Prologue Read Free Page A

got out of his car. The red Soviet star. He grabbed the trowel he had brought with him but left the engine running and the driver’s door open.
Say nighty night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me.
We do miss you, he thought as he walked past the obelisk and crossed the bridge. And you were blue, all right. You had your blue uniforms at Saratoga and Brandywine and, of course, at Yorktown . And we do dream of you. At least, I do.
From behind him he heard Mama Cass belt, “Stars fading but I linger on dear…” Maybe the Soviet star was going to fade. Maybe he, Paul deVere…
At the far side of the bridge he turned right and stepped down to the edge of the retaining wall above the river. He crouched down, shielded by the bridge from the road. Lewis Ginter had chosen the spot himself in a moment of whimsy.

“It should be there, about three inches below the ground, right at the corner. After all,” Ginter had added to Paul, “the first American killed by the British in the Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, was an African-American. And you know that idiot, Major Pitcairn, who gave the order for the British to open fire at Lexington ? The first shot of the Revolution? Well, he was killed at Bunker Hill by Peter Salem, another African-American. So I feel good about this locale. Besides,” he had added with a chuckle, “it’s on your way home anyway so if it fails hey, no big deal.”
Paul had grimaced but, as usual, had not argued. He shoved a crushed beer can aside. Teenagers drinking again, he thought as he glanced around to make sure he was alone. Satisfied, he used the trowel to scrape away the soil where the retaining wall met the bridge. There, three inches below the surface, as Lewis had predicted, was the canister. Paul turned it over once before opening it. The shiny chronometer inside read: Three hundred ninety-two days, six hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-seven…eight…nine seconds. He snapped it shut.
“It works,” he said aloud. “Beautiful God, it works.”

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The next day at MIT, Paul passed Lewis Ginter’s office. Lewis’ door was open, his back to the corridor. He was talking on the telephone in low tones–probably to a woman he had either slept with last night or hoped to tonight. Paul wondered what she looked like.
That was worrisome. Lewis was single and still handsome for mid-40s, with the same waist and chest he’d had as a high school football player. If the Central Agency brass in Vodkaville wanted to compromise Lewis all they’d need would be a half-attractive agent.
Paul leaned in. “I got that report. It was as you expected.”
Lewis didn’t turn around, but he stopped talking in mid-sentence. Paul thought that his friend hadn’t heard him clearly and was about to repeat himself when Lewis raised a hand and waved his acknowledgment. As Paul continued down the hall he wished he could have seen Lewis’ face. He had known better than to telephone when he had gotten home the previous evening.
In the lab he cordially greeted Natasha Nikitin, the department’s new government-assigned intern. He had to constantly remind himself to treat her normally, as if he didn’t suspect her.

“Good morning, Miss Nikitin,” deVere said.
“Good morning, Dr. deVere . You look chipper.”

She learned a new word, Paul thought. She was constantly trying out new words. She spoke excellent English, all graduates of the Central Agency language school did, and they all had the same peculiar accent. It was one way to tell who was CA .
“Oh, thank you. How’s everything?”
“Fine.”
“Oh Miss Nikitin, can you check the cyclotron? I’ll be needing it in half an hour.”
“Of course.” She disappeared through a door.
DeVere drifted over to the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. The paper clip he had carefully positioned atop the middle of the sheaf of papers was now slightly to the right.