“No,” she said. “He’s not here, I’m sorry.”
“Okay, let’s go to the citizens.”
Another file of photos was provided.
“Take your time,” said one of the debriefers. “Remember, he’ll be heavier, balder, he may have facial hair, he—”
“Mel, I think Julie understands that,” said Bonson.
Julie was quiet. She flipped through the pictures, now and then pausing. But another pile disappeared without a moment of recognition. Another pile was brought, this time designated “security nationals.”
She had a possible, but paused, and then it too went to the discards, though into a separate category of “almosts.”
But then, finally, there were no more pictures.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
The disappointment in the room was palpable.
“Okay,” Bonson finally said. “Let’s knock off for a while. Julie, why don’t you take a break? Maybe a walk, stretch your legs. We’ll have to do it the hard way.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Drugs? Torture?”
“No, we’ll get you together with a forensic artist. He’ll draft a drawing from your instructions. We’ll get our computers to run a much wider comparison on a much wider database. Mel, be sure to get the ‘almosts’ too. Have Mr. Jefferson factor those in too. That’ll get us another bunch of candidates. We’ve got food. Would you care for some lunch or a nap or something?”
“I’m fine. I think I’d like to check on my daughter.”
She and Bob walked downstairs and found Nikki — asleep. She was stretched across Sally’s lap, snoozing gently, pinning Sally with her fragile weight.
“I can’t even get up,” said Sally.
“I’ll take her.”
“No, that’s okay. These child geniuses got the cable running. The remote even works now. It didn’t. See.”
She held up the little device and punched a few buttons and the picture flicked across the channels: Lifetime, CNN, Idaho Public TV, HBO, the Discovery Channel, ESPN, CNN Headline N—
“My God,” said Julie. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Bob said, and from around the house, others looked in, came to check.
“That’s him,” said Julie. “My God, yes, fatter now, healthier; yes, that’s him. That’s Fitzpatrick!” She was pointing at the television, where a powerful, dynamic man was giving an impromptu news conference in a European city.
“Jesus,” said one of the kids, “that’s Evgeny Pashin, the next president of Russia.”
The second meeting was smaller, more informal. It was after lunch, prepared in an Air Force mess tent set up outside the house.
Surprisingly good, nourishing food, too. More to the point, someone had come up with a nice batch of Disney videos for Nikki, that is, when she got back from a sledding diversion with three state troopers.
Now, Julie and Bob sat upstairs with a much smaller contingent, the inner circle, as it were.
“Julie,” said Bonson, “we’re going to discuss the meaning of this right here, before you and your husband. That’s because I want you on the inside now, not on the outside. I’m drawing the two of you in. You’re not civilians. I want you to feel like you’re part of the team. You will, in fact, both be paid as agency consultants; we pay well, you’ll see.”
“Fine,” she said. “We could use the money.”
“Now, I’m not even going to ask you if you’re sure. I know you’re sure. But I have to say: this guy has been on TV a lot lately. Can you explain why it’s only now that you recognize him?”
“Mr. Bonson, have you ever been a mother?”
There was some laughter.
“No,” he admitted.
“Have you ever been the wife to a somewhat melancholy yet incredibly heroic man, particularly as he’s feeling his life has been taken from him by some unnecessary publicity and we had to move from one location to another?”
“No, no, I haven’t,” said Bonson.
“Well, I was both, simultaneously. Does that suggest to you why I wasn’t watching much TV?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Now, today, you take me back. You force me to think about faces. I pick several faces that are somewhat similar in structure to his. I’m working on re-creating that face in my own mind. Do you see?”
“Yes.”
“The points are all well made,” Bonson said. “Well then, let’s throw it open for general discussion. Can someone tell me what possible meaning this has?”
“Sir, I think I can explain the sequencing.”
“Go ahead,” said Bonson.
“In 1971, four people saw Pashin operating undercover in this country as this Fitzpatrick. That is, really interfaced with him in commission of his duties. Three were eliminated quickly. But they had no ID on the fourth, and as I recollect, according to official Marine Corps records, Mrs. Swagger’s first marriage to Donny Fenn was unrecorded.”
“That’s right,” said Julie. “I received no benefits. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want anything to do with the Marine Corps. Although I ended up marrying it.”
“But,” continued the analyst, “they have a bad picture of her, the one they got at the farm. They can’t ID it. It haunts them over the years. The decades pass. SovUn breaks up. Pashin is no longer GRU, he’s part of PAMYAT, the nationalist party. He begins his political career. He’s handsome, heroic, the brother of a martyred nationalist hero, has lots of mafia backing; he’s scaring the old-line commies, he’s within a few weeks of winning an election and control of twenty thousand nukes. Then, two months ago, a picture of Bob Lee Swagger appears in The National Star and subsequently in Time and Newsweek, who call him ‘America’s most violent man.’ If you recalclass="underline" it was a picture snapped by a Star photographer of Bob coming out of church in Arizona, with his wife. Her picture appears in the national media. And it contains the information that Bob is married to his spotter’s widow. Donny’s widow, the woman who got away, who’s been haunting them all these years. The last survivor of that night on the farm. Suddenly, it becomes clear to PAMYAT and all the interests betting on Pashin that one witness from his undercover days still exists and can still put him on that farm. All right? So … from that point on, they have to take her out, and her husband’s gaudy past certainly provides a kind of pretext.”
“That’s sequencing,” said Bonson. “Fine, good, it makes sense. It’s a theory that fits. But still … why?”
“Ah, he was involved with a famous peace demonstrator in blowing up a building.”
“So?”
“Well …”
Bonson argued savagely, trying to compel the young man to a next leap. “It’s widely known he had an intelligence background. It’s known in some circumstances that the peace movement had some East Bloc involvement. Actually, that might help his candidacy in today’s Russia. I don’t understand why the same security mandates would be operational twenty-seven years later. They were protecting assets then. What can they be protecting now? Ideas, anybody?”
None of the senior people had any.
“Well, then, we’re sort of stuck, aren’t we?” said Bonson. “It’s very interesting, but we still don’t—”
“Should I explain it to you now, or do you want to yammer on a bit?” asked Bob.
“You ain’t got it yet, Bonson,” said Bob. “You still bought into the cover story. You still look at the cover story and you don’t see the real story. And all your smart boys, too.”
“Well, Sergeant,” said Bonson evenly, “then go ahead. You explain the real story.”