London, England: Feast of Sts. Philip & James, 1968

Even before he opened his eyes, Hogan knew he was in the hospital.  His ears had picked up the tell-tale beep of a heart monitor, and his nose had identified the antiseptic smell so peculiar to hospitals.  Christ! How badly hurt am I?  Or did I have a heart attack at the office?  The last thing I remember is the argument with Robbie over continued German steps towards better relations with the East, particularly the DDR.  Robbie had flown at him, demanding to know how he could even contemplate normalizing relations between those two countries?  Keep the damned Germans divided.  Dismissing the argument, Hogan opened his eyes briefly, swiftly shutting them again as the light proved too much.  Someone picked up his hand.  Hogan tried again.  Dark brown eyes met his own; Sir James Roberts, head of MI6, held his gaze--and his hand.

"Welcome back, old man."

"What the hell happened?"  Hogan's mouth felt full of cotton balls.

"KGB sniper shot you right on the office doorstep.  Unfortunately, the Earl's lot got a trifle overzealous."

"Dead?"

"Very.  But we do know who he was--Grigori Ilych Menchikov and new to Security Service eyes.  GCHQ has passed on all the information to your office, Robert."

The slightest movement, Hogan discovered, brought on waves of nausea and disorientation.

"No, old man.  I realize you're worried about your own security, but your efficient Miss Peel has already put your procedures into effect." Releasing Hogan's hand, Robbie scratched his forehead.  "In addition, there's more Security Service in this hospital, Robert, than patients.  And it did look for a few moments as if Dick Reynolds were going to have to kill a few people to get to you."

"And you've been hovering over me like a mother with a sick child," Hogan lightly accused.

"We've all taken our turn."  He harrumphed. "You've been out for a good six hours." 

Before Hogan could demand that Patrick and Renate NOT be told, Dick Reynolds walked into his room.  His lab coat didn't hide his kilt and socks, complete with dirk.  The American rolled his eyes in amazement. This'll give me the opening I need to break up this somber mood.  "Dick, has anybody told you recently that you've got chicken legs?"

The teasing insult went unanswered. "Listen, lad, before ye get enna stupid ideas, I'll have ye know that thick skull o' yers has got a nice, inch long crack from tha bullet.  Ye've got severe concussion, Rob, and ye're stayin' in hospital, if I have to bloody well sit on ye."  

The flaring accent got Hogan's attention:  Dick was really worried.  "And this?"  He indicated the heart monitor with a slight movement of his hand.  The electrodes made his chest itch.

"Ye went into atrial fibrillation for a few moments.  Yer heart settled down, but I want ye monitored for the duration of yer stay.  If it comes back, we'll have to do somethin' aboot it.  Somebody--one of yer lot most like--will be here with ye every minute of the day.  Access to ye is restricted by ma orders, only yer bairns, and only for short periods o' time."  Reynolds noted the savage glare at Robbie.  He finished his lecture. "So be a good lad, lie there quietly, and ye'll get out of here in a couple o' days.  To go home and rest for a couple o' days more.  Understand me, lad?"

"Yes, Doctor," Hogan replied submissively, his face the picture of meekness.

"Ye needn't mock me.  I'll give those two lost lambs of yers 5 minutes with ye."

Robbie moved off to the corner, and Hogan prepared himself to deal with his children.  He knew they'd be frightened, and their white faces confirmed that.  Watching Patrick hold up Renate made Hogan wish that Robbie hadn't told them.  He probably had had Dick's full support, though, and with those two in alliance, I didn't stand a chance.  Shooting one last, red-hot glare at his friend who merely raised an eyebrow in response, Hogan turned to his son and daughter.  He spoke quietly, but with confidence.  "Look, you two, I'm going to be all right.  So please, calm down and relax--for my sake."

Renate moved forward, her emerald green, almond-shaped eyes shimmering with unshed tears.  "Oh, Papa, how can you ask me to relax?  How can you be so confident?"  She took his hand in hers. 

He gripped hers strongly and watched her carefully, keeping Patrick in the corner of his eye.  His tall, lanky son towered over his daughter by eight inches.  "It'll be all right, sweetie.  Trust me."   The tears fell, blotching her peaches and cream complexion.   Her black, wavy hair, generally tied back in a short ponytail to keep Miles' eight-month old hands out of it, fell around her face in disarray.  Hogan reached up with his other hand and lightly flicked some of it off her cheek, then wiped the tears away.  "It'll be fine, mein liebchen kinder."  She only cried harder.

Patrick leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead.  "I love you, Dad."  He paused, collecting himself.  "So, do what Uncle Dick tells you, or I'll help him sit on you."  He put his arm around his plump sister, studying his father all the while. "We'll be back later, when you're feeling stronger."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"  Patrick glared at him; Robbie snorted from his corner.  "No comments from the peanut gallery, please."  He looked his son right in eye.  "My head hurts, I feel like hell, and I have no intention of going anywhere.  Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes. Now rest." 

"All right. I surrender."  He closed his eyes in submission and let himself slide into unconsciousness.  The last thing he felt was his daughter's thumb tracing a cross on his forehead.

*****

"You fool! You incompetent! You've missed twice."   Marya hissed at Raisa Ivanova. She pulled up her shoulders, splayed her hands wide.  "Admittedly, the sniper ALMOST got him, but Menchikov accomplished his ultimate failure right on MI6's doorstep. Thank you for telegraphing our intentions to our enemies.  Why didn't you just take out a neon sign in Leicester Square?"

"Who knew he was going to start sleeping with a French Socialist?  Why now after 11 years as a celibate widower?" 

Marya laughed maliciously at the whiney tone.  "Now, you understand, dahling, what I meant by unpredictability.  Who'd've guessed the sap would rise this spring?"  The false mirth ended abruptly.  "Unless you've got a very good idea on how to wrap this laughable, worthless mission up with some degree of success--as in no further loss of agents--it is over, Ivanova." 

"It's a waiting game, now, Comrade.  We know his son is going to be at an equestrian event in two weeks.  And apparently, Hogan, who has never been to see his son ride, will actually be there."  It was thin; the intelligence came from their Cambridge informer whose information tended to be uneven.  "And by waiting the two weeks, everybody should relax, get a little bored, slip up a little."

"You hope."  Marya fixed the younger woman with a predatory gaze.  "Tailing the son to get to the father is very risky.  An all or nothing throw of the dice.  For Lenin's sake, let's hope you don't roll snake eyes." There are such large holes in your plan, my dear, I could run the TransSiberian Railway through it, but we'll go with it.  "You are, of course, assuming Hogan is going to do absolutely nothing about this in the next two weeks."

"Comrade Bunitskaya, he's going to be in bed for the better part of the next two weeks.  And even if he does go back to work sooner than anticipated, there is every likelihood they will play a conservative game."

"Whatever, Ivanova.  Have it your way."  Marya dismissed Ivanova with a wave of her hand. 

The blonde left, with considerably less self-assurance than the last time. Marya lit a cigarette. You haven't learned anything from this at all.  He's going to do just what you don't expect.  That's Hogan.  She took a deep drag, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke, not liking Ivanova's plan one bit. You'd better get him, or Hell is going to look very safe for us in comparison with England, for Hogan will figure out you used his son to get to him.   Marya remembered what had happened after his wife had been accidentally killed in 1956.  I still don't understand what you saw in that woman. Or this current one, either.  Your taste, Hogan dahling, seems all in your mouth.  Within a few moments, a fog of blue tobacco smoke enveloped the moody and increasingly unhappy Russian.

*****

Waiting until the auditorium emptied, Hogan carefully picked his way to the podium. It had only been 10 days since the KGB had given him the world's worst headache, and movement still could make him queasy.  It had certainly put a damper on his long, nightly conversations with Suzanne, something he'd enjoyed since Easter.  The injury, however, hadn't kept him from attending her presentation at the Royal Society. The theoretical aspects of liquid coal had escaped him, but her ill-concealed agitation and bad humor had been all too apparent.  Leaning heavily on his cane with hands crossed on the handle, his wedding ring no longer there to pinch him, he asked quietly, when they were alone, "What's wrong, Suzanne?" 

About to snap, she checked herself, put a slender hand on his arm, and murmured hoarsely, "Robert.  How are you?  I've been so worried."

"I'm fine, darling."  Let's see if I can keep anything from Madame Docteur.  He wasn't about to admit to feeling a little dizzy.

She seemed to gather herself.  "It's been a horrendous day. The students in Paris are revolting…."

"Students everywhere are generally revolting," he quipped, knowing full well of the explosive confrontation between French university students and the French government that week.  Despite being out of the office, Hogan had seen the reports:  the pitched battles had been impressive, and it seemed likely to spread to other sectors of French society.  A general strike was a real possibility.

"That was so bad, Robert."

"Thank you. At least, it got you to smile." His eyes turned liquid. "I got the distinct impression there was more to your awful day."

Suzanne sat down at a desk and held her face in both hands. "Oh, Robert, the students have exploded for a reason--trebled class sizes, no access to facilities, remote faculty. These have been complaints for years, to which the French government has turned a deaf ear." Her pageboy bounced in indignation.

"And I'll bet you protested all of this." He sat beside her, gently drawing a hand into his own, stroking it softly.

"Mais oui. And that and certain other things have conspired to rob me of my position at the Sorbonne. I got the letter this morning. I've been terminated in the best interests of the university. No other reason."

"Steve."

"Who?"

"Etienne de Poulenac." Hogan remembered the prince's threat. I've always known what a bastard you could be, but you've really proven yourself here. Don't worry, Steve, I'll fix your bandwagon.

"You call Monseigneur le prince 'Steve'? Only you, Robert." Her shock gave way to anger. "Sacre bleu! Quel homme!"  She balled her fists. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been to be a woman in professional life in France? In political life?"

"I would imagine the second is more difficult than the first." It sounded trite to him. He stood up. "Come on. Let's take a walk."

It was a thirty minute hike to his home. The brisk night air had felt good, and for most of the stroll, he'd had an arm around Suzanne--and she'd leaned into him--as he'd listened to her vent.  But still, when he passed through the front door, he was very glad to be home.  He knew he'd pushed himself a too far.

While he poured her a brandy, she looked around the study, noting the floor to ceiling bookcases, the Victorian furniture, the window seat with the embroidered cushions. The heavy formality of the room was offset by a giant fern overflowing its stand, by a clutter of magazines, newspapers, and children's books on the coffee table, by a clutch of toys on and by the window seat, by family pictures in the bookcases. The small coal fire gave the room a warm glow. "Such a peaceful place."

Hogan handed her the snifter and sat next to her. "Not when you've got one active 3 1/2 year old racing around and/or an 8 month old screaming. Throw in two irate, adult siblings arguing with each other in Welsh and German, and you have bedlam."

She laughed. "Certainly better than a faculty meeting or a party caucus. I might as well be the 8 month old for all that anybody listens to me." Draining the brandy completely, she put the snifter among the clutter.

"Suzanne, I have listened to you for the better part of an hour now, and one thing is obvious: you're profoundly unhappy. Do want to keep banging your head against French prejudice and the Gaullist establishment? Or do you want to get on with your life? What's more important to you?"

Having gotten up to pace around the room, she stopped to examine a picture.  Hogan knew which one:   in it, he sat on a floral-patterned sofa, pressed on his right side by a skinny teenaged boy and at his left knee by a curvaceous, teenaged girl.  "Robbie took that Easter 1961.  Patrick was 13; Renate, almost 17.  She's 3 1/2 years older than her brother."

"She looks more like you than he does."

"Patrick favors his mother.  But if you saw a picture of me at the same age, you'd know he was my son."  Hogan fixed her with a penetrating gaze.  "You're ignoring my questions."

Putting the picture down, starting to pace again, she responded without looking at him. "Interesting you should ask me those questions, Robert. I've thought of nothing else for weeks now." She stopped behind his reading chair, hands on top of each wing. "And honestly, I can say that my dismissal from the Sorbonne has made things considerably easier for me."

"You ought to tell Steve that. It would drive him up a wall." The thought the prince's reaction made Hogan chuckle. Backfire! I love it. "So tell me. How so?"

"I've been offered a research fellowship with the British Academy. And membership in the Royal Society."

"Wow. That's impressive."

"Oui. It represents a lifetime achievement." Her voice took on a wistful note. "But I will have to move to Angleterre."

"There's nothing wrong with Britain. I moved here 15 years ago and haven't been back to the States for longer than a month's stay."

Her eyes widened. "Robert! How could you give up your homeland?" 

He waved a hand. "There are some personal reasons in there, things I don't care to discuss with anybody anymore, but really, my job is here, my family is here, my friends are here. I got pulled into a British orbit in January 1940 and never really got out of it. Essentially, I can thank the war for putting me here. And it's mostly been a good deal."  She came over to him, put her hands on his shoulders. Holding her waist, Hogan looked up at her, and said, in a tense voice, "Of course, if you moved to England, my love, we could be together."

"Are you asking me to marry you, Robert?"

Not missing a beat, not taking his eyes from her, he replied huskily, "Yes."

She leaned down to kiss him. After what seemed forever, Suzanne answered him. "Avec plaisir, mon cher."  They kissed again, breaking off reluctantly.  "Stop trying to keep things from me, Robert.  You can't hide your overexertion.  To bed!"  Her raised arm and pointed finger indicated the stairs.

"Yes, dear."

*****

Hogan opened his eyes and stared at the alarm clock, not that it had gone off. It read 6:10am. He was supposed to be home, on bed rest, but it hadn't changed his habit of rising early. He debated trying to go back to sleep--and with Suzanne plastered against his back, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her arm around his waist, he was sorely tempted--but decided against it. Not that he planned on going anywhere, but he didn't want to feel muzzy all day. Carefully sliding his pyjama-clad body out of bed, he gently tucked the covers around Suzanne and kissed her lightly. She needs sleep more than I do. He chuckled to himself, threw his dressing gown on, and stuck his feet in his slippers. Your head hit the pillow, sweetie, and you were gone. Softly closing the door behind him, he went in search of his first cup of coffee.

At 7:30am, Hogan called the office. He knew Mary'd be in. Her flat, American accent filled his ear. "Yeah, Boss. What do you want? You're not coming in, and that's final."

"Thank you, Dr. Kaiser." He paused to listen to the derisive snort on the other end. "Actually, I want a couple of things. One, call Le Monde and leak it anonymously to them that Prince Etienne de Poulenac has not one, but two, KGB moles in his office."

"That'll infuriate the prince."

"It'll infuriate the KGB, too, since they just got them in there. And it'll leave egg on the Surét's face. Everybody can take the comeuppance, and I can't wait to see Le Monde's crowing." Steve will be the first one to figure out what's happened, but by that time, his rump will have been nicely toasted.

"Okay, Boss. Consider it done. How's your head?"

"As hard as ever, Mary. What's on my schedule two weeks from now?"

"Nothing pressing until your son's equestrian event here in London that Saturday, and after that your annual cold."

"Well, cancel the cold and pencil in my honeymoon."

There was dead silence on the other end of the phone. After a minute or so, Mary spluttered, "Your…your…what, Boss?"

"Hot damn!  Mary, you've been my secretary for 15 years, and never once have I ever rendered you speechless. Until now. Yes, Mary, I said honeymoon. That's right, I'm getting married."

"You sure your head's all right?"

"Yes, Mary. And so's my heart. Have a good day, dear."

*****

Hogan's secretary put the receiver down in a state of stupefaction. Bernie caught her stunned look.

"Hey, babe, what's wrong?" From her face, he was sure somebody had just died.

She looked up him, her green eyes full of confusion. "Boss is getting married."

Bernie sat down hard. He ran a hand over his face as he crossed a leg over a knee. Finally, he said, "About damned time."

Mary nodded slowly. "I guess we'll have to stop calling him 'The Merry Widower' behind his back."

"He might appreciate that." Bernie looked impishly at her. "We'll find something else."

.

*****

Marya stalked around her apartment, her flowing electric blue silk lounging pyjamas whispering as she moved.  Her Russian wolfhounds, giant mounds of white fur named Boris and Natasha, watched her from their bed, the overstuffed sofa.  Le Monde, Le Figaro, The Times, and The International Herald Tribune all lay scattered on the floor.  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blew an expert smoke ring, and smiled maliciously. "Ah, Hogan dahling, a thousand hugs and kisses to you!  I don't know why you wanted to embarrass de Poulenac or the French government.  Nor do I care.  I don't even mind you destroyed 6 months' hard work by blowing our agents' cover because it will certainly have Ivanova frothing at the mouth.  And I'm going to use that to MY advantage."  She took two more deep drags on her cigarette and created a cloud of smoke around her.

She suddenly whirled around, arms outstretched, cigarette holder held wide; the wolfhounds pulled their long noses back. Their short, deep woofs redirected her attention.  "Mama's sorry, my little loves."  They watched her suspiciously, cautiously. "But you must understand, that it is rare to use Hogan for housecleaning duty."  She threw herself onto her plush chaise longue to contemplate how best to set either or both the CIA and Security Service on Little Miss Ambition.