and
infirm, those struggling to live and those waiting to die.
The Red Army had gone through thousands of square
miles robbing the peasants of every crumb, every
animal, every Potato and cabbage and edible kernel,
then scaled the districts and waited for every last human
to starve.
Ten million! A conservative estimate,
Jake thought.
Then came the purges. Under Josef Stalin-and
they had called the fourth Ivan “the
Terrible!”-Soviet citizens were worked as slave
labor until they died or were shot in wholesale
lots because they might not be loyal to their Communist
masters. The secret police murder squads had
quotas.
And they filled them. Through the use of show trials
and extorted confessions, the soul-numbing terror was
injected into every nook and cranny of Soviet life.
Citizens in all walks of life denounced one
another in a paranoid hysteria that fed on
human sacrifice. Those who survived the horror
had a word for it: liquidation.
Over twenty million human beings were
liquidated, possibly as many as forty million.
Only God knew the real number and He had
kept the secret.
World War II’-THE raging furnace of war,
famine and disease consumed another twenty-five
million Soviet citizens. Twenty-five
million!
The numbers totaled eighty-five million
minimum. Jake Grafton added the numbers three
times. It was too much.
The human mind could not grasp the significance
of the numerals on the back of the tattered envelope.
Eighty-five million human lives.
It was like trying to comprehend how many stars were in a
galaxy, how many galaxies were in the universe.
“Jake?” His wife stood in the doorway.
“Amy and I are going to the Crystal City
mall. Won’t You come with us?”
He stared at her. She was of medium height, with
traces of gray in her dark hair. She had her
purse in her hand.
“The mall . . .”
“Amy wants to drive.” The youngster had just received
her learner’s permit and was now driving the family
car, but only when Jake was in the front seat with
her. Callie had announced that her nerves were not up
to that challenge and refused the honor.
Jake Grafton rose to his feet and glanced
out the window.
Outside the sun shone weakly from a high, hazy
sky. On TOP-THIS June Saturday all
over America baseball games were in progress,
people were riding bicycles, shopping, buying groceries,
mowing yards, enjoying the balmy temperatures of
June and contemplating the prospect of the whole
summer ahead.
The envelope and its numbers seemed as far away
from this reality as casualty figures from the Spanish
Inquisition.
“Okay,” Jake Grafton told his wife.
He eyed the envelope one last time, then slid it
between the pages of the book. With the book closed the
numbers were hidden; only the top half inch of the
envelope was visible.
Eighty-five million people.
But they were all long dead, as dead as the
pharaohs.
their corpses. Only the numbers survived.
The earth soaked up their tears and blood and
recycled He turned off the light as he left the
room.
Toad Tarkington called after the Graftons
returned from the mall. Callie invited him
to dinner. Five minutes later she answered the
phone again.
“Jack Yocke, Mrs. Grafton. I’m
leaving for an overseas assignment on Monday and I
wondered if I could stop by and chat with your husband this
evening.”
“Why don’t you come to dinner, Jack? Around
six-thirty.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
Callie was amused. She enjoyed entertaining, and
Jack Yocke, a reporter for the Washington
Post, was a frequent guest. Jake habitually
avoided reporters, but Yocke had become a
family friend through an unusual set of
circumstances. And he had never yet turned down a
dinner invitation.
Friends or not, he had the most important
commodity in Washington-access–and he knew
precisely what that was worth. Callie
undoubtedly knew too, Yocke thought: if she ever
thought he had taken advantage of her hospitality
she was perfectly capable of slamming
infirm, those struggling to live and those waiting to die.
The Red Army had gone through thousands of square
miles robbing the peasants of every crumb, every
animal, every Potato and cabbage and edible kernel,
then scaled the districts and waited for every last human
to starve.
Ten million! A conservative estimate,
Jake thought.
Then came the purges. Under Josef Stalin-and
they had called the fourth Ivan “the
Terrible!”-Soviet citizens were worked as slave
labor until they died or were shot in wholesale
lots because they might not be loyal to their Communist
masters. The secret police murder squads had
quotas.
And they filled them. Through the use of show trials
and extorted confessions, the soul-numbing terror was
injected into every nook and cranny of Soviet life.
Citizens in all walks of life denounced one
another in a paranoid hysteria that fed on
human sacrifice. Those who survived the horror
had a word for it: liquidation.
Over twenty million human beings were
liquidated, possibly as many as forty million.
Only God knew the real number and He had
kept the secret.
World War II’-THE raging furnace of war,
famine and disease consumed another twenty-five
million Soviet citizens. Twenty-five
million!
The numbers totaled eighty-five million
minimum. Jake Grafton added the numbers three
times. It was too much.
The human mind could not grasp the significance
of the numerals on the back of the tattered envelope.
Eighty-five million human lives.
It was like trying to comprehend how many stars were in a
galaxy, how many galaxies were in the universe.
“Jake?” His wife stood in the doorway.
“Amy and I are going to the Crystal City
mall. Won’t You come with us?”
He stared at her. She was of medium height, with
traces of gray in her dark hair. She had her
purse in her hand.
“The mall . . .”
“Amy wants to drive.” The youngster had just received
her learner’s permit and was now driving the family
car, but only when Jake was in the front seat with
her. Callie had announced that her nerves were not up
to that challenge and refused the honor.
Jake Grafton rose to his feet and glanced
out the window.
Outside the sun shone weakly from a high, hazy
sky. On TOP-THIS June Saturday all
over America baseball games were in progress,
people were riding bicycles, shopping, buying groceries,
mowing yards, enjoying the balmy temperatures of
June and contemplating the prospect of the whole
summer ahead.
The envelope and its numbers seemed as far away
from this reality as casualty figures from the Spanish
Inquisition.
“Okay,” Jake Grafton told his wife.
He eyed the envelope one last time, then slid it
between the pages of the book. With the book closed the
numbers were hidden; only the top half inch of the
envelope was visible.
Eighty-five million people.
But they were all long dead, as dead as the
pharaohs.
their corpses. Only the numbers survived.
The earth soaked up their tears and blood and
recycled He turned off the light as he left the
room.
Toad Tarkington called after the Graftons
returned from the mall. Callie invited him
to dinner. Five minutes later she answered the
phone again.
“Jack Yocke, Mrs. Grafton. I’m
leaving for an overseas assignment on Monday and I
wondered if I could stop by and chat with your husband this
evening.”
“Why don’t you come to dinner, Jack? Around
six-thirty.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
Callie was amused. She enjoyed entertaining, and
Jack Yocke, a reporter for the Washington
Post, was a frequent guest. Jake habitually
avoided reporters, but Yocke had become a
family friend through an unusual set of
circumstances. And he had never yet turned down a
dinner invitation.
Friends or not, he had the most important
commodity in Washington-access–and he knew
precisely what that was worth. Callie
undoubtedly knew too, Yocke thought: if she ever
thought he had taken advantage of her hospitality
she was perfectly capable of slamming