31

  “You look distracted,” Sofia remarked, playfully reproachful. This was their fourth time seeing each other since the State of the Union reception, and Atcho had looked forward to seeing her immensely. Govorov had ruined that for him last night.

  They sat in the outside area on the roof of an elegant seafood restaurant in the middle of a busy marina on the Potomac. Atcho loved this spot. Although bustling, it was not crowded, conversation was typically light, and the tall sailboats bobbing at the docks provided a pleasant feeling of movement. The only drawback was that politicians and other powerbrokers frequented it too, for the exact same reasons.

  “I’m a bit preoccupied,” Atcho said. “I had something unexpected come up in business.” He had tried to call and cancel with Sofia but had been unable to reach her.

  She scrutinized his expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I could.” He found the feeling more genuine than he had intended to indicate. “Some things I have to take care of.” He looked at her. She had drawn back a bit. “It has nothing to do with you.” His fervor surprised even him. Careful. Don’t let your feelings run away with you. He changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”

  “Ah, changing the subject?” Sofia laughed, her green eyes flashing. “What would you like to know?”

  Atcho felt his spirits rise. Sofia had that effect on him. “Everything. We’ve spent the last three times together talking about me, the Cuban Revolution, what prison was like, and Isabel.” He stopped and squinted at her. “We haven’t talked about you at all. Am I that much of a chauvinist pig, or are you hiding a dark and lurid past?”

  The music of Sofia’s laughter raised his spirits further. “As near as I can tell, mister,” she smiled mischievously. “you are robbing the cradle. I’m about twelve years younger than you.”

  “But I’m so well-preserved,” Atcho returned, without missing a beat. They both laughed. Then Atcho became serious. “I want to know about you,” he said.

  “Thank you. I mean that sincerely.” Her face acquired a sad expression. “I should tell you first of all that I am a widow.”

  “Madre de Dios. I feel so foolish.”

  “No, no, it’s OK.” Sofia reached across and touched his hand. “Really, it’s OK.”

  “You’ve put so much into comforting me.”

  “I could, because I had been through the pain. I came out the other side, and I didn’t lose my home and my country—and I didn’t go to a dungeon.”

  They sat quietly.

  “I don’t tell many people about my husband,” Sofia said. “I loved him, and …” Her eyes brimmed, and she stopped. She collected herself, and after a moment she said, “I just thought we should get through that bit of information. It had to come out …” She caught herself, and proceeded cautiously, “if we’re going to keep seeing each other.”

  Startled, Atcho felt warmth overtake him. He sensed redness rising in his cheeks. “Are we seeing each other?”

  Sofia laughed and used a napkin to dab away her tears. “Silly man. You’ve asked me out four times. What did you think we were doing?”

  They lingered over soft-shelled crab and sparkling white wine. Sofia told Atcho that she had graduated from Yale and had married an Army officer soon after. Seven years after their wedding, he had been killed in a black ops incident that no one would talk about. “I joined the diplomatic corps just out of college, and I’ve been with it ever since.” She had been in Havana six months when she met Atcho. “I’ve served in Geneva, Madrid, and at the State Department here in Washington.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “I’m a division director in the Office of Intelligence and Research.”

  Atcho gulped and hoped his expression did not communicate sudden anxiety. “A keeper of state secrets,” he quipped. “Should you be telling me this?”

  “The organization is no secret. It’s a matter of public record. You can find me in the directory. I oversee analysts.”

  “Still, that sounds impressive. Why would you have anything to do with an old reprobate like me?”

  “A glutton for punishment, I guess.”

  Atcho loved her brilliant smile. He relaxed in a way he could not remember. With minor reluctance, he asked to see her again the following week. I can always cancel.

  As the week passed and he heard no word from Govorov, he looked forward to seeing Sofia again, and when they said their goodbyes, he asked her out again for two days later. Soon, they were together regularly. Govorov could drop dead anytime. I won’t stop living.

  Shortly after settling in Washington, Atcho had taken up flying. He loved the view from the air of the landscape below: the stately monuments of the capital city, the verdant valleys of Virginia and Maryland, and the broad blue ribbon of the Potomac wending to the Chesapeake Bay.

  One day, after they had been dating for several weeks, Atcho rented a plane and piloted Sofia through northern Virginia, across scenic Shenandoah Valley, and through the Blue Ridge Mountains. As they parted ways that evening, Atcho realized that regardless of how much time he spent with Sofia, it was never enough. As soon as he turned to leave, he felt an ache, and began to anticipate their next meeting.

  I’m in love. As soon as he thought it, he felt guilty for the implications for Sofia, and for Isabel.

  Since his daughter’s birth, his familial attention had focused on her. In effect, she had replaced his late wife in absorbing his affection. Despite the fact they had been estranged, he cared for her deeply. She is the object of the threat that Govorov holds over me. His thoughts returned to Sofia. We’ll see where this leads.

  32

  Atcho saw Isabel and Bob rarely over the next few weeks. Since their conversation at Cowan’s Irish Pub in mid-May, and as he had done regularly since the reception, he called Bob to learn how Isabel was doing.

  Today, Bob seemed unusually upbeat. “Come by the house,” he boomed. “Isabel agrees. I told her there’s no way she can keep you from your grandchild.”

  Atcho stared at the phone, unsure he had heard correctly. “What did you say?”

  Bob laughed. “You heard me, Grandpa.”

  “W-when?” Atcho stammered.

  Bob chuckled again. “The baby’s due in January. We hadn’t told you because we were afraid of another miscarriage. The doctor says everything is progressing fine.” His voice took on a serious tone. “This had a lot to do with Isabel’s outburst. We were seeing the doctor before conception, and she had scheduled a visit for a few days after the reception. She was deathly afraid he would say she could not have a baby.”

  Atcho mulled that over. “She has good reason to hate me.”

  “Don’t get morbid on me,” Bob’s voice boomed again. “You’re going to be a grandfather. Listen, General Clary just returned from a trip to Geneva and Moscow. He’s working on that arms treaty. He’s having a barbeque at his house next week and asked us to invite you. Why don’t you come, and bring Sofia with you?”

  Atcho’s head swam. He should be thrilled. This news about Isabel, welcome as it was, increased his discomfiture. And the invitation for social contacts with senior military officers brought him closer to a situation ripe for compromise.

  “Atcho? Are you there?”

  “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  “I’ll tell the general to expect you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer. Clary doesn’t know about the baby yet, so we’re going to turn the occasion into a celebration.” He paused. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. “I think you owe it to yourself and Isabel.” His voice became light again. “You might get to see another side of your daughter.”

  Atcho’s heart skipped another beat, even as Govorov’s warning about social events rang in his mind. But he could not call the general, and he could not pass up the opportunity to be with Isabel on a special occasion. Hell. Govorov will love the idea of my carousing with top military brass.

  “OK, we’ll be there.”

  Sofia was elated at the news of Isabel’s pregnancy and by the invitation. “That’s great,” she said, but she sensed he had reservations. “There’s no way you can’t go to this party. It’ll be great for you and Isabel to enjoy something together that you’re both happy about. Bob wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

  Atcho realized with trepidation that he and Sofia were now a couple. They had developed an emotional attachment—to the extent that she feels comfortable commenting on my family affairs. I’m a fool.

  33

  “Welcome.” General Clary clasped Atcho’s hand. “Sorry I wasn’t here to see you honored by the president. That was well deserved. I’ve seen the tapes.” He turned to greet Sofia. “Bob told me about you,” he said graciously. “I can see he didn’t exaggerate.” He turned back to Atcho, “congratulations on the baby. I’m thrilled.”

  A plump woman greeted them. Her brown hair was cut short, she wore a wide, friendly smile, and she exuded a festive demeanor. “Congratulations on the grandchild. I’m so happy for you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Peggy, Paul’s wife. Let’s get you outside to the food and drinks. Bob and Isabel are already out there.”

  The house was spacious and comfortable, with soft, well-upholstered sofas and chairs, and finely carved dining-room furniture. It seemed to reflect Peggy’s personality.

  As they went out the door to the backyard, a petite teenage girl entered. “This is my pride and joy,” Peggy exclaimed and threw an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “This is Chrissy.” Her eyes sparkled with pride. “People think she looks like me.”

  “Mom,” Chrissy protested. She accepted the show of affection with humor and continued through the door.

  “That’s National Merit Scholarship material,” Peggy enthused.

  Atcho caught himself thinking about the general’s family. Oddly, he had never perceived of Clary in a family setting. He chuckled.

  A whiff of hot coals and barbequed beef wafted on the air. In the backyard, guests had gathered. Atcho noted several senior military officers and a few well-known political figures. He saw Bob and Isabel talking with friends in a vine-covered gazebo near the grill. He looked at Sofia. “This might be a cold reception.

  Seeing them, Bob started toward them. Isabel looked up. When her gaze met Atcho’s, she held it nervously, and then smiled. “Hello, Papá.”

  Atcho felt a slight thrill. He thought he had heard warmth in her tone.

  Isabel took Atcho by the arm and excused herself from the others. When they were alone, she said, “I’m so sorry. Bob told me about your conversation.”

  “That’s in the past,” Atcho said, touching her cheek. He started to guide her back toward the other guests.

  She touched his arm. “Wait a moment, please.” She fought emotion. “I don’t understand everything that’s happened, and I know you’ve been through incredible pain. I want to say that you’re welcome in our house anytime. My baby needs a grandfather—and I need my father.”

  Mindful of where they were, Atcho slipped his arms around her waist and hugged her tightly. “I love you, Isabel,” he whispered.

  After a few minutes, they made their way back to the party, Clary approached. “Atcho, how about a drink?” They headed for the bar while Sofia returned to her husband.

  “Bob says you’re quite a pilot,” Clary said as he walked with Atcho. “He mentioned you’ve worked your way up to small private jets.”

  “It’s a hobby. I recently soloed in a jet. I do it to keep busy in my off hours.”

  “That’s great,” Clary said. “We should fly together. I’ve kept up my private license over the years, too.” He grinned sheepishly. “The Air Force wouldn’t let me fly their planes because of my eyes.”

  Atcho tensed. The general invited friendship, precisely what Atcho hoped to avoid. But there was no plausible reason to refuse. “Sure,” he said simply. He would excuse himself later.

  “Good.” Clary clapped a hand on Atcho’s shoulder and steered him toward a group of men.

  Atcho regarded them with growing dismay. He recognized each of them. They were all generals.

  “Gentlemen,” Clary said. “Meet my new flying buddy.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” one tall, lean general said. “I’m Joe McKesson.” Atcho shook his hand. This was the chief of staff of the Army.

  “I’m Carl,” another said. “I saw you at the State of the Union address. This is really a privilege.” Carl Fox was the national security advisor.

  In the circle were other men of equal stature, all complimentary and friendly.

  Atcho accepted their comments dutifully, and laughed along with jokes and conversation, but he was careful not to invite further familiarity.

  Despite the uneasiness of socializing in such high-powered company, the afternoon passed well. Someone asked Clary about his opinion on Soviet sincerity in peace overtures. Was an arms-reduction treaty realistic? If an accord were reached, would the secretary-general of the Soviet Communist Party sign the agreement?

  Careful to indicate that he could not state an opinion based on classified information, Clary responded vaguely. “I can only say that if the president did not believe in what we are pursuing, he would not have us spending so much time on it. He’s the guy who invoked the Russian proverb: Doveryai, nye proveryai. Trust, but verify.”

  Atcho avoided active participation in the discussions despite his interest. As the sun waned, he nudged Sofia. “It’s time to go.”

  She nodded. They thanked their hosts and said goodnight to Bob and Isabel.

  34

  Sofia sat quietly as they drove to her apartment. After a while, she slid close to Atcho and placed her head on his shoulder. “This has been a wonderful afternoon. I’m glad that Isabel warmed up to you.” Her face took on an inquisitive expression. “General Clary is the man who came to see you in Havana, isn’t he?”

  Atcho chuckled and nodded. “He was pretty upset with me then.”

  “I know. I heard several versions of the story.”

  Atcho glanced at her curiously.

  After a few moments, she said, “One thing I’ve wondered about. Why was that picture left behind in the square in Havana?”

  “What?” Atcho asked absently.

  “The picture of Isabel found in the square the night you tried to rescue her. Why was it there?”

  An almost imperceptible warning buzzed at the back of Atcho’s mind. “What do you mean?”

  “The kidnappers had Isabel in the Jeep with them when they came to the rendezvous, so the photograph served no purpose. From what I hear, the picture was new. If it had been dropped in the square, wouldn’t it have been smudged or wrinkled? Why didn’t one of the local officials find it?”

  As Atcho contemplated the question, the warning faded. Sofia’s observations caught his interest, but details of the episode were buried in memory. They seemed to have little to do with his current situation. He shrugged. “You might have a point.”

  When they arrived at the curb in front of Sofia’s town house, Atcho cut the engine and put his arm around her shoulder. Sofia kissed him lightly. “Would you come in for a while? There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

  Atcho searched her face but found no indication of what she wanted to say. As they moved up the walkway, he sensed a mental warning again. She’s going to end this. Hell. Now is as good a time as any.

  As he entered the town house, the scent of fresh flowers greeted him. The home was decorated in a contemporary country motif, complemented by fine pieces of Old World charm. Atcho looked around as he settled onto a sofa.

  On the other side of the room, Sofia poured two glasses of wine and put on soft music. She crossed the room, handed one of the glasses to Atcho, and sat next to him.

  Atcho’s heart pounded. They clinked glasses. “Cheers.”

  Sofia sighed, acquired a matter-of-fact expression, and placed her glass on a low table in front of them.

  Here it comes. “What is it?”

  “I haven’t known you long,” Sofia said. “On the other hand, I’ve known you for about seven years.”

  “That’s true.”

  Sofia struggled for words. “People care for you. But you don’t have close friends.”

  “Go on,” he said, his expression blank. Where is this going?

  Noting his expression, Sofia hesitated. “I’m not doing this well.” She placed her hands on Atcho’s arm. “I’ll tell you straight out. I love you, Atcho. I’ve loved you since we were together at the Swiss Embassy in Havana. I had never seen a man with such character, strength, and compassion, who hurt so much. Your sorrow haunted me. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I worried when you didn’t come back to the embassy and looked for you every day.”

  Shock registered on Atcho’s face.

  Realizing that she rambled, Sofia stopped. Tears ran down her face. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I was going to tell you. I think you should know how I feel so you’ll understand what I’m trying to say.” She wiped her eyes. “Atcho, you are both an open book and a mystery.”

  Stunned, Atcho sat in silence. “What does that mean?”

  Sofia gripped his arm. “You’re a well-educated man of strong character, demonstrably courageous, and a leader that others follow willingly. You’re intelligent, hard-working, compassionate, and comfortable with social graces. You live in a free country where you’ve become wealthy, and the highest office in the land honored you. Your relationship with your daughter was strained, but it’s been warmer than between many parents and their children. And we both know that you could have any woman in the country.

  “Despite all that, you carry sadness around, and you won’t let anyone get close to you.”

  Atcho went to pour a fresh glass of wine. His hand trembled. “Why are you saying these things?” He tried to sound angry, but he was too dumbfounded.

 

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