by Greg Dinallo
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. Some kind of meeting.”
“With who?”
“Beat’s me.”
“Could just be a training run.”
Lowell grunted with uncertainty. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself till today,” he replied. “Twelve days,” he said incriminatingly. “It’s only been twelve days since we last tracked ’em.”
“Good point. Not a whole lot of time between runs; breaks the pattern,” Arnsbarger admitted. “Something to think about.”
Lowell smiled. “I have another one for you.” He tapped a finger on another sat-pix in front of Arnsbarger. “What’s that?” he challenged.
Arnsbarger slid the illuminated magnifier to where Lowell indicated and leaned to the eyepiece. “Tanker? Containerized carrier? Hard to tell for sure.” He shrugged. “Not exactly our area, bucko.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lowell said. “Just that digging through this stuff, I noticed that every time our sub makes one of these circuits, that ship’s docked in Cienfuegos exactly one week later without fail.” He turned his palms up. “Probably nothing.”
“Probably,” Arnsbarger echoed. “We have an acoustic signature on it?”
“Dunno,” Lowell replied.
“Might be worth a look-see,” Arnsbarger said. “If we get an ac-sig match off the hydrotapes, maybe we could identify it.”
“Yeah,” Lowell said.
* * * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
Churcher was still unconscious when he hit the water. The cold slap in the face, the chilling of his entire body to 39 degrees Fahrenheit, snapped him awake.
He clawed at the water, fighting to pull himself upward. Fighting the sea, and the darkness. Fighting to stay alive.
He hadn’t any idea how far it was to the surface; nor any recollection of the men carrying his limp body and sliding it head-first into the greased tube, the clang of the steel hatch, the mechanical engaging of the breechblock, or the captain’s order to “Fire one!”
Those bastards! Those dirty fucking bastards! he thought.
He opened his mouth to scream.
Dark brine rushed in, pulling the tail of his necktie with it.
He couldn’t believe they had done this to him. True, he’d caught them trying to screw him. Put it to them pretty hard. But he gave them every chance and sufficient time to make things right. Had they just ignored his remark about the Kira? About the package of incriminating drawings that would now go to Boulton? Hollow threats weren’t his style. Deschin knew that.
The tie and the bitter water choked him.
His voice wailed inside his head. Christ, thirty fucking years of doing business with them, and it had come to this!
Churcher had known most of the members of the postwar Soviet hierarchy: Malenkov, Khrushchev, Kosygin, Gromyko, Dobryin, Chernenko, Brezhnev. Like him, they were self-made men who had an earthy integrity, the sons of farmers and factory workers who doggedly, shrewdly, and, yes, ruthlessly made it to the top. They played by the rules, breaking them only for the good of all the players—as they defined it. None of them would have allowed this to happen. None of them would have given the order to terminate Theodor Churcher.
But Kaparov had. Was it not sophisticated equipment manufactured by Churchco’s Medical Products Division, and quietly exported at no cost, that kept the jaundiced Premier alive for the last six months? The irony of it! Churcher couldn’t help thinking it was his own fault. He should have known better. Kaparov was KGB.
Churcher finally got hold of the necktie and yanked it from his mouth.
Bubbles pulsed from between his lips, trailing behind him in a rapid stream.
He pulled at the water. And kicked at it. And cursed it. And propelled himself up through it. And was beaten by it. Beaten by pain. Excruciating pain. The death rattle of dying cells ripped through him like a bullet fired in a steel box. It tore at his muscles and paralyzed his limbs. But his oxygen-starved body screamed to no avail. The few molecules of the precious gas that remained in his blood were already racing to his brain to keep it alive.
He began to hallucinate, and envisioned a macabre ratchet-toothed monster erupting from within his chest in an explosion of tissue, bone, and blood—and then, blinding strobelike flashes followed by nothingness. An eternity passed before the sight of tiny figures running out of the milky haze heartened him; children giggling as they scampered across the broad lawn of his estate, calling out, “Grandpa! Grandpa!” And as the bright, smiling faces came closer and closer, Churcher filled with pride, and bent to scoop them into his arms—but they ran right through him.
He had one fleeting moment of consciousness. I’m going to make it! he thought. Son of a bitch, I’m going to make it! He looked desperately for the glow which would signal he was nearing the surface.
But darkness prevailed.
His body continued rocketing upward, gaining momentum like an air-filled drum. Finally, it exploded into the sunlight and splashed into the sea, settling facedown, arms and legs askew in the way dead men float, and was carried off by the current.
The captain had brought the Foxtrot to the surface. An ordnance specialist stood next to him on the bridge shouldering an RPG-7 ground to ground mobile rocket launcher.
“Fire when ready,” the captain ordered calmly.
The ordnance specialist pressed his face to the eyepiece and squeezed the trigger.
The RPG-7 rocket came from the launcher with a deadly whoosh, and darted into the fuselage of Churcher’s helicopter.
A violent explosion erupted.
For an instant, a brilliant flash, yellow-orange at the center and framed by a purple-green halo that came from the chopper’s fuel expanded above the sea in silence. Then came the sound as the thundering fireball completely incinerated what a millisecond earlier had been a twelve-thousand-pound helicopter.
Pieces of the chopper spiked through the air in every direction. Long trajectories arced over the sea. Chunks of flaming debris plunged into the water, emitting puffs of steam.
The captain nodded to the ordnance specialist, then turned to the first officer and said, “Take her down.”
Deschin and the others were waiting below in the Foxtrot’s control room.
“It’s done,” the captain reported evenly, as he came off the ladder from the bridge, pushing his pipe between his teeth in a self-satisfied gesture.
Deschin nodded thoughtfully. “Shame,” he said. “Churcher should have listened to his board of directors.”
The others looked at him quizzically, as Deschin knew they would.
“He once told me they didn’t like him flying to the drilling platforms,” Deschin explained. “They were concerned one day he would crash.”
He said it coldly, without emotion, a simple statement of fact, and of what he had calculated would be perceived should the wreckage of the helicopter or Churcher’s body—without a bullet in it—be found.
The men gathered round him nodded smugly.
Deschin swept their faces with disapproving eyes. “He was a son of a bitch,” he said. “But he was my friend.” He turned and walked slowly from the control room, lighting a cigarette.
The Foxtrot was well below the surface when Churcher’s hand bumped into the piece of floating wreckage. He was semiconscious but could feel the smooth aluminum and instinctively crawled onto the large section of paneling from the chopper’s belly. The foamed plastic core had enough buoyancy to keep him afloat. He began coughing violently, and returned a chestful of water to the sea.
* * * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
In the cemetery on the hill overlooking Christ Episcopal Church, a few mourners stood, heads bowed above scarf-wrapped necks, while the minister recited final words over Sarah Winslow’s coffin.
Melanie lingered as the group dispersed, and watched as her mother was lowered into ground frozen harder and deeper than the diggers could remember. She stood alone between the side-by-side graves of her parents, hoping
that the minister was right—that at this very moment their souls were being joyously reunited—though she found it difficult to believe in a Hereafter for herself.
The doctor also remained. He moved forward from behind the flower-covered grave where he had been standing unobtrusively.
“Give you a lift?” he offered in a friendly voice.
“Thanks, no,” Melanie replied. “I think I’ll walk. It’s such a beautiful morning, and I—” she paused, and shrugged halfheartedly.
He nodded that he understood.
“I was with your mother,” the doctor said. “It was peaceful. She just fell asleep. Before she did, she asked me to make sure you got this.” He removed the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Melanie, adding, “It was her last conscious thought.”
Melanie accepted the envelope without looking at it, and smiled appreciatively. “Thanks again,” she said. “Thank you for being with her.”
She turned, and meandered down the narrow road, between the headstones, out of the cemetery, and past the white clapboard church that nestled in the snow-blanketed hills.
Moments from her years in this wholesome place came to mind while she walked—fleeting glimpses of eating homemade ice cream on summer nights in the lawn glider, galloping on her chestnut colt through fields of wildflowers, her parents glowing with pride when she danced at a school recital, the rush of passion with her first lover, the train station on the day she left home to audition for a dance company in New York.
She was crossing a field when the chirp of a foraging wren pulled her out of it, and she looked with some surprise at the envelope in her hand. Intrigued, she opened it, and began reading the letter her mother had written so long ago.
January, 15, 1946
Dearest,
I have something wonderful to share with you! Just before Christmas, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl. She’s pink and blue-eyed, and has wispy silken hair. We named her Melanie. Of course, Zachary believes her to be his, and I have said nothing to the contrary. But I’m certain she is really yours, and wanted you to know.
I have no doubt of this because I discovered that I was pregnant on the hospital ship taking us home. Funny, we hit some rough weather just after we left, and everyone was seasick. Lord knows, at first, I thought I was, too. But only in the morning? Every morning? For weeks? Even after the seas had calmed?
Your daughter is healthy, with straight, strong bones, and has her father’s face when she grins. We’re all happy, and living in a perfectly wonderful cottage that Zachary built for us.
I hope you’re happy, too. I think about you, and wonder what you’re doing. Are you still in Italy? Will you return to Rome and resume your studies at the university? I hope so. I want so much for this to reach you. I’m sending it under your code name, as I know the military personnel in the sector know you by it, rather than your own. How could they ever forget you? I know, I won’t.
As ever,
Sarah
P.S. How could we have known they’d ever find us?
Oh, I’m so happy to be alive!
Melanie was stunned by the revelation. The words rang like a bell clapper that wouldn’t stop. She sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and read it again, and then again. And then, again, after she resumed walking. She didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel anything except an overwhelming loneliness.
A vague recollection of her mother’s face came to her, and as it sharpened Melanie saw Sarah’s cheerful countenance replaced by a rather queer, unsettled look. Her father’s brother had been the cause of it, she recalled. Uncle Wallace often joined them for Sunday dinner, and on one such occasion he kept remarking how much his ten-year-old niece resembled her father. And each time he said it, Sarah’s face took on the strange expression. It made Melanie uncomfortable at the time, and she purposely didn’t dwell on it. But it had stayed with her all these years, and now, she understood why.
She had turned into the drive, and was walking through the glade of pines toward the cottage when a gust of wind caught the envelope and scooped it from her grasp. It inflated, and sailed through the air—then, swooping down, danced, pinwheeling across the frozen snow. Melanie chased after it, the pages of the letter fluttering in her hand, her boots crunching through the hard skin of white between the trees. Almost within reach, the envelope suddenly sailed upward and snagged amidst the twigs of a bare hawthorn. Melanie slipped her hand between the branches and carefully picked the envelope from the thorns. Then, she sensed a presence and looked up.
What she saw only intensified her feelings of abandonment—that she had lost both her parents on the same day, one for the second time, and one forever.
There, framed between two mature maples, stood the stone cottage—the cottage she had always been so proud to say had been built by her father.
She approached it slowly and, after walking around it, sat crestfallen on the top step of the porch and read the letter again.
But what she was searching for with each reading wasn’t there to be found. It was cruel, she thought. Cruel and tormenting that this staggering revelation was incomplete—that neither the envelope nor the letter itself revealed the identity of the man who had never received it.
* * * * * *
It had been an unusually mild winter in the Southwest. March was still a week away and buds were already sprouting on the tips of oak and aspen.
A few wind-stretched clouds hung in the sky as the Piper two-seater came out of the southwest, and made a slow banking turn low over the Churcher estate.
The man next to the pilot pulled a motor-driven, 35 mm camera to his eye and began taking photographs. He trained the telephoto lens on the grounds, on the surrounding approach and service roads, on the high walls, and on the museum entrance kiosk.
Below, in the study of the Chappell Hill mansion, Andrew Churcher and Ed McKendrick sat in opposite chairs, dwarfed by towering walls of books.
Neither reacted to the drone of the plane.
Andrew stared glumly at the phone on the desk. His father had been missing for three days, and Andrew had slept little. An overall numbness and sense of detachment had gradually set in.
McKendrick fidgeted, his mind wrestling with a decision he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to make. But the mystery of Theodor Churcher’s disappearance grew as each day passed. And for reasons known only to McKendrick, he was feeling pressured by it. The time had come. He arched his back against the chair, got up, and went to the oak wall behind the desk. A Cezanne still life hung in the center panel. He swung aside the hinged frame, revealing a wall safe. His thick fingers grasped the combination dial and began twirling it.
“What’re you doing?” Andrew asked halfheartedly.
“Getting something,” McKendrick mumbled.
He realized he had been so preoccupied, he had forgotten about Andrew. McKendrick decided to proceed despite his presence. He finished the combination and brought the dial to a precise stop.
The tumblers clicked into position.
McKendrick turned the lever and pulled open the safe. A flat, square metal box was on a shelf by itself. He removed something from it, and returned the box to the safe, which he immediately closed and locked. Then slapping at the frame with an elbow, he sent the Cezanne swinging back into place with a thud.
McKendrick’s brow furrowed in concentration. He turned and crossed the room, flicking a plastic card that he had taken from the safe against his thumbnail.
“What’s that?” Andrew asked.
“Card key.”
“Yeah?”
“Match to your father’s.”
“Office, museum—”
McKendrick nodded, and said, “Something I’m supposed to do—” He paused thoughtfully and added, “But I’m not sure.”
Uncertainty, particularly admitting to it, Andrew thought, wasn’t at all like McKendrick. Even in his numbed state he sensed the weight of his dilemma.
“Do what?” he asked, getting out of
the chair and crossing toward McKendrick with more vitality.
“Something—has to be—forwarded,” McKendrick replied, picking his words. “But only under certain circumstances.”
“Did I miss something?” Andrew asked suspiciously, “Or didn’t you just answer my question without telling me anything?”
“Your father didn’t want you involved,” McKendrick replied flatly. He turned away from Andrew, and slowly crossed the room in thought.
Andrew pursued him. “Christ, he’s been missing for three days. He’s probably dead. And you’ve got something to do that I can’t know about!” he said emotionally, wondering why his father’s confiding in McKendrick had never bothered him until now.
McKendrick stopped walking and turned to face him. “Take it easy, kid,” he said calmly, having heard the resentment in Andrew’s voice. “I don’t know about it either. I’ve got orders, that’s what I know. And before I carry them out, I’ve got to be positive your father’s dead and know the circumstances.”
“Why?” Andrew asked. “You’re still not telling me what I want to know, Ed.”
“He didn’t say why,” McKendrick replied. “Hell, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Suddenly, Andrew could hear his father’s voice—“Articulate. Articulate. Never expect someone to read your mind.” He took a moment to compose himself, then stepped around McKendrick to face him. “I have two questions, Ed, and I expect you to answer them,” he said in a controlled, businesslike tone.
McKendrick studied Andrew for a moment, gauging the change in him. “Okay,” he said, “shoot.”
“First, what has to be forwarded?” Andrew asked. “Second, to whom does it go?”
McKendrick considered it for a moment. “There’s a package in the museum,” he replied. “I have no idea what’s in it.”
“Yeah?” Andrew prodded impatiently.
“It goes to Boulton,” McKendrick replied, half wishing he hadn’t.
“Boulton? My father’s golf crony?” Andrew blurted, feeling foolish the instant he said it. He could already hear the bite in McKendrick’s tone.
