by Greg Dinallo
Cissy and her son were out back picking oranges when Lowell arrived. Cissy rushed right into his arms, her eyes brimming with tears. The kid kept a few steps distance, taking it all in with a forlorn sadness.
“He died in the service of his country,” Lowell said softly, hugging her.
“I never believed he didn’t,” Cissy said, her face brightening. “I miss him so much.”
“So do I, Cissy,” Lowell replied solemnly. “He gave his life to save mine. They would have killed us both if he hadn’t.”
She leaned back from Lowell and stared at him for a moment, the impact of his words registering. “He thought the world of you, Jon.”
“I’ll never have another friend like him.”
“You know,” she began, her voice cracking with emotion, “there’s something about him just being gone like that, lost at sea. It’s so much harder to accept. I mean, every time the phone rings I get this feeling that maybe, just maybe—” She paused, choking up, a steady stream of tears rolling down her face.
“I know,” Lowell said compassionately, running his hand over her hair to calm her. “We talked that night. He told me he was going to marry you,” he went on, bending the truth for her sake.
An appreciative smile brightened Cissy’s sad face. She rubbed some tears from her eyes, then looked to her son sympathetically, and put a hand on his shoulder. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, and hugged her.
Lowell mussed his hair.
“How’re you doing, tiger?”
The kid shrugged. Then, his face sort of peered out from behind Cissy’s skirt and screwed up with a question, the way children’s faces do before they ask them. “This mean he was a hero?”
“Yes,” Lowell replied softly, crouching down so that they were eye to eye. “He was a hero.”
* * * * * *
Valery Gorodin’s membership in nomenklatura was not to be. Instead, he was assigned to Military Department 35576—the GRU’s spy school on Militia Street in Moscow. For several weeks now, he’d been teaching the Soviet Union’s best and brightest what he knew how to do better than most—screw the KGB. He and Pasha met at Lastochka for dinner once a week.
“How’s it going?” Pasha asked.
“Boring. What makes you think this week would be any better than last?”
“Well,” Pasha replied in a tantalizing tone, “a GRU courier handles many sensitive documents.”
“And?”
“Tell me, does your first name end in IE or Y?”
“Very funny. Y, you know that. Why do you ask?”
“If my memory serves me correctly, I recall seeing a document this morning mentioning that the GRU rezident at our UN Mission is being called back. It seems the poor fellow is unable to cope with his KGB counterpart.”
Gorodin leaned across the table, burning with curiosity. “You saw the official list of candidates?”
“Of course not,” Pasha replied, as if it was beneath him. Then, eyes twinkling mischievously, he added, “I saw the official recommendation.’’
* * * * * *
Aleksei Deschin’s dream of becoming Premier ended with SLOW BURN. He took comfort in the knowledge that it was Tvardovskiy who drove Melanie to the U.S. Embassy that morning, and every time since then, whenever Deschin saw the KGB chief, he smiled, savoring the irony of it.
Tvardovskiy had no inkling as to why, and always felt a perplexing uneasiness.
A few weeks had passed when Tvardovskiy arrived at the Cultural Ministry to discuss security for an exhibition of works from the Hermitage and Pushkin museums, scheduled to tour the United States.
“Good morning, Sergei,” Deschin said with the unnerving little smile.
“Aleksei,” the KGB chief replied, checking his fly.
Deschin handed him a list of personnel who would travel with the exhibit, and required clearances.
Tvardovskiy perused it for a moment. “There don’t seem to be any problems,” he said, pausing briefly before adding, “I see you’ve decided to make the trip.”
“Yes, the Metropolitan was adamant that I supervise the installation,” Deschin replied.
“Aghhh, New York is a horrid city.”
“True,” Deschin said philosophically, “but once you give life to something, Sergei—Well, you know how it is—” He splayed his hands, letting the sentence trail off.
* * * * * *
In the weeks since she’d returned from Moscow, Melanie Winslow had gone back to the dance company and thrown herself into choreographing routines with renewed vigor. Indeed, the parcel Deschin had given her contained the old photo album, and the snapshots of her grandmother dancing were the source of Melanie’s inspiration.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon as she got out of a taxi in front of her building. Gramercy Park was alive with children and nannies pushing carriages. A few joggers were running laps outside the fence.
Melanie had spent the morning at the theater and the afternoon at Bloomingdale’s. She entered her lobby carrying a shopping bag, and paused to check for mail. There were a few pieces in her box. She shuffled through them and came upon a folded note.
Her heart pounded at the handwritten message.
She dashed from the building, crossing the street toward the gate at the north end of the Park. Her eyes searched for him in the spaces between the cast iron pickets as she ran. Her hand was shaking, and she could hardly get the key into the lock. She swung the gate open and, not taking the time to close it, dashed down the gravel path. He was talking to a scruffy six-year-old when she saw him. She froze in her tracks. Then she let out a joyful cry, and started running toward him.
Andrew heard the shout, and turned just as she ran into his arms. They clung to each other with crushing force. Finally, Melanie leaned back, staring at his face, as if making sure she hadn’t accosted a stranger.
“It was my father,” Andrew replied to the question in her eyes. “He’s the one who hijacked that plane.” Andrew took a deep breath, reflecting on the day he’d returned to Houston and discovered his father wasn’t at Chappell Hill, as he’d expected. When McKendrick told him about Churcher leaving the train, Andrew pieced it together.
“I’m real sorry, Drew,” McKendrick had said.
“Me, too,” Andrew replied sadly. “But it’s fitting, in its way. He would have been devastated by the disgrace—” He let the sentence trail off, and lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.
“He paid his debt, son,” McKendrick said spiritedly, and, forcing past it, added, “now, as he’d say, let’s get to business. Churchco’s got eleven companies, seventy-two thousand employees, and no boss. You think you’re up to it?”
Andrew thought for a moment and nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said with a quiet determination that confirmed it. “But there’s someone I have to see first.”
“Ahhh,” McKendrick said knowingly. “You slipped into one of those flesh-crazed madonnas after all.”
Andrew smiled shyly, and shook no.
“A special one?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Andrew replied.
Melanie stood in the park, hugging the breath out of him now. “I still can’t believe it,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.
“Neither can I,” Andrew replied. “I mean, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my father. He really outsmarted them,” Andrew went on with a reflective smile. “He knew the Russians were certain they’d killed him, and would assume I had hijacked that plane.”
“How’d you get out of the country?”
“I drove to Helsinki. Once they thought I was dead, they stopped looking for me. Funny,” he went on reflectively, “the last thing my father said to me was, ‘Good luck, son. I’m with you.’ I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but now I—” Andrew paused and shrugged, his eyes filling at the recollection. “You know,” he resumed, trying to maintain his composure, “he wasn’t the type who could let his emotions show. I mean, I don’t think he ever
said—ever said that he loved me. But—” Andrew bit a lip and gently leaned his forehead against hers as the feelings welled up from deep inside.
Melanie kissed his cheek and embraced him comfortingly.
They stood in silence for a long moment, the sun dropping behind the buildings, sending long shadows across the grass.
“But he did,” Andrew finally whispered.
“So do I,” she said softly.
* * * * * *
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Greg Dinallo
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5564-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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