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  “I’m off to New York tomorrow,” he told her, after they had taken their first sips of the scotch and begun to stoke up the sexual fires.

  “Why don’t you take me along, darling? We could make love all night.”

  “And bugger things up?”

  She kissed him deeply and began to caress his penis, which had erected swiftly. She had that effect. To both of them, this time was known as the “quickie hour.” She kneeled, unbuttoned his pants, pulled them down, and began to administer fellatio.

  He caressed her hair as she warmed to her work.

  “Absolute wizard,” he whispered, feeling the full effect of her ministrations.

  “In me, darling,” she said, after a few moments.

  Then she moved to the couch, lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties, and inserted him from the rear. He seconded her quick climax, during which his hand covered her mouth. She tended to be a bit of a screamer, and they had worked out this method to ensure silence.

  “I love it like this, darling,” she told him after they had rearranged their clothes. “So wonderfully impulsive.”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  Venue was always difficult in this crowded city, where living space was still hard to come by. She lived with two female roommates in an apartment house near Dupont Circle, and a hotel room would be too dangerously indiscreet. Their copulations of necessity took place in his car, his office, or on rare occasions, in apartments of his colleagues who were out on leave.

  She had conspicuously avoided the L word, although her feelings were obvious. His were more physical than involving, and he loved burning both ends of the candle, regardless of gender. His discipline and focus on his mission were intense enough to quash any entangling and dangerous emotional involvements although he also knew he was prone to sexual risks. He supposed there were those in the embassy who suspected an affair, but her believable denials to her secretarial colleagues kept the confirmation unreliable.

  “The first secretary is a family man; however, I would if asked.”

  She told him this was her usual response when one or another of her colleagues broadly hinted at their suspected affair.

  He knew, of course, that there were dark rumors that he was attracted to men as well. She had probed him on that point and would have gladly participated in a ménage à trois, but he denied the allegations. He had become very good at compartmentalizing, and Victoria was not the only extracurricular body he was involved with.

  “You must have stashed another lover up there,” she would joke occasionally, about his frequent New York trips.

  The joke did not hide a whiff of jealousy. He had the sense that her aggressive sexual repetitions on his return might be more of a test of his possible depletion than simple sexual enthusiasm. At those times, it was his turn to make jokes.

  “Note that I always return with a full tank.”

  “Contents noted. That’s why I always plan for a long drive when you return.”

  “To prove speed,” he chortled.

  “And endurance.”

  His New York trips were not completely devoid of sexual experience. In his compartmentalized life, he saved New York for his taste for men. He had found that one gender actually enhanced the desire for the other.

  One feasts on many flavors, he assured himself, proud of his capacity to perform.

  His wife, Melinda, had been placed in yet another compartment. Their marriage had always been a bit rocky, but he did not want to upset that compartment, which might have caused unintended consequences. He was very careful about unintended consequences.

  At this moment, he was priming Victoria for a special assignment. Churchill, who dictated his writings, including his speeches, had not, because of the personal expense, brought along his usual stenographers. He had, therefore, requested the services of the best typist and stenographer at the embassy. As first secretary, the request had come to him, and he seized the opportunity.

  Victoria, whose stenographic and typing skills were superb, was a perfect choice for the role. She was also skilled and thick-skinned enough to take the old man’s legendary impatience.

  Besides, he had been charged by his handlers to obtain a copy of the speech in advance. It occurred to him that at times unintended consequences were miraculous.

  The early morning Congressional Limited to New York landed him at Penn Station at approximately eleven in the morning. In this period of transition, their method of communication was to meet at a series of out-of-the-way coffee shops in different parts of Manhattan. He was careful to arrange some appointments at the British consul’s office in the afternoon to add an official cover to his movements. If further discussion were needed with Volkov, they would meet again at a designated restaurant, but always in a public place. At night, he would sleep at his wife’s stepfather’s apartment on Park Avenue.

  He had long ago developed a sixth sense regarding human surveillance and was well aware of all the accepted methods of physical avoidance. His mental antenna was always extended, and he never got careless or inattentive. Volkov, he knew, was a long-time Soviet operative whose cover was as a proprietor of a small stationery store in Greenwich Village, which Maclean had never visited. Nor was he curious as to how his information was transmitted to Moscow for analysis.

  Volkov was thoroughly Americanized and, like Maclean, was a family man with two young children, a role that, if investigated, would be a perfect cover. While Maclean had never probed, Volkov told him he lived in a two-family house in a nondescript neighborhood in East New York. He admitted to having been born in Moscow and apparently had managed to get back a number of times both before and during the war. Beyond that, Maclean knew nothing of the man’s background, except that he was extraordinarily intelligent and well informed and undoubtedly, because of Maclean’s importance, held a very high rank in the NKVD.

  Nothing was ever conveyed in writing between them, and they were extremely careful in their choice of conversational venues. Maclean was never addressed by his name, only his code name, “Homer.” Although obscure coffee shops and restaurants were useful, much information was always exchanged outdoors. Like Maclean, Volkov was equally skilled in countersurveillance. Both knew that American and British intelligence, while fairly sophisticated, could not match the Soviets in efficiency and scope. The Soviets had taken full advantage of their relationship with their allies. They were embedded everywhere.

  They met at a coffee shop on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Penn Station and slid into a back booth. New York was one of the few places in the world to have a plethora of coffee shops. Many had only counter service and were called “one-armed beaneries.” Some, like the one they were currently using, had a few booths available for table service. The agenda of their meeting was no secret to either of them.

  “They are very concerned, Homer,” Volkov said, opening the conversation.

  “Apparently so.”

  “Above all, as I gather, they do not want public opinion to harden against us at this juncture.”

  “Or at any juncture for that matter.”

  “It is especially sensitive now,” Volkov said. “The Americans are still overwhelmingly pro-Russian. A change will come, I am sure, but at this moment, anything very negative is not propitious.”

  When the waitress arrived, they stopped talking and ordered coffee and sandwiches, more as a cover than for eating.

  “Have you his schedule?” Volkov asked.

  “He will be staying at the embassy,” Maclean said. “The ambassador will not be happy; the man can be disruptive and imperious. Then he is set to go to St. Louis with the President by rail, then change trains to Jefferson City, then drive by car to Fulton to speak at the college on March 5.”

  Volkov nodded.

  “They want specifics on the content,” Volkov said.

  “They are right to
be concerned,” Maclean said. The waitress came and went with coffee. “His speech, I feel certain, will not be helpful.”

  Volkov nodded. He was a heavyset man with jet-black hair and wide-set eyes, a flattened profile and big chin that reminded Maclean of a boxer’s face. When he talked, a gold tooth flashed disconcertedly and glistened when he smiled, which was rarely.

  “Do you have any clue as to the content?” Volkov asked.

  “My journalist friend who spent time with him a few days ago said he was quite mum, although apparently the daughter revealed that it would be devoted to his distrust of Soviet intentions. Remember, he is no longer constrained.”

  Volkov grew thoughtful.

  “They are apparently concerned as well with his impact on Truman. There are lots of issues in the balance.” He lowered his voice. “The bomb has changed everything.”

  “My understanding is that we are getting closer.”

  “I am sure,” Volkov acknowledged, although Maclean was certain that Volkov was not in the loop on that piece of intelligence.

  Nor was he. So far he had provided a great deal of nontechnical information on the American program and had actually visited some of the facilities in the production chain. Proud of their being the sole possessor of the bomb, the Americans were eager to exploit the PR advantages and a bit more open than they should be on security. Of course, the Brits were their partners and had provided technical help to the bomb’s development.

  “Without an operational bomb, we are still very vulnerable,” said Maclean. “Although the program of agitation to bring U.S. troops home is progressing well, they could still be formidable. The Brits, too, are accelerating their removal of troops from the Continent, but the threat is still there. The bomb will always be a factor until there is parity.”

  “One day…” Volkov said, swallowing his words.

  “As night follows day,” Maclean muttered.

  “In technology and science, nothing remains hidden for long.” Volkov lowered his voice. “Beria is on the case; he makes things happen. Our colleagues are everywhere.”

  “And well worth the risk. We are the future, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I wish Mr. Churchill would go home and lay his bricks. His speech cannot be helpful; his words can be a formidable weapon.”

  “Exactly, Homer,” said Volkov. “Which is why they want content. That is their reason for urgency. They have pressed me and I, in turn….”

  “…Are pressing me.”

  “Can you deliver?”

  “Haven’t I always?” Maclean said.

  Volkov smiled, showing the flash of gold tooth.

  “No offense meant, Homer. We are always pleased by your devotion. But we also know the man’s habits. He dictates and revises and is secretive about what he is going to say.”

  “I am well aware of that, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I can assure you, I will have his content well before he gives his speech. It is all arranged.”

  He thought of Victoria and speculated suddenly on—as Shakespeare would have characterized it—“country matters.” Victoria had the sexual power to arouse a blind man. Churchill? The image faded. There had never been a breath of scandal about the old man. Volkov, perhaps seeing a sign in his face, intruded.

  “What are you thinking, Homer?”

  Recalled to the reality of place, Maclean smiled.

  “I am merely speculating. What do you think they have in mind?”

  “That is not our business,” Volkov said, his forehead creasing in a deep frown.

  “Something extreme?” Maclean asked.

  He remembered his comments the other day to Benson—words, words, words. Again, lines from Shakespeare intruded his thoughts as if he were a schoolboy again:

  POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord?

  HAMLET: Words, words, words.

  Maclean chuckled as he recited the lines and the attribution.

  “Ah, the glories of an English education!”

  “You mention Hamlet, Homer….” Maclean watched as Volkov drew in a deep breath. “…Do you recall what happened to him?”

  Volkov’s comment surprised him and forced his mind to light on an image of the former prime minister supine and bleeding.

  “Good God!” Maclean said. “Surely, you’re not speculating….” He cut himself short. “It is not easy to contemplate, Volkov. I’m still an Englishman.”

  “No offense, Maclean.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Let us leave such ideas and action for others.”

  “I agree. We should not dwell on consequences. It is not on our résumé.”

  A cold chill suddenly assailed him. Thinking the interview over, Maclean stood up.

  “One more thing, comrade,” Volkov said, his voice lowered. “The venue change has been made. You will no longer have to visit here.”

  “So this is the last time?” Maclean said. “I rather enjoyed our little visits.”

  He did feel an element of regret. He would miss his little jaunts to the bars along Third Avenue under the El and Greenwich Village, a man hunter’s paradise. In Washington, he would not have such freedom.

  “You are a great soldier, Homer. To you, a great debt is owed. Someday you will look back with great pride.”

  “Someday,” Maclean agreed, dead certain that he would celebrate at the final victory.

  Chapter 9

  Miller had the sensation of forcing himself upward out of a sea of molasses. He felt trapped, unable to pull himself out of the viscous muck. Then consciousness began, slowly at first, then rising painfully, like the lifting of a heavy curtain. The blackness began to disintegrate and awareness began to filter through his mind.

  With the suddenness of an explosive charge, he found reality again and tried to sit up. But there was a weight on his chest that prevented upward movement.

  “Easy, Mr. Miller,” a murmuring voice said.

  He felt a cool, caressing hand on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw the face of a tall, young, blonde woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform. Her large blue eyes observed him, and she was smiling broadly, showing white, even teeth. He noted a dimple in her cheek.

  A white angel, he thought, as the image popped into his mind.

  Bits of memory collided in his brain. Reaching out, he felt what he assumed was a plaster cast running from his neck to his waist. More attempted movement indicated another cast that ran from his foot to his lower calf.

  After a few moments, his mind cleared, and he remembered what had happened and became fully cognizant of his predicament. He was suddenly assaulted by irony. He had come through bloody battles without a scratch. How could this happen?

  The blonde nurse pushed aside the curtain that separated him from another bed. An older man lay on his back snoring, his mouth open, as he slept.

  “Was ist das,” he muttered, without thinking.

  The nurse seemed confused by his comment and stuck a thermometer between his lips. Watching her, he noted that she was wearing a nametag pinned to her ample bosom: “Stephanie Brown” it read.

  “Nothing fatal, Mr. Miller,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Broken humerus and ankle—the ankle is the bad one, compounded. Bones set and casted while you journeyed in oblivion.”

  He was beginning to remember drifting in and out as a doctor swathed him in some moist substance that smelled odd. Wet plaster, a voice had said.

  With the nurse’s help, he was assisted into a sitting position. He felt nauseated for a moment and waited until the feeling passed. Then he assessed his condition.

  He looked down at his left foot, right arm, left ankle. Ambulation would be difficult. And he was right-handed.

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “Lucky? Ridiculous!” he muttered, thinking about his mission.

  There was no way he could get around, and certainl
y, he was unable to pull a trigger.

  “You’ll be one-armed for about six weeks,” the nurse said. “The ankle might take longer, but when you heal, you’ll be as good as new.”

  “Did you say six weeks?”

  “For the arm. But people heal differently. You look like a healthy specimen. Yes, six weeks for the arm.”

  She looked at him with inordinate interest, broadly smiling.

  “And the ankle?”

  She shrugged, lifted him slightly, and fluffed the pillow, then eased his head down again.

  “They tell me it was a very bad break. Where were you going? How did this happen?”

  “How long before it heals?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “I’m only a nurse, Mr. Miller. Depends. Probably, if you’re lucky—and you are—say a couple of weeks longer for the ankle. X-rays will decide. You’ll be fit as a fiddle when you heal. Knock plaster.”

  She knocked a knuckle on his chest cast; it made a hollow sound. He did not respond to her attempt at humor.

  “Hey, cheer up, fella! Could have been worse.”

  He was beginning to assess the full consequences of his dilemma. If they decided to act while he was out of commission, he was—the word slipped out of his mouth—“Kaput!”

  “Not at all,” she said, understanding. “Put it this way. You’re on hiatus.”

  Then he remembered that he had not made his call.

  “How long is it since I came to the hospital?” he asked.

  “Early this morning. It is now evening. But you’re in no condition to leave. Maybe tomorrow.”

  He looked outside to confirm her information. It was dark.

  “With the shortage of doctors, one orthopedic physician was available. And this bed was empty.”

  She touched his cheek. Her hand felt cool.

  His sense of awareness was expanding rapidly. He was wearing one of those hospital robes that tied in the back. In his mind, he quickly catalogued the content of his wallet and his pockets. He had a roll of cash fashioned by a rubber band, and his wallet contained his forged papers. Nothing more. He was relieved. It was doubtful that his personal effects could arouse suspicions. He wondered how much she knew.