The Shield of Darius (28 page)

THIRTY

While the attorneys talked, Kate listened impatiently trying to heed Gary Crandall’s advice that she let him handle the meeting.

“They’re trying to pressure you. They know you can’t make this decision until Ben’s status is determined, and they also know that our last discussion didn’t constitute a verbal contract. Ken Robbins is the principal representing CommTech and he’s shrewd as a henhouse weasel. He’ll be claiming there were verbal commitments that could be viewed as contractual and watching you for any sign that you might soften on this. They want the company pretty badly.”

“I won’t budge on it,” she said. “It was a mistake to start down this path, and fortunately I’ve decided I have no interest whatsoever in selling – even if Ben’s status were to change. I gather you think the ‘verbal contract’ argument has no legs.”

“Not under these circumstances. The last discussion was very informal, you only presented a figure as an indication of the least you would ever consider, and we have good minutes showing that. They won’t choose to push us on it if you’re firm,” Crandall said. “We can claim ‘bereaved widow’ and make them look pretty heartless if they continue. I don’t believe they want that.”

“I’m not willing to even think about ‘widow’ yet,” Kate replied. “But use it if you need to.”

Crandall had needed to. “I’m sure you can understand how the disappearance of her husband and the sudden pressures of managing the company on her own might lead to some consideration…,” Crandall was saying, and Kate realized how true the statement really was. The void left by Ben’s disappearance was greater than she had ever imagined. He had been the company, and without him much of the joy was gone. But she had decided that giving up on Sager Technologies was giving up on Ben, and she wasn’t close to ready to do that.

Without wanting to, she found her thoughts drifting to Chris Falen. He was such an enigma. It had once occurred to her that when they were together, she always came away feeling she wasn’t sure who she had been with. Men usually liked to talk about themselves, but she still knew practically nothing about his personal life. He even spoke about his job in such an obtuse way that she suspected he wasn’t telling her everything. His phone number was unlisted, and he never answered directly. Always that irritating voicemail. He traveled overseas without explanation, and while some people refused to bring the office home, he didn’t even speak as though he had an office.

But there was something alluring in that touch of mystery that she admitted was attractive and reminded her of Ben’s sense of adventure. She certainly was not giving up on Ben, but there was really no one in her life who seemed to understand how frightening this all was...how draining. She needed someone who could help her see beyond the wonderfully secure cocoon she and Ben had spun together and consider what was on the outside. It was beginning to look like that was the world she would have to live in.

Gary Crandall’s voice drifted into her thoughts, bringing her sharply back to the table.

“I think that’s a wise decision on your part, and should we decide later to sell, we agree to grant you first right of refusal on our asking price. Any questions or points you’d like to make, Kate?”

She shook her head. “I appreciate your interest and as Gary said, should we decide later to sell, we’ll be in touch.”

Ken Robbins rose with his partner from the table. “We are disappointed, of course. But don’t want to complicate what is obviously a very difficult situation.”

She nodded and the CommTech attorneys shook hands and left the room.

“Well, that couldn’t have gone much better,” Crandall offered. “How do you feel about it?”

“Like I came close to making a big mistake. Maybe in another year...depending on what happens.

“I’m not sure you ever know on something like this.” Crandall smiled and gave Kate’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “I hope a year from now we will know that this was definitely the right decision.”

THIRTY-ONE

The overnight train to Lhati and Helsinki pulled out of St. Petersburg’s Finland Railway Station precisely at nine p.m. They had arrived in the Russian city that overlooks the Gulf of Finland by air, landing at Pulkova Airport less than an hour before the train was scheduled to leave. The drive from the airport to the station followed the picturesque Neva River but showed Ben little of the city he had heard was the jewel of Russia. From Primorsky Avenue on the north bank of the Neva, Roald Ushakov pointed out the distant Isle-of-Stones Palace and the Botanical Gardens, both on the opposite side.

“You must come here again,” Ushakov said as they approached the station. “St. Petersburg is a beautiful city and we have seen little of it.”

“Under better circumstances, I hope,” Ben said, stepping from the car. Though late evening, the square in front of the station seemed bathed in the shadowed light of mid-afternoon.

“I keep forgetting how far north we are,” he commented as they entered the station and selected an enclosed compartment in the second passenger car. “It seems like it should be three or four in the afternoon.”

The Russian sat opposite him and looked out over the long station platform. “We’re at about the same latitude as Anchorage in Alaska. The sun will go down for a few hours, but it will never really get dark. I much prefer my native Volgograd where night is night year around.”

“I don’t know much about Volgograd,” Ben admitted. “Central Russia, isn’t it?”

“Well south of Moscow, so we consider it south. It’s not Miami, but it’s very nice through the winter. And you, Mr. Sager. You are from Baltimore?”

“Yes. Near Washington D.C.”

“Ah, yes,” Ushakov nodded. “In Maryland.”

Ben looked at his Russian companion without expression as the train lurched out of the Finland Station. He was learning to be cautious. “You learned the country well while in America,” he said.

“I was there for thirteen years as a boy, then back as an assistant to the Foreign Minister. That was many years ago. But the United States has remained a special interest of mine.”

“And what did you think of it?”

“Think of it?” Ushakov seemed puzzled, as if he’d never considered the question. “It is such a vast place. Like Russia. And there are not as many differences as we would like to think.”

“Probably not,” Ben smiled thinly. “Do you think your government would have blown up the hotel?”

“You think
your
government was responsible?” Ushakov asked, looking over the top of his glasses.

“They had to be involved. Unless, I guess, the Iranians wanted to get rid of us and wished to make it look like someone else.”

“Now there is an interesting twist!” The Russian returned his cynical smile. “I suspect some in my government would have done it if we had known about a similar situation. In the name of national interest.”

“Not quite the same,” Ben said bitterly. “We’re supposed to be a nation built around the principle that the government is there to preserve life and liberty. That’s supposed to
be
the national interest!”

“And how does one preserve life and liberty?” Ushakov wondered. “By protecting every individual citizen, or by sacrificing a few to prevent a rogue nation from developing a device that could destroy millions?”

“A reasonable question,” Ben conceded. “But the bigger question is, who should decide?”  

They rode in silence, listening to the rhythmic clicking of steel wheels against rail joints and watching the outskirts of St. Petersburg thin into gently rolling pastureland, broken by stands of tall northern pine. Ben wondered if the Russians could be lying about all of this – another exercise in national interest. The copy of the Post could easily have been forged. Over the past three days he had worked the details over and over until he had talked himself into virtually every possible explanation. In Moscow he had seen only the guards who watched his room and a pleasant but silent woman who brought his meals. Ushakov visited occasionally to see that he was comfortable and provided sketchy information about getting him out of the country. But the Russians refused to talk more about the Tehran raid.

“Can I listen to that tape again,” he had asked.

“Sorry, but we had to return it to our intelligence people. It was difficult to get in the first place.”

“I thought you
were
the intelligence people. You must know something about what happened to the others who were in the hotel.”

“I know only what we’ve told you,” Ushakov replied. “When you get back, you should be able to learn much more.”

With what little information Ben did have, he had begun to lean toward the ‘misinformation’ explanation. The Russians were sending him home with a story that would discredit and embarrass the United States, an embarrassment that would allow the Russian government to ignore U.S. concerns about human rights by pointing to this bit of self-destruction. Even so, he feared there might be some truth to it. For some reason, he and others had been taken hostage. The Israelis might have bombed the hotel, seeing it and its content as serving just the purpose it was intended to serve – as the Shield of Darius. He closed his eyes to the gentle swaying of the train and saw Jim’s hopeful face peering down from the second floor of the prison. It had only been three weeks since his escape. The vision was so real that he knew Jim must still be alive, and the hotel still standing. But if Jim were dead – and the others – Ben couldn’t keep silent.

At 10:13 the train pulled into the brightly lighted station at Vyborg.

“We’ll be here about ten minutes,” Ushakov said. “Would you like anything?”

Ben fished in his pocket for some of the Finnish bills and change Ushakov had given him on the plane to St. Petersburg. “I could use a drink. Just juice or something like that.”

The Russian held up a restraining hand. “I will get it.” He slid back the door of the curtained compartment and Ben noticed for the first time the man in civilian dress standing in the corridor. Ushakov spoke briefly in Russian and the man disappeared toward the front car, returning moments later with two small bottles of apple juice and glasses.

“I’m afraid there is no ice,” Ushakov apologized. “An American custom we have yet to adopt, much to my disappointment.”

“This’ll be fine. How far are we from the border?”

“Thirty minutes. We’ll stop there for fifteen or twenty minutes to have our documents checked. Then it should be an hour and forty minutes to Kouvola. You won’t need to show anything to the Russian border guards, but the Finns will check your passport and visa. The one we gave you is very legitimate. You won’t have any difficulty. Have you reviewed the information?”

“My name is Daniel Morrison from Lubbock, Texas. I’ve been in Russia for three weeks; two in Moscow and one in St. Petersburg. Since I have friends in Stockholm, I left the tour group in St. Petersburg and am passing through Finland on my way to Sweden. I will be in Helsinki for two days, and then fly to Stockholm on Monday.”

Ushakov nodded his satisfaction. “And me?”

“We met for the first time on the train.”

“Excellent. How is the apple juice?”

“Tart, but very good. By the way, I hope we don’t run into a Finn who speaks good English. If they know anything about accents, they’ll know I’m not from Texas.”

“Certainly someone from Maryland could have moved to Lubbock, Texas,” Ushakov suggested. “In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the city has a fine university.”

Ben smiled his assent. The Russian did know a good deal about the United States.

The crossing went just as Ben’s escort had described it. On the Soviet side, a guard paused outside the compartment, spoke with the man in the corridor in hushed tones, then hurried down the train. When the Finnish official slid the door open, the security man was nowhere in sight. He opened Ben’s passport, checked the visa and looked at the picture.

“How long will you be in Finland, Mr. Morrison?” The official thumbed quickly though the passport.

“I’ll be leaving Monday.”

The guard stamped the document and handed it back. “Enjoy your stay,” he said pleasantly and left the compartment. Ben handed the passport to Ushakov.

In the perpetual dusk of the northern summer night, the train rolled into Finland, tunneling though thick pine forests and snaking along the shoreline of deep silver mountain lakes. As they left the village platform at Taavetti, Ushakov stretched on the seat facing Ben.

“Would you like the light off to rest, or do you mind if I read?”

“Go ahead,” Ben said, and the Russian opened a thin leather briefcase and drew out two newspapers.

“I have a copy of the
Post
. It’s a few days old, but might be of interest anyway. Would you like to read it?”

“Love to.” Ben took the paper and scanned page one.

Things hadn’t changed much in the four months he’d been gone. The trade deficit was the highest it had been in six quarters and leading economic indicators were up, sparking a mild rally on Wall Street. The Attorney General’s office was investigating possible misappropriation of funds by officials supervising federal student financial aid. New office. Old problem. He moved to page two.

“U.S. denies role in air attack” He looked up sharply at Ushakov, realizing why he had been given the paper. The Russian seemed absorbed in his own reading and didn’t return the glance.

Ben searched the article, scanning so quickly that he had to begin again to catch details. The school and hospital were identified as having been side-by-side on Rasht Boulevard. They had been completely destroyed, with no one inside surviving the attack. As he finished the final paragraph he felt the train begin to brake into the Kouvola station. Ben inhaled deeply, closed the paper and folded it neatly, handing it back to the Russian.

“Thank you,” he said.

Ushakov nodded. “I know you have been suspicious of us – as I would have been. But as far as we know, the facts are exactly as we gave them to you.”

The train screeched and vented short blasts of air as it ground to a halt beside the broad platform where a dozen people awaited the arrival. Ben quickly scanned the group and immediately recognized one of the men as his contact. He was slim, of medium build with the fair good looks that might otherwise have qualified him as Scandinavian. But the cut of his hair and casual clothes marked him undeniably as American. He wore tan slacks over brown loafers, a navy windbreaker that was open at the collar to show a light blue button-down shirt. He stepped forward as the train lurched to a stop.

Ben rose from his seat and again drew a deep breath. Another turn in the maze. He extended his hand to the Russian who remained in the compartment and had pulled across the seat where he could not be seen through the window.

“Thank you,” Ben said again. “Perhaps we will meet again. I would like to see St. Petersburg.”

Ushakov gripped his hand firmly and looked at him seriously through his rimless glasses.

“Be very, very careful, my American friend,” he said.