbing their emotions and spreading wider, forcing them apart.
Given the absence of any other explanation, the conclusion she reached seemed the only logical possibility. She held it in until they left the restaurant then, when he was walking her home to her apartment in the East Village, she decided she just couldn’t stand it any longer. On the corner of Prince and Mulberry, outside Old St Patrick’s Cathedral, she stalled, thrusting her hands into her pockets and turning to him with a look of defiance.
“It’s David, isn’t it?” Her gray eyes tried to challenge his. “You don’t like him and you don’t think he’s right for me. Well let me tell you something. You’re just a jealous father who doesn’t think anyone is good enough for his little girl!”
He had seemed genuinely surprised at her outburst. Looked at her for a long moment as if his mind had been elsewhere and was trying to catch up, before the comprehension dawned and one of those soft grins spread across his face, the kind that melted her completely and made her feel like a ten year old again. Then he reached for her and closed his arms around her and wrapped her in an enormous hug. He held her like that for a long moment then let her go. Looked at her for a while in that stern way she remembered but thought he had forgotten, then gave her a little lecture. Told her that ever since she’d been a teenager there was just one thing about her that he’d been concerned was just a fraction too big… her ego… otherwise she was almost perfect. And that even though she had grown up a lot since then, the ego still needed a little work. That she still hadn’t learnt that the whole world didn’t revolve around her, that there were other things happening to other people that might even, at any given moment, actually be more important than what was going on in her life. That she was grown up now, and if she wanted to make a mistake by marrying an asshole then he’d back her up all the way, because that was what fathers were for.
As for the fact that he was a little down… He glanced aside and she saw his thoughts wander for a moment, then he swung his gaze back to her and locked it in that way that made her remember that whenever it came to a war of wills between them she was always the loser. That was something else, he told her. Not something he could talk about right then; in fact, maybe not ever. But it was something that meant he now had a lot of thinking to do.
About the past, the present, and the future.
She and David had been married in December, six months later.
It was a fairytale day. Everything Kelly had ever wanted and dreamed of.
The service was held in the Old Dutch Church at Sleepy Hollow, at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Outside the snow was sifting down, settling lightly on the windshields and gleaming paintwork of the automobiles that lined the rising driveway, while in the stone chapel it was warm and deliciously cozy, the air scented with the fragrance of old timber and books and wax, the light burnished by the glow of a hundred candles.
When the minister got to the who gives this woman part, Kelly remembered how strong and decisive her father’s voice had been.
“I do.”
And then he had stepped away and returned to his place in the front pew, where her mother’s younger sister, June, and her husband waited with their son and daughter, and that was the sad part. Because while there were almost one hundred and fifty people crowded into the little church, and the pews on the right were filled to bursting, those on the Hartman side of the aisle told their own story.
Kelly’s friends were there in strength, of course, but as a courtesy they had left the first few rows vacant, expecting them to be taken up by her relatives and her parents’ closest acquaintances. The problem was, apart from June and her family, they were almost empty. Of the couple of dozen friends from Virginia and DC who’d been asked to the wedding – men and women her father and mother had grown close to over his twenty-eight years with the Company – all but a few had declined their invitations. They just didn’t want to be there because they were scared. Scared of career contamination. Of the consequences of being seen fraternizing with someone who might be about to become the enemy. Because by then Jack Hartman had finished his thinking, come to his decision and quit. Two years short of his thirty he had told them he was leaving and then – to make matters worse – that he intended going public. Not in any way that would violate his secrecy agreement – he’d already gone through that with his attorneys – but that he’d had enough and now he intended to speak out. To use his background and experience to draw attention to some things he believed the public needed to know.
Predictably they’d panicked then – Tom Gaines, the DDO, the DDCI – all of them. In a last-minute attempt at damage control, even the Director himself had stepped in, inviting her father to a private lunch in his suite at Langley, alluding to all sorts of promotional prospects. Then, when that didn’t work, finally pleading with him not to do it. Not to make this terrible mistake. But he had walked anyway because he’d had enough. And because it was time, he’d told her, to do something worthwhile with what was left of his life. So by then Jack Hartman knew who his friends were. And there weren’t too many of them.
Kelly had been more concerned for her father than she had been for herself, but the rebuff hadn’t seemed to worry him. He had been the perfect father of the bride.
The reception was held at Tappan Hill, the beautiful old stone mansion overlooking the Hudson where Mark Twain had once lived a century before, with the party going on until midnight, while the snow fell outside. Towards the end of the evening Kelly had gone looking for her father and found him standing alone on a covered terrace, gazing out across the lights of the Tappan Zee Bridge to the opposite bank of the Hudson, deep in his own thoughts. She had borrowed David’s white tuxedo jacket, tossed it across her shoulders and slipped out to join him, coming up behind him so silently she didn’t think he’d heard her, but when she slid her arm around his waist he showed no indication of surprise. Just reached out with his own arm and drew her to his side. She snuggled up against him a
nd followed his gaze, into the shimmering night.
“Beautiful, isn’t it,” she murmured.
He nodded slowly. Said nothing. She nestled in closer.
“Thanks, Dad. For everything.” She watched him. Saw him bite his lip. Her eyes lowered with her voice. “I was just thinking…”
He finished her sentence. “If only Mom could be here.” He turned to her and smiled.
She tipped her head away from him a fraction and narrowed her gaze. “How did you know that was what I was going to say?”
He squeezed her again. “I’m your father. I know everything, remember?”
She turned back to the lights and nodded slowly. “Sometimes I think maybe you do.”
He drew a long breath and let it go. The warm mist lingered in the air a few seconds then floated away. When he spoke again his voice seemed distant, almost as though he were talking to himself.
“I don’t really. In fact, the older I get, the less certain I am about anything.”
Kelly pondered that. Thought about the meaning. Glanced sideways at him.
“Are you worried? You know… about quitting and everything?”
Her father tossed his head dismissively. “No. Not about that. Not for a moment.” He paused a beat. Continued on in a less certain tone. “It’s other stuff I’m concerned about. Other people.”
She turned towards him. Cautious. “Me?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Honest?”
“Honest,” she insisted.
He smiled. “A little. But only a little. You’re big enough and mean enough to look after yourself.”
She punched his arm and held him tighter. “Who then?” she said after a while.
He drew a breath. “Just a guy I met,” he answered obliquely. “A guy with a wife and a little girl.”
Kelly studied her father. Noticed the way his jaw had set firm. “Something that happened in Russia?”
He turned back to the night and nodded slowly. “Yep. Something that happened in Russia.”
She followed his gaze. ‘So…” She shrugged. “What is it about them that’s worrying you?”
He spent a while considering his answer then finally turned to her.
“I let him down. He trusted me and I let him down, and now for all I know, because of that…”
He didn’t have to finish. She understood. She let a moment pass before speaking again. “And that’s what this is all about? Quitting the Company? The book?”
He nodded. “Too little and too late, but yes, that’s what it’s all about.” He snared another breath and drew himself upright, snapping out of his thoughts. “But that’s my problem and tonight’s about you, not me. He turned towards Kelly, took a step back, folded her hands in his and studied her with silent admiration. “You’re beautiful, Kel.” He shook his head. “Not just beautiful. Exquisite. I’m so proud of you.”
Kelly bit her lip to try and hold back the tears but her eyes were already clouded. Music drifted through the mullioned windows out to the patio. Slow now. The band on its last bracket. She recognized the tune. “The Green Leaves of Summer”. The haunting strains of the muted trumpet. She glanced inside. People were getting ready to leave. She caught sight of David, standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking around. Searching for her. She turned away, back to her father, concentrating on him.
“I think it’s time.”
He glanced inside.
‘So,” she breathed, and forced a smile. “Any last minute father to daughter advice?”
He smiled. “Just be happy, sweetheart. That’s all.”
She watched him, her gaze suddenly serious. Almost troubled.
“But how?” Her voice seemed faint. Small. She squeezed his hands. “How do I do that?”
He glanced away, considering the question, then turned back again, his eyes settling softly on hers. “Take chances, but always be true to yourself. Live. Love.” He hesitated for just a moment. “Always keep your promises.”
Always keep your promises. That was what reminded her. Damn! She’d promised to call him back.
She set down the cleanser, tossed the cotton wool into the waste bin and picked up her watch from the edge of the vanity. Past eleven but still early enough. Knowing her father he’d still be awake. Poring through the press cuttings and reports that littered his study, reading the oblique emails and anonymous letters that now found their way to him every day. Analyzing them, disentangling fiction from fact, then taking the facts and piecing them together. Connecting them like a line of dominos until what started as an unreadable puzzle finally made sense.
She left the light on and made her way into the living room. Picked up her briefcase from the desk, pulled out the manila folder and carried it back with her to the bedroom. Planted herself on the edge of the bed, plucked the phone from its stand and hit the fast-dial number. Jack Hartman picked up on the third ring.
“Hi Dad.”
“Hi sweetheart.” She could see him smiling at the sound of her voice the way she had at his. “I got your message on the machine. Sorry I was out. So, how was your evening?”
She hesitated just a beat too long. “Great!”
He picked it up instantly. “That bad, huh?”
She slumped. Cancelled the fake enthusiasm. “Worse.”
“Right.” No further comment. Change of subject. “So, you said you’ve got something I might be interested in.” Kelly bounced back onto the bed, crossed her legs and propped herself against the headboard. Set the folder down beside her. “And what would that be?”
Her eyes fell to the name on the label. “Something I came across at work. Tomorrow’s Friday. Got any plans for the weekend? If you haven’t I was thinking about maybe coming up to visit.”
“What have you got, Kel?” A monotone. “Don’t tease.”
Kelly Hartman grinned to herself. Rocked side to side as she flicked through the pages. “The senate hearing. The one where you’re the star attraction. Russian crime infiltrating US business.” It was a subject on which her father had become an acknowledged expert. His specialty. Or maybe obsession was a better word. “When did you say that was due to start?”
“Monday two weeks. What have you got, Kel?”
She lifted a single sheet from the pile of loose pages and dangled it by its corner.
‘The Friday afternoon traffic is the pits. I think I’ll take the train. Pick me up?”
She heard the smile return to her father’s voice.” Okay. What time?”
‘Six?”
‘Six is fine. I’ll book somewhere nice for dinner. How about Tappan Hill? It’s a long time since we’ve been there.”
That caught her. She pursed her lips and let the page fall from her fingers. Her turn for the monotone. “Not long enough. I’ll cook. You’ll be busy reading.”
18
MOSCOW
It was the sound most of all that Nikolai found difficult to adjust to. The constant mind-numbing drone of traffic that never seemed to stop. It had been bad enough nine years ago but now it was even worse. Cars flying everywhere in a mad, crazed rush as if everyone was late for everything. Either that or gridlocked in massive clenches pumping exhaust fumes relentlessly into the stifling air. Making it feel as though the whole city was encased in a massive bubble of carbon monoxide.
It was so bad – so impossible to breathe – that he sought refuge in the underground. Riding the trains and allowing himself to ebb and flow with the sea of humanity, trying to get used to it all again. Watching the way people moved and spoke and acted and trying to be like them. Trying to remember how to be normal.
The metro served other purposes as well. It was the best way of moving swiftly and cheaply between the places he needed to go to and he felt safer there, lost in the tight swelling crowds where no one was exceptional and no one stood out. And it was familiar. Beneath the streets, at least, little had changed. There were more peddlers now, with more to sell, and perhaps the reforms were starting to work, since ther
e were more people buying what they had to offer, but the beggars were still just as evident. Almost as many as before. Elderly women, mainly. Weathered and stooped and downcast, any pride they may once have possessed stripped away by a government that had failed them. He passed one of them in the underpass beneath Revolution Square. She was tiny and frail, wearing a scarf wrapped around her head like a bonnet and a faded print dress and a cardigan, despite the heat. She stood quietly to one side of the tunnel, her bowl cupped in her hand, rocking back and forth slowly from the waist, lost in her own world, expecting nothing. Perhaps that was what made him stop. He dug a hand into the pocket of the black jeans he had bought from the market stall at Novosibirsk, came up with a few coins and slipped them into her dish. Went to move on again but the touch of her fingers on his bare arm held him back.
A shiver coursed through him. Not cold, but curiously warm. The strange, unfamiliar feeling of a human touch.
He glanced down at the frail hand then up to meet the old woman’s eyes. They were black as ebony. Gypsy eyes. Buried in a shriveled face the color of old walnut. Small and tired but somewhere deep within them there was a glow of surprising power. They flickered as they read his own. Faded with trouble for a moment and then the cloud passed and the light returned, more intense than before. Her fingers squeezed his arm with unexpected strength and he read the words as her lips moved silently.
God will protect you.
Not “God protect you”. For a moment he thought he had misunderstood her meaning but then he looked into her eyes again and there was no doubt. Will protect you. Her eyes held his, resolute and gleaming, and then – as if she had read his mind – her head dipped with just the slightest nod. Then Nikolai felt the crowd pressing against him and their touch was broken and he was being carried forward again, towards whatever lay ahead.
It was nearly three days since he had escaped Novokuznetsk. There had been no way of measuring time to begin with. The watch Natalia had given him had gone years ago and in the foul darkness of Florinskiy’s coffin it would have been of no use anyway, so he had concentrated on counting. The minutes first, then the hours, from the first lurching movement as the train pulled out of the station, until he was unable to bear the claustrophobia and the suffocating stench any longer. By then, certain that he was alone in the freight compartment, he had begun wrestling the heavy pine lid from its fixings, forcing it upward until the last of the nails finally surrendered and the plank top broke free of its fixings. After that he had clambered and stumbled from the hideous dark cavern that might have become his own tomb and sunk to the floor, dragging the mercifully fresh air into his lungs, willing the dizziness and the piercing headache to pass. Then when finally they did – when it dawned on him that he had almost made it, that he was almost free – a surge of excitement approaching delirium began to overtake him, a flow of energy that seemed to make almost anything possible.
