He looked across the room and finally saw Samanov, awkwardly sprawled on the floor, next to his chair. Andrei walked numbly over and gently rolled over the body of his closest friend. He removed the gun that had remained tightly clutched in Petya’s grip, and slipped it into his pocket. In a gesture of respect to the man who had been almost a father, he struggled with the body, finally lifting Petya into a semisitting position; no great man should have to die looking like that. He gently closed Petya’s eyes. It was all too much to comprehend.
Darkness was falling as Andrei emerged from the building alone. Captain Selovich of the SSU stood with the fire and police chiefs, a national guard colonel, and an officer from the old army, as well as a couple of men in civilian clothes from the Committee on Information. Selovich stepped forward as Andrei approached.
“May the rescue crew proceed with the removal of bodies?” he asked.
Andrei nodded. “Have our men help. The… general is to be removed immediately. I will accompany the body to headquarters.”
An SSU security official stepped forward. “Sir, a resistance group called the Fourth of July Brigade has called the media and claimed responsibility for the attack.”
A man from the Committee on Information said, “Colonel Denisov, with your permission, we need to issue a statement, to head off rumors and misinformation.”
Andrei nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “You may announce that the Fourth of July Brigade, representing militarist and reactionary elements of the former government, has committed this outrage, and that General Samanov died a hero’s death while fighting to save the lives of the members of Congress whom he so admired and had served so well.”
“Excellent,” said the information official.
“But hold the statement until tomorrow,” Andrei added. “I must notify certain officials first, personally.”
“As you wish, Colonel.”
Only the charred and smoldering shell of the Milford farmhouse was still standing at dusk when the SSU troops finally drove away. Will approached what remained of the kitchen door, but a gust of wind sent it crashing to the ground, and embers shot up, minifireworks spiraling into the shadows. Alethea came up behind her father and put her arms around his waist.
“Oh Daddy,” she whispered.
His face was set in a resolute look she remembered— the unyielding expression he had seen on his father’s face, years before, and on Devin’s face just a few weeks back.
“We’ll salvage what we can,” he said. “I reckon we can make the root cellar livable.”
“We’d ail be welcome at the exile camp,” Dieter said.
“No, this is home, and we’ll stay here,” Will told him. “Houses come and go, but us Milfords keep hanging on to this land.”
“I’ve got some blankets in the car,” Ward said.
“You take charge here, son,” Will told him. “I’m gonna walk out to the dugout and check on Billy. Night’s coming on, and we don’t want the boy being lonely.”
They all moved into action, with a sense of determination that left no room for anything resembling self-pity.
Marion Andrews sat bolt upright, awakened by a shrill ring. Her head was pounding, her heart raced wildly as she stared straight ahead into the darkness that enveloped her bedroom. After a second or two the bell sounded again. She settled back into the pillows, no longer disoriented. She looked at the phone, allowing it to ring yet a thud and fourth time before picking it up.
“Hello.”
A voice on the other end spoke, and the message in the words had just as dramatic an effect on her as the first ring. “What?” The panic in her voice sliced through the quiet of her room.
Mike Laird was on the other end of the phone, sitting in his office, a bright light from a desk lamp illuminating his drawn, tightened face. “He arrived at the hospital tonight. Denisov must have used the escort as a screen.”
Marion sat back against her headboard and closed her eyes for a moment. “My God, will this ever end?” She opened her eyes, resolute. “They’ve got to kill him—right away.”
Laird sat forward in his chair. “Ma’am, I told them that. They—Dr. Collins—said they were researchers, not executioners.”
“How dare she—” Marion stammered, struggling for control. “Where is he now?”
“At the hospital,” Laird informed her. “Under sedation; the first stage of the program. Dr. Collins assures me he’s quite secure.”
Marion shook her head slowly, lost in thought. Laird’s voice brought her back to reality. “Marion, are you there?”
She sighed heavily. “I’m here.”
Laird stood up, pacing in front of his desk. “I’ll go myself, if necessary.”
“All right,” she answered resignedly. She hung up the phone and sat, lifeless, on the edge of her bed.
Peter and Amanda danced the first dance at the inaugural ball amid many cheers. After that, they retired to their table beside the dance floor, where a seemingly endless line of politicians stopped by to pay their respects. Peter was enjoying the attention, feeling very much like an overnight sensation, but Amanda felt as if she were under siege. In the background the band played sweet ballads from the forties and fifties, and yet all these men wanted to do was talk politics. In exasperation—even desperation—she called upon Scott to dance, and Peter turned to a reticent Jackie and did the same.
Jackie felt instantly at ease on the dance floor with her father, following his lead effortlessly.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Peter said, looking down into his daughter’s eyes. “The most beautiful girl in the room talking basketball with her brother.”
She smiled up at him. “You wouldn’t think a guy who just started his own country would have time for a mercy dance.”
“I’ll always have time for my baby girl. What I don’t understand is why she isn’t dancing with any one of the hundred very good-looking young men who would give almost anything imaginable to be where I am.”
“Dorks.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Dorks?”
“Believe me, Daddy. Dorks.”
“Jackie, can I say something?”
“No.”
“Honey, you’ve got to forget Justin Milford. You can’t stop your life. You should be going out with people your own age.”
Jackie was silent. The music stopped and they started toward the side.
Peter smiled at her. “ ‘Shut up, Daddy.’ Right?” She smiled and nodded. An aide walked up to Peter. “Sir. Colonel Denisov would like to speak with you and Mrs. Bradford.”
“Thank you.” Peter turned to Jackie. “Go find a dork.” They walked over to the table where Amanda and Scott sat laughing.
“Dance with your sister,” Amanda told Scott as Jackie arrived.
“Jesus, Mom, that’s no fun.”
“Andrei is on the phone,” Peter said after the younger Bradfords had gone. “He wants to talk to both of us.”
“I haven’t had any better offers,” she said, and followed him back to the suite.
Andrei was calling from Petya’s Virginia mansion. The general’s body lay in state in the drawing room, and the top Soviet advisers in the United States had gathered to discuss what they must do next.
Andrei, for his part, contributed little to their deliberations. In his anger and grief he had already decided what he must do next, and it would be a one-man action, not a group effort. But first he had to make this phone call.
“Peter, how are you?”
“Fine, Colonel. It’s been a long day.”
“Your speech was a great success. I have heard only praise.”
“Good. People here seemed to like it.”