Page 9

Ten o’clock Tuesday morning, Jake walked into the Washington Diner.

At the back of the busy café, Nikolai Popov stood beside a quiet booth in the corner.

He tipped his head as Jake arrived, indicating he should take the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“You’re looking fit,”

Popov said.

Though Jake hadn’t seen the man in twenty-eight years, he would have known that grating, smoker’s voice anywhere.

“Your pictures do not do you justice.”

Jake’s pulse quickened but he didn’t reply, just slid onto the worn red Naugahyde bench.

“The Moscow winters have been far less kind to me,”

Popov said.

So true, Jake thought.

On that final day of competition in 1960 beneath a hot Rome sun, Popov had been thinner, with a thatch of sandy-brown hair where now just a few gray strands had been combed over to disguise his baldness.

But it was his eyes that had changed the most, narrow and hard, far more cunning now than they had been back then.

“What do you want with me?”

Jake asked bluntly.

“Relax, Comrade .

All in good time.

You were always impatient.

I see that has not changed.”

The waitress arrived to take their orders, black coffee, not regular, the Jersey version that came with a liberal dose of milk.

When the broad-hipped woman returned with two steaming cups, Popov made a grand show of stirring in heaping spoonfuls of sugar, the lengthy display designed to rattle Jake’s nerves.

“Smoke?”

Popov pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his navy blue suit.

Even in America, the man smoked the harsh Soviet brand.

“I quit years ago.

It isn’t healthy.

Or haven’t you heard.”

“A troublesome attitude may not be healthy either,”

Popov warned with a thin-lipped smile.

“But I am certain your curiosity has been piqued quite enough.

It is time we come to the point of our meeting.”

The Russian took a small sip of the scalding coffee then settled the cup back in its saucer with a soft china clink.

“It has come to our attention that you are in a very convenient place to help the country that birthed, housed, and fed you for the first nineteen years of your life.

The State has cared for your family even longer.

You owe us a great debt and now you will repay it.”

Popov blew a smoke ring across the Formica-topped table.

The odor of the Russian tobacco Jake had once enjoyed now seemed heavy and cloying.

“And if I don’t?”

Jake asked.

“If you do not do as you are told—as you were told before—it is your mother and sister who will bear the consequences.

They are old women, Tovarich, and life has not been kind to them.

They have you to thank for that, just as I do.”

“You? You’re obviously in a position of power and authority.

Surely what happened twenty-eight years ago had little effect on you.”

Popov’s dry, liver-spotted skin reddened, veins popping out on his forehead.

“No effect, Comrade? It took me twenty years to achieve the goals I set for myself.

Twenty years to move into the position I should have attained in three or four.

My career was blossoming until Rome.

I had high expectations. There was no limit to what I might have accomplished.”

Jake said nothing.

“Instead of garnering great respect, my wife and I were assigned a dismal Moscow apartment.

My children were forced to attend schools well below their level of abilities.

Today my son, Aksandr, holds a mediocre job as a People’s Inspector, and my daughter, Irina, and her husband work on a collective near Kiev.

They eat boiled potatoes and sausages, while you, Tovarich, dine on imported Beluga Caviar from your own mother country and live here like a king.”

“I’m Hungarian, not Russian, and I’ve worked hard for everything I have.

In this country, hard work is rewarded.

But then you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”

“I understand, Comrade Straka, that you are going to repay the debt you owe your country.

If you do not, your mother and sister will face the full wrath of the Soviet Government.

They will pay for your disloyalty.

They will be relocated, assigned new duties. To put it bluntly, Comrade, it is doubtful your mother and sister will live out the remainder of their years.”

Jake gripped his coffee cup, fighting to control his temper.

His mother was seventy-eight years old, his sister fifty-eight.

They had already suffered enough by his leaving.

The Soviets had allowed no communication between them for twenty-eight years. Letters he had written had been returned unopened, the money he’d sent them still inside.

In a way, he’d believed it was better.

Time had a way of easing the loss.

The letters would have been a constant reminder for all of them.

“What is it you want me to do?”

“When the time is right, you will be told.

For now, it is enough for you to know that you will be called upon soon.

Enough to know the consequences, should you fail to do as you are asked.

Your family will be kept under surveillance until such time as you have completed the tasks we assign.”

“And when will that be?”

“Not long, my impatient friend.

After twenty-eight years of waiting, for me it will seem only minutes.”

The Russian downed the last of his coffee.

“It would be best if you stayed a while before leaving.”

With a parched smile, Popov slid the check across to Jake and headed for the door.

Jake left the diner fifteen minutes behind the Russian and drove down highway 78 to Black River Road, taking the long way home.

He needed time to sort out his thoughts, time to decide what to do.

Whatever Popov and his associates planned had something to do with the upcoming Olympics, of that Jake was certain.

And it was bound to be detrimental to the American team.

It had been years since Jake had dealt with the Soviets.

In his youth in the late nineteen fifties, the government under Khrushchev had been rife with suspicion.

Things were better than they had been under Stalin, but still, constant arrests of dissenters, anyone who disagreed with the State, affected everyone’s lives.

He and his father had often talked politics when they felt certain no one would overhear.

Just before Jake had left in 1960, Article 70 of the Criminal Code had been adopted, making slander of the Soviet political system punishable by imprisonment for up to seven years.

The KGB was adept at planting subversive material, falsifying documents, then bringing charges against individuals under Article 70.

It was an easy way of ridding themselves of anyone who happened to disagree with them.

Because Janus Straka had fled to the West, it would have been easy to use those same tactics against his mother and sister.

Though Jake hadn’t been able to correspond with them, Daniel Gage had kept him informed.

Jake’s sister, Dana, had married a tradesman and delivered two sons.

Now the boys were grown and married, with children of their own.

When her husband had died five years ago, Dana had moved back in with their mother. The women now lived in a small flat in Moscow.

At least that was the last Jake had heard.

He hadn’t spoken to Daniel in almost three years.

Jake cruised the Mercedes along the winding, two lane road leading back to Gladstone.

With his once-close ties to the Soviet Union, he remained a dedicated follower of world events.

Over the past few years, newspaper accounts told stories of greater personal freedoms enjoyed by the Soviet people, of a country that desired to live in peaceful co-existence with its neighbors.

The Reagan-Gorbachev Summit had recently ended, with both sides receiving plaudits for the advancement each had made toward peace.

Was the Soviet government behind Popov’s threats? Or was Popov acting on his own?

“After twenty-eight years of waiting...,”

the Russian had said.

Had Popov risen high enough in the hierarchy of the KGB to work without the knowledge of his superiors? Was he willing to jeopardize his career to gain revenge on the man he believed had destroyed his life and that of his family?

They were questions Jake pondered as he drove through the lush New Jersey countryside.

Recalling the threats the KGB man had made, one thing was clear—Jake had done the right thing in breaking off his relationship with Maggie Delaine.

He couldn’t afford to endanger Maggie and her daughter’s lives.

He couldn’t afford to give Nikolai Popov another club to hold over his head.

Jake spent a sleepless Tuesday night and a restless Wednesday running over his options.

The team had been briefed and were meeting at the La Guardia Airport tomorrow for their five-p.m.

flight to Paris.

Since he had first been contacted by Popov eight months ago, Jake had been waiting to meet with him.

Waiting for an answer to the puzzle of what the Russian wanted. Now that the meeting had occurred, he knew little more than he had before.

Time was running out.

If he was going to take action, it had to be soon.

Wednesday night, after a frozen TV dinner Jake only picked at, he made a decision.

Certain his phone lines were tapped, he drove to the Peapack Village Inn to use a pay phone.

In the coffee shop, he ordered a hamburger, just to make his trip believable, then used the phone while he waited for his order to arrive.

The number he carried in his wallet was three years old.

He hadn’t spoken to Daniel Gage since 1985 when the brawny Irishman had called him in Charleston, just a friendly call at the time.

By then, Daniel had been retired from the CIA for five years.

The phone rang several times before Jake reached the disconnect recording.

He cursed beneath his breath.

Daniel Gage was the only man alive he could trust with his problem.

He and Daniel had been friends since Jake had arrived in the States, remained friends even after the FBI took over the duties of the CIA inside U.S. boundaries.

Jake dropped another quarter into the slot, the pay phone chimed, and he heard a new dial tone.

His tiny address book had another number listed, an old night number that rang through to Daniel’s inner office at the CIA.

Maybe someone there could put him in touch.

Three short rings, and a business-like female voice came on the line.

“My name is Jake Sullivan.

I know it’s after hours, but I was wondering if you might be able to help me.”

“How did you get this number?”

“It used to belong to Daniel Gage.

He’s a friend of mine.

His other number has been disconnected.

I was wondering if you might have a number where I could reach him.”

“Give me your number and I’ll see what I can do.”

Jake read the numbers on the faded information card above the phone and prayed he was making out them out correctly.

Then he hung up the phone and waited impatiently for the woman’s call.

“Your order’s up, fella,”

the waitress called to him over her shoulder as she walked past the hall where Jake stood next to the phone.

“Don’t blame me if it gets cold.”

“Would you mind wrapping it up? I think I’ll take it with me.”

She grunted.

“Shoulda’ ordered it to go, if that’s what you wanted.”

The phone rang as the woman walked away.

Jake lifted the receiver on the first ring.

“Sullivan.”

“Jake? That you?”

He released a slow, relieved breath at the sound of Daniel’s voice.

“That was fast.

Thank God you were home.”

“I’m not home.

I’m in my office.

Two doors down from where you called.”

“You’re back at the agency?”

Jake’s pulse began to hammer.

Daniel’s involvement with the bureau was a circumstance he hadn’t expected.

Maybe he was doing the wrong thing.

“I’ve been back almost three years.

Started right after Marie died.

Only way I could handle it.”

“Damn, I’m sorry, Dan.

I hadn’t heard.”

“I’m used to it now, at least for the most part.

But enough about me.

You don’t sound good.

What’s going on?”

For a moment Jake didn’t answer.

He’d have to be cautious, but it was too late to back out now.

“I got a phone call from an old acquaintance.

First one eight months ago. One lasts Sunday. Nikolai Popov.”

Jake let the words sink in.

“I knew he was in the country.

He’s on staff with the Russian Embassy, Chief of Security.”

“It may be a front for something more.

I’d like to meet you in person, but I’m being watched.”

“What does he want with you?”

Daniel asked, the timbre of his voice changing, betraying his concern, and the old authority and confidence Jake recalled.

“He hasn’t told me what he wants, but he’s threatened my family in Moscow.”

“Christ,”

Daniel growled.

“That puts you in a helluva position.

You’ll have to play along until we can find out what he’s up to.

If the Soviets are behind the move, we’ve got big trouble.”

“He may be acting alone.

It seems my leaving the country caused him no small amount of trouble.

He may be after some sort of revenge.”

“We’d better hope so.

If the government’s behind him, there’s not a whole lot we can do to protect your family.”

“I know.”

“You should have called me sooner,”

Daniel said.

“Probably.

But I wanted to know exactly what was going on.”

And I didn’t want to get my family killed .

“I’ll get on this thing, Jake.

Where can I reach you?”

“You can’t.

In the morning I’m leaving with the team for Paris.

I’ll have to find you . ”

Daniel gave him a number.

“Keep me posted.

I’ll need to know everything as it happens.

We’ll have men in Paris, but you won’t know who they are.”

“Dan? This is my mother and sister we’re talking about.”

“Trust me, Jake.”

“I always have, haven’t I?”

Daniel rang off and Jake felt somewhat better.

No matter what happened, he was no longer alone.