Billy did not return her smile. “Maybe… I ought to go back,” he said. “They just want to take me back to my mom. I don’t want to get anybody hurt.”
Will put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I appreciate the thought, but do you want to go back?”
Billy seemed near tears; he silently shook his head.
“Devin indicate to you it was okay to give up the boy?” Will asked Clayton.
“The word from Devin was to take care of him. He thought that was pretty darn important.”
“Well then, by God, that’s what we’ll do,” Will declared, and Billy hugged him with relief.
At the House of Representatives, some members were drifting into the chamber, and others lagged behind in the cloakroom, watching the Heartland ceremony on TV. Marion Andrews was making her speech, and several of the members watched attentively as she proclaimed her dedication to freedom, justice, and progress.
Other members of Congress, indifferent to the Heartland spectacular, milled about, exchanging rumors about this emergency session that Petya Samanov had called. But the fact was that no one knew why they were there.
Finally, bells began to ring, summoning them to the chamber. They began to file inside. On the unwatched TV, a hundred thousand voices were chanting “Bradford, Brad-ford,” as Peter got up to speak.
Back at the Virginia mansion, Andrei gazed indifferently at the ceremony on TV. It was clearly the culmination of months of scheming and planning, but now it held no interest for him. All that mattered was what was happening in Washington, the “symbolic act” too dark for Petya to describe.
Andrei paced about the guest room. It was just down the hall from Petya’s big bedroom and, on impulse, he marched to the bedroom.
Petya’s bed had not been slept in. The uniform he had worn home at dawn was still on the floor, where he had thrown it. Andrei realized that Petya had come all that way just to tell him what little he had told him. He remembered their final embrace, like father and son. There had been something final to their farewell.
His eyes fell upon the tape cartridge half buried under Petya’s discarded jacket. Andrei grabbed it, examined the date scribbled on it—the night before— and knew at once what it was. It was Petya’s habit to tape-record all communications with the Kremlin—as the officials on the other end were also doing—as a means of self-protection. In his haste and fatigue, Petya had neglected to file this tape before returning to Washington.
Andrei ran back to the guest room, inserted the tape into a player, slipped on headphones, and began to listen. What he heard chilled him to the core.
This is not the Stalin era, Petya was protesting, in Russian.
The choice between alternatives is yours, another man said. Andrei recognized the voice as that of Nicolai Malkiev, the first deputy, a powerful, stubborn, and formidable man.
And if I refuse?
Many of us still prefer the detonations, Petya Petrovich. You know that. We have accepted your compromise and now you resist even that. If you do not act, someone else will, and your brilliant career will end in disgrace. Of what value is that? All we ask is that you do your duty.
This act may have the opposite effect. Upheavals…
It is your proposal, Comrade. The logic is quite convincing.
That was ten years ago. An alternative that never became necessary. Can’t you see? The Congress is without power, a mere symbol of former America.
Precisely. A potent symbol, one that can still rally people, can still be used against us. Do your duty, Petya, and return to Moscow to accept the honors you deserve.
Andrei grimaced in shock and horror. He remembered that ten-year-old contingency plan. They had joked about it, called it their Doomsday Plan. But this was no joke.
After a long silence, Petya said, If I carry out the plan, then I have your word that Colonel Denisov will be permitted to function here, in my absence, with no further interference?
Must I say it again? Yes, you have my word. Barring some terrible disaster, Denisov will be given a free hand. You will have guaranteed his success.
All right, Comrade Malkiev. I will proceed. But I say again, this action is antithetical to the generosity and greatness of the Russian people.
And I say again that this Committee differs with you on that point.
I may not be able to return to Moscow immediately.
Don’t be foolish, Petya. End your affairs, romantic and otherwise, and return to Moscow. That is an order.
The tape ended. Andrei hesitated only an instant, then leaped to his feet and raced out of the gracious old mansion, toward the nearby field where his helicopter waited. With luck, he could reach the Capitol in fifteen minutes.
Just as Will decided on a hiding place for Billy, they heard the ominous clatter of helicopters. “You stay here, Dieter,” Will yelled, and the rest of them ran pell-mell toward the treeline. Sheltered by the trees, they ran and walked about a mile before reaching their destination, a hillside overlooking a pond, deep in the woods. Will knelt and tore at the earth with his hands until a wooden trapdoor was exposed,
“Thank God,” Alethea said. She kept looking around, half expecting SSU troops to appear.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“A dugout,” Will told him. “We haven’t got much time for history right now, but when your great-great-grandmother and grandfather arrived in these parts, the snows had already started and there wasn’t time to build a cabin. So they dug this and survived their first winter in it. I reckon you can manage there a day or two—your dad and your uncle Ward used to play here all the time. Alethea brought you some food and water and we’ll bring more when we can. We’ll cover the top over with sticks and leaves but make sure there’s air getting through.”
“Dad, hurry!” Alethea pleaded.
Will lifted the trapdoor and shone his flashlight down into the darkness. “Okay, old hoss, climb in and don’t be afraid.”
Billy peered in uncertainly. “Might as well see what it was like a hundred and thirty years ago,” Clayton said.
“It ain’t the Waldorf Astoria,” Will said, “but it’ll have to do.”
Billy nodded solemnly and took the flashlight from his grandfather. Alethea hugged him, then Will, and the boy lowered himself into his hiding place. Clayton followed, asking Billy, “You don’t think they’re still in there, do you?”
Petya Samanov was greeted with polite applause as he rose to address the joint session. He wore the brown uniform of a general in the Soviet army, complete with his medals, battle ribbons, and Order of Lenin medallion. He also carried a revolver in a holster on his hip, as Russian officers often did in America. Those members who knew him personally could see how drawn, how haggard, he looked. He spoke from a few scribbled notes, gazing out at his audience through dark-rimmed reading glasses.
“Thank you for your indulgence,” he began. “You have been patient and cooperative in what we have all hoped would be as peaceful and easy a transition as possible.” Samanov hesitated, as though intending to add something to that thought, and then looked up. “My friends,” he continued, “I have learned much during my time with you, to appreciate much of who and what you are and have been. At one point in my life, I thought of America as an implacable enemy.” He paused. “I no longer feel that. Not because we happened to succeed and you happened to fail—but because I know you better, understand you better. Understanding is a long and difficult road. It requires closeness, a closeness which our two countries were never able to achieve.”