Suddenly she felt limp with relief. Her arms trembled, and she had to slow the car. "God almighty," she breathed. "That was too damn close."
12 Midnight
Four whip antennae, protruding from the satellite cylinder, broadcast radio signals to receiving stations around the globe. Explorer will broadcast on a frequency of 108 MHz.
Anthony had to get out of Alabama. The action was in Florida now. Everything he had worked toward for twenty years would be decided at Cape Canaveral in the next twenty-four hours, and he had to be there.
Huntsville Airport was still open, lights blazing on the runway. That meant there was at least one more plane in or out tonight. He parked his Army Ford at the roadside in front of the terminal building, behind a limousine and a couple of taxicabs. The place seemed deserted. He did not trouble to lock the car but hurried inside.
The place was quiet but not empty. One girl sat behind an airline counter writing in a book, and two black women in overalls were mopping the floor. Three men stood around waiting, one in chauffeur uniform and the others in the creased clothes and peaked caps of cab drivers. Pete was sitting on a bench.
Anthony had to get rid of Pete, for the man's own sake. The scene in the Engineering Building at Redstone Arsenal had been witnessed by Billie and Marigold, and one of them would soon report it. The Army would complain to the CIA. George Cooperman had already said he could not shield Anthony any longer. Anthony had to give up the pretense that he was on a legitimate CIA mission. The game was up, and Pete had better go home before he got hurt.
Pete might have been bored after twelve hours of waiting at the airport, but instead he seemed excited and tense as he jumped to his feet. "At last!" he said.
"What's flying out of here tonight?" Anthony said abruptly.
"Nothing. One more flight is due in, from Washington, but nothing is leaving before seven A.M."
"Damn. I have to get to Florida."
"There's a MATS flight from Redstone at five-thirty going to Patrick Air Force base, near Cape Canaveral."
"That'll have to do."
Pete looked embarrassed. Seeming to force the words out, he said, "You can't go to Florida."
So that was why he was so tense. Anthony said coolly, "How so?"
"I talked to Washington. Carl Hobart spoke to me himself. We have to go back--and no argument, to quote him."
Anthony felt wild with rage, but he pretended to be merely frustrated. "Those assholes," Anthony said. "You can't run a field operation from headquarters!"
Pete was not buying this. "Mr. Hobart says we have to accept there is no operation now. The Army is handling this from here on."
"We can't let them. Army security is totally incompetent."
"I know, but I don't think we have a choice, sir."
Anthony made an effort to breathe calmly. This had to happen sooner or later. The CIA did not yet believe he was a double agent, but they knew he had gone rogue, and they wanted to put him out of action as quietly as possible.
However, Anthony had carefully cultivated the loyalty of his men over the years, and he should still have some credit left. "Here's what we'll do," he said to Pete. "You go back to Washington. Tell them I refused to obey orders. You're out of it--this is my responsibility now." He half turned away, as if taking Pete's consent for granted.
"Okay," Pete said. "I guessed you would say that. And they can't expect me to kidnap you."
"That's right," Anthony said casually, concealing his relief that Pete was not going to argue.
"But there's something else," Pete said.
Anthony rounded on him, letting his irritation show. "What now?"
Pete blushed, and the birthmark on his face turned purple. "They told me to take your gun."
Anthony began to fear he might not be able to get out of this situation easily. There was no way he was giving up his weapon. He forced a smile and said, "So you'll tell them I refused."
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't tell you how sorry I am. But Mr. Hobart was very specific. If you won't hand it over, I have to call the local police."
Anthony realized then that he had to kill Pete.
For a moment he was swamped by grief. What depths of treachery he had been led into. It hardly seemed possible that this was the logical conclusion of his commitment, made two decades ago, to dedicate his life to a noble cause. Then a deadly calm descended on him. He had learned about hard choices in the war. This was a different war, but the imperatives were the same. Once you were in, you had to win, whatever it took. "In that case, I guess it's all over," he said with a sigh that was genuine. "I think it's a dumb decision, but I believe I've done all I can."
Pete made no attempt to conceal his relief. "Thank you," he said. "I'm so glad you're taking it this way."
"Don't you worry. I won't hold this against you. I know you have to follow a direct order from Hobart."
Pete's face took on a determined expression. "So, do you want to give me the firearm now?"
"Sure." The gun was in Anthony's coat pocket, but he said, "It's in my trunk." He wanted Pete to go with him to the car, but he pretended the opposite. "Wait here, I'll get it."
As he had expected, Pete feared he was trying to escape. "I'll come with you," Pete said hastily.
Anthony pretended to hesitate, then give in. "Whatever." He walked through the door, with Pete following. The car was parked at the curb, thirty yards from the airport entrance. There was no one in sight.
Anthony thumbed the trunk lid and threw it open. "There you go," he said.
Pete bent over to look in the trunk.
Anthony drew the gun, silencer attached, from inside his coat. For a moment, he was tempted by a mad impulse to put it in his own mouth and pull the trigger, bringing the nightmare to an end.
The moment of delay was a crucial mistake.
Pete said, "I don't see any gun," and he turned around.
He reacted fast. Before Anthony could level his gun with its cumbersome silencer, Pete stepped sideways, away from the muzzle, and swung a fist. He caught Anthony with a bone-jarring blow to the side of the head. Anthony staggered. Pete hit him with the other fist, connecting with his jaw, and Anthony stumbled backward and fell, but as he hit the ground he brought the gun up. Pete saw what was going to happen. His face twisted in fear and he lifted his hands, as if they could protect him from a bullet, then Anthony pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
All three bullets found their target on Pete's chest, and blood spurted from three holes in his gray mohair suit. He fell to the road with a thud.
Anthony scrambled to his feet and pocketed the gun. He looked up and down. No one was arriving at the airport, and no one had come out of the building. He bent over Pete's body.
Pete looked at him. He was not dead.
Fighting down nausea, Anthony picked up the bleeding body and tumbled it into the open trunk of the car. Then he drew his gun again. Pete lay in the trunk, twisted in pain, staring at him with terrified eyes. Chest wounds were not always fatal: Pete could live if he were treated in a hospital soon. Anthony pointed the gun at Pete's head. Pete tried to speak, and blood came out of his mouth. Anthony pulled the trigger.
Pete slumped, and his eyes closed.
Anthony slammed the trunk lid and collapsed onto it. He had been hit seriously hard for the second time in a day, and his head was swimming, but worse than the physical damage was the knowledge of what he had done.
A voice said, "Are you okay, buddy?"
Anthony came upright, stuffing the gun inside his coat, and turned around. A taxi had pulled up behind and the driver walked up, looking concerned. He was a black man with graying hair.
How much had the man seen? Anthony did not know if he had the heart to kill him too.
The cabbie said, "Whatever you were loading into your trunk, looks like it was heavy."
"A rug," Anthony said, breathing hard.
The man looked at him with the candid curiosity of small-town people. "S
omeone give you a black eye? Or two?"
"A little accident."
"Come inside, get a cup of coffee or something."
"No, thanks. I'm okay."
"Please yourself." The driver ambled slowly into the terminal.
Anthony got into his car and drove away.
1.30 A.M.
The first task of the radio transmitters is to provide signals enabling the satellite to be followed by tracking stations on earth--to prove that it is in orbit.
The train pulled slowly out of Chattanooga. In the cramped roomette, Luke took off his jacket and hung it up, then perched on the edge of the lower bunk and unlaced his shoes. Billie sat cross-legged on the bunk, watching him. The lights of the station flickered then faded as the locomotive gathered speed, heading into the southern night, bound for Jacksonville, Florida.
Luke undid his tie. Billie said, "If this is a striptease, it doesn't have much oomph."
Luke grinned ruefully. He was going slowly because he was undecided. They had been forced to share the roomette: only one was available. He was longing to take Billie in his arms. Everything he had learned about himself and his life told him that Billie was the woman he should be with. Yet, all the same, he hesitated.
"What?" she said. "What are you thinking?"
"That this is too quick."
"Seventeen years is nothing?"
"To me it's been a couple of days, that's all I can remember."
"It feels like forever."
"I'm still married to Elspeth."
Billie nodded solemnly. "But she's been lying to you for years."
"So I should jump out of her bed into yours?"
She looked offended. "You should do what you want."
He tried to explain. "I don't like the feeling that I'm seizing an excuse." She said nothing in reply, so he added, "You don't agree, do you?"
"Hell, no," she said. "I want to make love to you tonight. I remember what it was like, and I want it again, right now." She glanced out of the window as the train flew through a small town: ten seconds of streaking lights and they were in darkness again. "But I know you," she went on. "You've never been one to live for the moment, even when we were kids. You need time to think things through and convince yourself that you're doing the right thing."
"Is that so bad?"
She smiled. "No. I'm glad you're like that. It makes you rock-solid reliable. If you weren't this way, I guess I wouldn't have. . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"What were you going to say?"
She looked him in the eye. "I wouldn't have loved you this much, this long." She was embarrassed, and covered up by saying something flip. "Anyway, you need a shower."
It was true. He had been wearing the same clothes since he stole them thirty-six hours ago. "Every time I thought about changing, there was something more urgent to do," he said. "I have fresh clothes in my bag."
"No matter. Why don't you climb up on top, and give me room to take off my shoes."
Obediently, he climbed the little ladder and lay down on the top bunk. He turned on his side, elbow on the pillow, head resting on his hand. "Losing your memory is like a new start in life," he said. "Like being born again. Every decision you ever made can be revisited."
She kicked off her shoes and stood up. "I'd hate that," she said. With a swift movement, she slipped off her black ski pants and stood there in her sweater and brief white panties. Catching his eye, she grinned and said, "It's okay, you can watch." She reached under her sweater at the back and unfastened her brassiere. Then she drew her left arm out of her sleeve, reached inside with her right hand to pull the strap off her shoulder, thrust her left arm back into the sleeve, and drew her bra out of her right sleeve with a conjurer's flourish.
"Bravo," he said.
She gave him a thoughtful look. "So, we're going to sleep now?"
"I guess."
"Okay." She stood on the edge of the lower bunk and raised herself to his level, tilting her face to be kissed. He leaned forward and touched her lips with his own. She closed her eyes. He felt the tip of her tongue flick over his lips, then she pulled away and her face disappeared.
He lay on his back, thinking about her lying a few inches below, with her neat bare legs and her round breasts inside the soft angora sweater. In a few moments he was asleep.
He had an intensely erotic dream. He was Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream, with donkey's ears, and he was being kissed all over his hairy face by Titania's fairies, who were naked girls with slim legs and round breasts. Titania herself, the queen of the fairies, was unbuttoning his pants, while the wheels of the train drummed an insistent beat. . . .
He woke up slowly, reluctant to leave fairyland and return to the world of railroads and rockets. His shirt was open and his pants were undone. Billie lay beside him, kissing him. "Are you awake?" she murmured in his ear--a normal ear, not a donkey's. She giggled. "I don't want to waste this on a guy who's asleep."
He touched her, running his hand along her side. She still had on the sweater, but her panties had gone. "I'm awake," he said thickly.
She lifted herself on hands and knees so that she was over him, poised in the narrow space below the ceiling of the roomette. Looking into his eyes, she lowered her body to his. He sighed with intense pleasure as he slid inside her. The train rocked from side to side, and the tracks sang to an erotic rhythm.
He reached inside her sweater to touch her breasts. Her skin was soft and warm. She whispered in his ear, "They missed you."
He felt as if he were still half in the dream as the train rocked and Billie kissed his face and America flew by the window mile after mile. He wound his arms around her back and held her tightly, to convince himself that she was made of flesh and blood, not fairy gossamer. Just as he was thinking that he wanted this to go on forever, his body took control, and he clung to her as waves of pleasure broke over him. As soon as it was over she said, "Keep still. Hold me tight." He did not move. She buried her face in his neck, her breath hot on his skin. As he lay prone, still inside her, she seemed to twitch with an internal spasm, time and time again, until at last she sighed deeply and relaxed. They lay still a few minutes longer, but Luke was not sleepy. Billie evidently felt the same, for she said, "I have an idea. Let's wash." He laughed. "Well, I sure need it."
She rolled off him and climbed down, and he followed. In the corner of the roomette was a tiny washbasin with a cupboard over it. Billie found a hand towel and a little cake of soap in the cupboard. She filled the basin with hot water. "I'll wash you, then you can wash me," she said. She soaked the towel, rubbed soap on it, and began.
It was delightfully intimate and sexy. He closed his eyes. She soaped his belly then knelt to wash his legs. "You missed a bit," he said.
"Don't worry, I'm leaving the best part till last."
When she had finished, he did the same for her, which was even more arousing. Then they lay down again, this time on the lower bunk. "Now," she said, "do you remember oral sex?"
"No," he said. "But I think I can figure it out."
PART SIX
8.30 A.M.
To help track the satellite accurately, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory has developed a new radio technique called Microlock. The Microlock stations use a phased-lock loop tracking system which is able to lock on to a signal of only 1/1000 of a watt from as far as 20,000 miles away.
Anthony flew to Florida in a small plane that bumped and bucked with every gust of wind all the way across Alabama and Georgia. He was accompanied by a general and two colonels who would have shot him on sight if they had known the purpose of his trip.
He landed at Patrick Air Force Base, a few miles south of Cape Canaveral. The air terminal consisted of a few small rooms at the rear of an aircraft hangar. In his imagination he saw a detachment of FBI agents, with their neat suits and shiny shoes, waiting to arrest him, but there was only Elspeth.
She looked drained. For the first time, he saw signs of approaching middle age in her. Th
e pale skin of her face showed the beginnings of wrinkles, and the posture of her long body was a little stooped. She led him outside to where her white Corvette was parked in the hot sun.
As soon as they were inside the car, he said, "How's Theo?"
"Pretty shook, but he'll be okay."
"Do the local police have his description?"
"Yes--Colonel Hide gave it out."
"Where's he hiding?"
"In my motel room. He'll stay there until dark." She drove out of the base onto the highway and turned north. "What about you? Will the CIA give out your description to the police?"
"I don't think so."
"So you can move around fairly freely. That's good, because you'll need to buy a car."
"The Agency likes to solve its own problems. Right now, they think I've gone rogue, and their only concern is to take me out of circulation before I embarrass them. Once they start listening to Luke, they'll realize they've been harboring a double agent for years--but that may make them even more concerned to hush up the whole thing. I can't be sure, but my guess is there will be no high-profile search for me."
"And no shadow of suspicion has fallen on me. So all three of us are still in play. That gives us a good chance. We can still pull this thing off."
"Luke doesn't suspect you?"
"He has no reason to."
"Where is he now?"
"On a train, according to Marigold." A note of bitterness entered her voice. "With Billie."
"When will he get here?"
"I'm not sure. The overnight train takes him to Jacksonville, but from there he has to get a slow train down the coast. Sometime this afternoon, I guess."
They drove in silence for a while. Anthony tried to make himself calm. In twenty-four hours, it would be all over. They would have struck a historic blow for the cause to which they had devoted their lives, and they would go down in history--or they would have failed, and the space race would once again be a two-horse contest.
Elspeth glanced across at him. "What will you do after tonight?"
"Leave the country." He tapped the small case in his lap. "I have everything I need--passports, cash, a few simple items of disguise."
"And then?"
"Moscow." He had spent much of the flight thinking about this. "The Washington desk at the KGB, I imagine." Anthony was a major in the KGB. Elspeth had been an agent longer--had in fact recruited Anthony, back at Harvard--and she was a colonel. "They'll give me some kind of senior advisory-consultative role," he went on. "After all, I'll know more about the CIA than anyone else in the Soviet bloc."