“Rains a lot in these parts, sometimes like a son of a bitch,” said Mr. Brady. He turned, his leathery old face locking on Peter’s. “Son, you must know about a mess of things, but I have to wonder what you know about coal. You open a coal seam to a mess of rainwater over a period of years, you get some damned interesting formations down through a mountain. Coal is soft, boy. Soft as butter.”
Peter looked at him.
Then he looked at Dick Puller.
“You get tunnels, Dr. Thiokol,” said Dick Puller. “You get tunnels.”
Gregor beat a hasty retreat from the embassy to the nearest source of booze, which was Capitol Liquors, three blocks away at L and Vermont, a harshly lit joint with a pretentious wine display for yuppie Washington, as if yuppies wandered into such a place. He went in, fought through the listless crowd of unemployed Negroes who passed the time here, and bought a pint of American vodka (he could not afford Russian) for $3.95. Outside, he opened it quickly, threw down a quick hit.
Ah! His oldest and dearest friend, the one who never let him down. It tasted of wood smoke and fire and bracing winter snows. It belted him like a two by four between the eyes. He filled with instant love. The cars whirling up the street, the American automobiles, endless and gaudy, he loved them. Klimov, little rat Klimov, he loved him. Pashin, Klimov’s powerful sponsor, he loved him.
“To Pashin,” Gregor announced to a man standing next to him, “a hero for our times.”
“You said it, Jack,” said the man, bringing the muzzle of a bottle of Ripple in a paper bag up to his lips, drinking. “Git all our asses in trouble.”
Fortified, Gregor lurched ahead. The sun was bright. It hurt his eyes. He put on his sunglasses, cheap things from the drugstore designed to look expensive. He felt much better now. He felt in control. He looked at his watch. He still had some time before his little job.
Gregor wandered around for a few minutes before he finally found what he was looking for, a public phone. You always call from a public phone. That was the oldest rule. In Russia you may be sure the public phones are tapped, but in America you were sure they were not.
Gregor found a quarter, called the number. A woman answered, a new voice, but he asked for Miss Shroyer. There was some fumbling, and finally she came on the phone.
“This is the Sears computer,” he said. “Your order is ready. It’s”—he squinted, reading the number of the phone—“it’s 555-0233. Have a nice day. This is the Sears—”
The phone went dead. He stood, talking into it anyway, holding the button down, seeing her leave her desk in the Crowell Office Building, pick up her coat, nonchalantly mosey down to the drinking fountain, take a long drink, duck into the ladies’ room, her fatness imposing, her huge back and bent shoulders like a cape, her personality bright and phony, to the pay phone in the next corridor.
The instrument against which he leaned produced a squawk surprising Gregor in his reverie, but he freed the receiver button.
“Gregor, good God! The chances you take! Suppose they are watching you? I told you, Gregor, never, never call me at—”
“Molly, oh, Molly!” sobbed Gregor. “God, darling, your voice, it sounds so wonderful.”
“You fat bastard, you’ve been drinking already, I can tell. Your words are all mushed together.”
“Molly, listen, please, yes, I had a little taste, that’s all—”
“Gregor, don’t be sloppy, you know how I detest it when you’re sloppy!”
“Molly, please, I had no other place to turn. This Klimov, he’s really after me this time. He wants me. It’s worse than ever. God, darling, they are going to send me back.”
“Gregor, you pulled this routine months back. It’s where we started.”
Gregor sobbed. The sound of his pain and his fright must have been amplified by the wires of the phone, for it seemed to release in Molly something his implorings had failed to touch: her pity. He sensed her compassion suddenly: he sensed her coming to him. He pressed on.
“Please, please, darling. Don’t fail me. You’ve got to get me something. Something soon. Something big. Something I can give them. Not just your chicken-shit minutes and the gossip. They can get that from the Post. No, Molly, if you love me, if you fear for me, if in the smallest, tenderest part of your baby toe you feel for poor Gregor Arbatov, please, please, oh, my Molly, please help me.”
“Jesus, you bastard,” she said. There was almost a laugh in her voice. “You’re so far beyond shame, you’re into squalor.”
“Please,” he begged again.
“Call me in a few days.”
“In a few days I’ll be on my way to Latvia or some awful place.”
“There is no Latvia, Gweggy.”
“That’s what I mean. Please, Molly. Oh, please, by tonight. I’ll call you at four.”
“You’re really pushing your luck.”
“Oh, Molly, I knew I could count on you.”
“I can’t — what? Oh, yes, sure.” This last was mumbled to an intruder. In seconds she was back, breathless. “Christ, I have to go, baby doll, they’re calling all of us for something.”
“My sweet, I—”
But she had hung up. Strange, no? he thought. But he felt much better now. He looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. Time for his drive out to Columbia and his little job for the agent Pork Chop.
“Colonel Puller?” It was the FBI agent, Uckley.
“Yes?” asked Puller.
“It’s an eyes-only from White House Operations. They want to know what’s happening.”
“What’s happening?” A quick, angry glance. It was said that Puller had talked to Carter himself from the ground at Desert One. “Tell ’em Delta’s in, we’re working out our assault details, we’re waiting for Air and the Third Infantry and have high hopes for the Rangers. Make something up.”
“They sound mad,” said Uckley, a little unsure at Puller’s lack of interest in Washington.
“I don’t give a fuck what they are,” said Dick sharply. He looked over at Peter. “They’ll want action. What they don’t know, of course, is that the wrong action is worse than no action. Much worse. See, I have to fight them just as hard as I have to fight what’s-his-face up in the mountain. Now, Dr. Thiokol. Peter, is it? Okay if I call you Peter?”
“Sure,” said Peter.
“Now, Peter, I checked your file. Very smart guy. Great record. A-plus on the report card, all the way through.” His cold little eyes gazed at Peter with regret. “But what’s this shit about Taylor Manor? Some bin in Ellicott City. You had a problem?”
“I had some difficulties when my marriage broke up. But that’s all taken care of now.”
“You flipped, huh? Let me ask you straight out: How’s your head? Screwed on tight and outstanding? Are you crazy anymore?”
“I’m feeling fine,” said Peter evenly, wondering why this bastard hated him so much. Then he concluded that Puller hated everyone. The man was sheer aggression.
“What I need from you is a lot of hard work. I need a genius. I need a guy who knows that mountain who can figure things out for me. See, maybe I can crack that hole if I can figure out how. But I need a genius along to whisper in my ear. Can you give me the help I need, no bullshit games, no little sullen pouts, no prima donna shit. I don’t have time for the star system.”
“I’m fine,” said Peter again. “You can count on me. I guarantee it.”
“Excellent. That’s all I need to know. Now — who’s up there?”
“Search me,” said Peter.
“All right. Why are they up there?”