"She what?!"
Hunt caught Caldwell’s arm and drew him to a halt halfway along the corridor leading toward Caldwell’s office at the top of the Navcomms Headquarters Building.
"He told her to give him a call next time she was in New York to see her mother," Caldwell said. "So I told her to take some vacation and go see her mother." He lifted Hunt’s fingers from the sleeve of his jacket and resumed walking.
Hunt stood rooted to the spot for a second, then came to life once more and caught up in a few hurried paces. "What in hell? . . . You can’t do that! She happens to be very special to me."
"She also happens to be my assistant."
"But. . . . what’s she supposed to do when she sees him—read poetry? Gregg, you can’t do that. You’ve got to get her out of it."
"You’re sounding like a maiden aunt," Caldwell said. "I didn’t do anything. She set it up herself, and I didn’t see any reason not to use the chance. It might turn up something useful."
"Her job description never said anything about playing Mata Hari. It’s a blatant and inexcusable exploitation of personnel beyond the limits of their contractual obligations to the Division."
"Nonsense. It’s a career-development opportunity. Her job description stresses initiative and creativity, and that’s what it is."
"What kind of career? That guy’s only got one track in his head. Look, it may come as kind of a surprise, but I don’t go for the idea of her being another boy-scout badge for him to stitch on his shirt. Maybe I’m being old-fashioned, but I didn’t think that that was what working for UNSA was all about."
"Stop overreacting. Nobody said a word about anything like that. It could be a chance to fill in some of the details we’re missing. The opportunity came out of the blue, and she grabbed it."
"I’ve heard enough details already from Karen. Okay, we know the rules, and Lyn knows the rules, but he doesn’t know the rules. What do you think he’s going to do—sit down and fill out a questionnaire?"
"Lyn can handle it."
"You can’t let her do it."
"I can’t stop her. She’s on vacation, seeing her mother."
"Then I want to take some special leave, starting right now. I’ve got personal emergency matters to attend to in New York."
"Denied. You’ve got too much to do here that’s more important."
They fell silent as they passed through the outer office and into Caldwell’s inner sanctum. Caldwell’s secretary looked up from dictating a memo to an audiotranscriber and nodded a greeting.
"Gregg, this is going too far," Hunt began again when they got inside. "There’s—"
"There’s more to it than you think," Caldwell told him. "I’ve heard enough from Norman Pacey and the CIA to know that the opportunity was worth seizing when it presented itself. Lyn knew it too." He draped his jacket on a hanger by the door, walked around the other side of his desk, and dumped the briefcase that he had been carrying down on top of it. "There’s a hell of a lot about Sverenssen that we never deamed of and a lot more we don’t know that we’d like to. So stop being neurotic, sit down and listen for five minutes, and I’ll give you a summary."
Hunt emitted a long sigh of capitulation, threw out his hands in resignation, and slumped down into one of the chairs. "We’re going to need a lot more than five minutes, Gregg," he said as Caldwell sat down facing him. "You wait till you hear about the things we found out yesterday from the Thuriens."
Four and a half thousand miles from Houston, Norman Pacey was sitting on a bench by the side of the Serpentine lake in London’s Hyde Park. Strollers in open-necked shirts and summery dresses making the best of the first warm days of the year added a dash of color to the surrounding greenery topped by distant frontages of dignified and imposing buildings that had not changed appreciably in fifty years. That was all they had ever wanted, he thought to himself as he took in the sights and sounds around him. All that people the world over had ever wanted was to live their lives, pay their way, and be left alone. So how had the few with different aspirations always been able to command the power to impose themselves and their systems? Which was the greater evil—one fanatic with a cause, or a hundred men free enough not to care about causes? But caring about freedom enough to defend it made it a cause and its defenders fanatics. For ten thousand years mankind had wrestled with the problem and not found an answer.
A shadow fell across the ground, and Mikolai Sobroskin sat down on the bench next to him. He was wearing a heavy suit and necktie despite the fine weather, and his head was glistening with beads of perspiration in the sunlight. "A refreshing contrast to Giordano Bruno," he commented. "What an improvement it would be if the maria were really seas."
Pacey turned his head from staring across the lake and grinned. "And maybe a few trees, huh? I think UNSA has got its work cut out for a while with the proposals for cooling down Venus and oxygenating Mars. Luna’s way down the list. Even if it weren’t, I’m not sure that anybody has come up with any good ideas for what they could do about it. But who knows? One day, maybe."
The Russian sighed. "Perhaps we had such knowledge in the palm of our hand. We threw it away. Do you realize that we have witnessed what could be the greatest crime in human history? And perhaps the world will never know."
Pacey nodded, waited for a second to assume a more businesslike manner, and asked, "So? . . . What’s the news?"
Sobroskin drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his head. "You were right about the coded signals from Gistar when you suspected that they were in response to an independent transmitting facility established by us," he replied.
Pacey nodded without showing surprise. He knew that already from what Caldwell and Lyn Garland had revealed in Washington, but he couldn’t say so. "Have you found out how Verikoff and Sverenssen fit in?" he asked.
"I think so," Sobroskin said. "They seem to be part of a global operation of some sort that was committed to shutting down communications of any kind between this planet and Thurien. They used the same methods. Verikoff is a member of a powerful faction that strongly opposed the Soviet attempt to open another channel. Their reasons were the same as the UN’s. As it turned out, they were taken by surprise before they could organize an effective block, and some transmissions were sent. Like Sverenssen, Verikoff was instrumental in causing additional messages to be sent secretly, designed to frustrate the exercise. At least we think so. . . . We can’t prove it."
Pacey nodded again. He knew that too. "Do you know what they said?" he inquired out of curiosity, although he had read Caldwell’s transcripts from Thurien.
"No, but I can guess. These people knew in advance that the relay to Gistar would deactivate. That says to me that they must have been responsible. Presumably they arranged it months ago with an independent launching organization, or maybe a part of UNSA that they knew they could trust. . . . I don’t know. But my guess is that their strategy was to delay the proceedings via both channels until the relay was put out of action permanently."
Pacey stared across the lake to an enclosed area of water on the far side in which crowds of children were swimming and playing in the sun. The sounds of shouting and laughter drifted across intermittently on the breeze. Apart from the confirmation of Verikoff’s involvement, he hadn’t learned anything new so far. "What do you make of it?" he asked without turning his head.
After a long, heavy silence, Sobroskin replied, "Russia had a tradition of tyranny through to the early years of this century. Ever since it threw off the yoke of Mongol subjugation in the fifteenth century, it was obsessed with preserving its security to the point that the security of other nations became a threat that could not be tolerated. It expanded its borders by conquest and held on to its acquired territories by oppression, intimidation, and terror. But the new lands in turn had borders, and there was no end to the process. Communism changed nothing. It was merely a banner of convenience for rallying gullible idealists and rationalizing sacrifice. Apart from a few brief months in 1917, Russia was no more Communist than the Church of the Middle Ages was Christian."
He paused to fold his handkerchief and return it to his pocket. Pacey waited without speaking for him to continue. "We thought that all that began to change in the early decades of this century with the end of the threat of thermonuclear war and a more enlightened view of internationalism. And superficially it did. Many like myself dedicated themselves to creating a new climate of understanding and common progress with the West as it emerged from its own style of tyranny." Sobroskin sighed and shook his head sadly. "But the Thurien affair has revealed that the forces that plunged Russia into its own Dark Age did not go away, and their purpose has not changed." He looked at Pacey sharply. "And the forces that brought religious terror and economic exploitation to the West have not gone away, either. On both sides they have merely modified their stance to avert what would have guaranteed their destruction along with everything else. There is a web across this whole planet that connects many Sverenssens with many Verikoffs. They pose behind banners and slogans that call for liberation, but the liberation they seek is their own, not that of the people who follow them."
"Yes, I know," Pacey said. "We’ve uncovered some of it too. What’s the answer?"
Sobroskin raised an arm and gestured at the far side of the lake. "For all we know, those children might have grown up to see other worlds under other suns. But the price of that would have been knowledge, and knowledge is the enemy of tyranny in any disguise. It has freed more people from poverty and oppression than all of the ideologies and creeds in history put together. Every form of serfdom follows from serfdom of the mind."
"I’m not sure what you’re saying," Pacey said. "Are you saying you want to come over to us or something?"
The Russian shook his head. "The war that matters has nothing to do with flags. It is between those who would set the minds of children free, and those who would deny them Thurien. The latest battle has been lost, but the war will continue. Perhaps one day we will talk to Thurien again. But in the meantime another battle is looming in Moscow for control of the Kremlin, and that is where I must be." He reached behind him for a package that he had placed on the bench behind him and passed it to Pacey. "We have a tradition of ruthlessness in handling our internal affairs that you do not share. It is possible that many people will not survive the next few months, and I could be one of them. If so, I would like to think that my work has not been for nothing." He released the package and withdrew his arm. "That contains a complete record of all that I know. It would not be safe with my colleagues in Moscow since their future, like my own, is full of uncertainties. But I know that you will use the information wisely, for you understand as well as I do that in the war that really matters we are on the same side." With that he stood up. "I am glad that we met, Norman Pacey. It is reassuring to see that on both sides, bonds exist that are deeper than the colors on maps. I hope that we meet again, but in case that is not to be. . ." He let the words hang and extended a hand.
Pacey stood up and grasped it firmly. "We will. And things will be better," he said.
"I hope so." Sobroskin released his grip, turned, and began walking away along the side of the lake.
Pacey’s fingers tightened around the package as he stood watching the short, stocky figure marching jerkily off to keep its appointment with fate, possibly to die so that children might laugh. He couldn’t let him, he realized. He couldn’t let him walk away without knowing. "Mikolai!" he called.
Sobroskin stopped and looked back. Pacey waited. The Russian retraced his steps.
"The battle was not lost," Pacey said. "There’s another channel to Thurien operating right now . . . in the United States. It doesn’t need the relay. We’ve been talking to Thurien for weeks. That was why Karen Heller returned to Earth. It’s okay. All the Sverenssens in the world can’t stop it now."
Sobroskin stared at him for a long time before the words seemed to register. At last he moved his head in a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes expressionless and distant, and murmured quietly, "Thank you." Then he turned away and began walking again, this time slowly, as if in a trance. When he had covered twenty yards or so he stopped, stared back again, and raised his arm in a silent salutation. Then he turned away and began walking once more, and after a few steps his pace lightened and quickened.
Even at that distance Pacey had seen the exultation in his expression. Pacey watched until Sobroskin had vanished among the people walking by the boathouses farther along the shoreline, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction, toward the Serpentine bridge.