Autumn. New Hampshire alternately chilled into gray sub—mission by the gathering arctic winds and then warmed by the vibrant colors of fall, the persistent sun giving life to the fields and refusing to submit to the slow approach of winter.
Havelock hung up the phone in the enclosed porch that Jenna had insisted should be his study. She had seen him, had watched his eyes, as he had walked through the living—room door of the old house and stood there, mesmerized by the expanse of glass and the framed countryside beyond. A desk, bookshelves against the inner brick wall, and an odd assortment of comfortable furniture had transformed the bare porch into an airy room protected by transparent walk that allowed a spacious view of the fields and the woods that meant so much to him. She had understood, and he loved her for understanding. What he could see from that very unusual place was not what others would see, not simply the tall grass and vastly taller trees in the distance but an ever—changing landscape of sanctuary.
And memories of tension and survival, they were there, too, suddenly welling up until he had to move—physically—to overcome them, to suppress them. It would take time; normality was not to be found in a matter of weeks, even months.
Underneath he had a fever because you bastards poisoned him. You fed him a diet of … frenzy. He needed his fix! Dr. Matthew Randolph, dead man, talking about another dead man … and so many others.
They had discussed it, Jenna and he, and defined the fever that gripped him every now and then, and she was the only doctor he needed. They would take long walks; sudden bursts of running frequently became necessary for him, until the sweat came and his chest pounded. But the fever would pass, the explosions in his head dissolve—the guns would be stilled.
Sleep came easier these days, and his fits of restlessness caused him to reach only for her and not for a weapon. There were no weapons in the house. There never would be in any house they would ever live in.
“Mikhail?” The cheerful shout was accompanied by the opening and closing of the door beyond the living room.
“In here!” He turned in the leather swivel chair that was her last addition to his study.
Jenna walked into the sun—drenched room, the light catching her long blond hair that fell from beneath a dark wool cap, her tweed coat buttoned to ward off the autumn chill outride. She lowered a canvas bag to the floor and kissed him lightly on the lips. “There are the books you wanted. Anybody call?” she asked, taking off her coat. “They put me on the student foreign exchange committee and I think I’m supposed to be at a meeting tonight.”
“You are. Eight o’clock, Dean Crane’s place.”
“Good.”
“You enjoy it, don’t you?”
“I can help, I do help. Not only because of the languages, but mainly with the government papers. All those years falsifying documents does give one an advantage. At times I find it terribly difficult to be so honest. As if I’m doing something wrong.”
They both laughed. Havelock readied for her hand. “Someone else called.”
“Who?”
“Berquist.”
Jenna stiffened. “He hasn’t tried to reach you since you sent in your report.”
“He honored my request. I told him to leave us alone.”
“Then why call you now? What does he want?”
“He doesn’t want anything. He thought I should be brought up to date.”
“About what?”
“Loring’s all right, but he’ll never get back in the field again.”
“I’m glad. On both counts.”
“I hope he can handle it.”
“He will. They’ll make him a strategist.”
“That’s what I suggested.”
“I thought you would.”
Michael released her hand. “Decker didn’t make it.”
“What?”
“It happened months ago, but they covered it up. It was the most generous thing they could do. He walked out of his house the morning after Seneca’s Notch and was caught in the cross hairs. The guards moved in on the killer’s car—the one sent by Pierce—and so did Decker. He just kept walking into the fire, so help me God, singing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ He wanted to die.”
“The death of a zealot.”
“Futility. He’d learned; in his twisted way he had a lot to offer.”
“It’s history, Mikhail.”
“History,” agreed Havelock.
Jenna walked back to the canvas bag and took out the books. “I had coffee with Harry Lewis. I think he’s working up the courage to tell you.”
“Birchtree?” Michael smiled. “It’ll be something he can tell his grandchildren. Professor Harry Lewis, undercover man, complete with a code name.”
“I don’t think he’s terribly proud of it.”
“Why not? He didn’t do anything wrong, and he did it better than most. Besides, he got me a job I happen to like very much.… Let’s have Harry and his wife to dinner, and when the phone rings—believe me, it’ll ring—I’ll say it’s for Birchtree.”
“You’re outrageous,” said Jenna, laughing.
Havelock stopped smiling. “I’m restless,” he said.
“It was the call.”
“I get so goddamned … restless.” He looked at her.
“Let’s take a walk.”
* * *
They climbed the steep hill several miles west of the bouse where the high grass bent with the breezes; the earth was hard, sun—baked, the sky an eloquent blue, speckled with the tassels of windswept clouds. Below to the north was a winding stream, the waters curling gently around the bends, flirting with the low—hanging branches and heading south with a purpose on the other side of the hill.
“We had a picnic in Prague,” said Michael, looking down. “Remember? The Moldau was below then.”
“We’ll have a picnic here,” said Jenna, watching him closely. “Chilled wine, salad—those dreadful sandwiches you like so much.”
“Ham and cheese, with celery, onions and mustard.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Unfortunately, I remember.”
“If I were famous, they’d name it after me. It’d sweep the country, be on every menu.”
“Then keep a low profile, my darling.”
His smile waned. “You’re stronger than I am, Jenna.”
“If you want to believe that, fine, but it isn’t true.”
“It keeps coming back … the restlessness.”
“Depression, Mikhail. And less and less, we both know that.”
“Still, it comes back and I turn to you. You don’t have to turn to me.”
“But I do.”
“Not this way.”
“I never went through what you did for the length of time you did. And there’s something else. It was always your responsibility, not mine. Every decision you made had to cost you a part of yourself. It was yours, you were there. I could hide—behind you. I couldn’t have done what you did. Quite simply, I don’t have the strength.”
“That’s not true.”
“Stamina, then, and that is true, All those weeks I was running, every now and then I bad to stop, stay where I was and do nothing, think of nothing. I couldn’t go on, not during those moments, and I didn’t question myself. I just knew I couldn’t. You did; you could. As a child and as a man, and a price has to be paid for what you did—what was done to you. It will pass; it is passing.”
“A child,” said Havelock, glancing at the stream below. “I see him, I feel him, but I don’t really know him. But I remember him. When he was frightened or awfully hungry or tired and afraid to sleep, he’d climb a tree at daybreak and check for patrols. If there were none, he’d climb down and run through the fields as fast as he could, faster and faster and faster. After a while he felt good again, somehow—confident. Then he’d find a trench in a ravine or a deserted, bombed—out barn and sleep. A six—year—old getting a shot of whisky, all that oxygen in his lungs. It worked, and that was the only thing that mattered. The fever went down.”
Jenna touched his arm, studying his face, and began to smile. “Run now, Mikhail. Run down the hill and wait for me, but run by yourself. Go on, you lazy thing! Run!
He ran, his legs scissoring the air, his feet pounding the earth, the wind whipping his face and cooling his body, taking the breath from him, replacing it with new breath. He reached the bottom of the hill far below, his chest expanding with each gasp, quiet laughter coming from his throat. The fever was passing; soon it would be gone. Again.
He looked up at Jenna, the sun behind her, the blue sky above. He shouted between swallows of air, “Come on, you lazy thing! I’ll race you back to the house. Our house!”
“I’ll trip you at the last moment!” yelled Jenna, coming down the hill rapidly but not running. “You know I can do it!”
“It won’t do you any good!” Michael took out a bright metal object from his pocket. “I’ve got the key to the door. Our door!”
“Silly!” Jenna shouted, breaking into a run. “You didn’t lock it! We’ve never locked it!”
She came to him and they held each other.
“We don’t have to,” he said. “Not any longer.”