London, England: Feast of St. Dunstan, 1968
"Oh, Rennie, calm down. Quit fussing. Just behave as if this were another Sunday dinner. God knows it will be soon enough."
Patrick leaned against the doorjam, his nephew Miles ensconced on his hip. The baby clung like a leech. He felt his sister's eyes rake him. From her narrow-eyed, tense face, he knew she was ready to scream. She liked the quiet Sunday dinner with their father. It was anything but quiet tonight. Dad had dropped his bombshell that he planned to marry Suzanne and then had asked to bring her along. So now everything, in his sister's mind, was fraught with tension. Patrick sighed, knew that Rennie's high emotions has contributed to her fight with her husband Paul and probably even to Nigel's being naughty and willful.
"Funny, Patrick, very funny. Can't you get Miles to sleep?" she asked curtly. The potatoes began to boil over. "Verdammt!" she swore. The steam catching her as she reached over the pot to turn down the heat.
"Hey, Paul and I don't have Dad's magic touch." He wiped Miles' runny nose with a handkerchief. "Speaking of Paul, he's outside in the garden talking a smoke." His brother-in-law's pipe tobacco wafted a rich and aromatic plum, but it was too strong for indoors. "What's so pressing that you had to have my moral support?"
"What do you think, dumkopf? Papa is bringing his fiancée to dinner."
Patrick noted, with some amusement, that Renate always called their father Papa, never Dad. Oh, well, each to her own. "So? Big deal. Dad called me a week ago to tell me this, figuring I'd still be up at Cambridge. I think the idea was for Suzanne to meet us separately, so she wouldn't feel too overwhelmed. Remember, she's not a mum."
"I know that. It's part of what makes me nervous. How's she going to deal with Nigel and Miles? But what upsets me more is the speed with which this took place. Doesn't that bother you?"
Patrick sat down at the breakfast table and secured his nephew firmly in his lap before replying. "Look, Dad met this lady 25 years ago, during the war. They've renewed their acquaintance. Clearly, there were sparks then, and they've burst into flame now. I think you should remember that given their ages, they don't have time to waste. And no doubt, his recent injury reminded him of that." It certainly brought me up sharp. He read the profound skepticism in her face, her eyes. "Rennie, Dad's been lonely and unhappy since Mummy died. If Suzanne makes him happy, then I'm for it. In fact, I think it's about time HE remembered that he's a man and in need of love."
"Aren't you afraid that Suzanne will try to take your mother's place?"
"She can't. That may be part of why Dad's waited so long to remarry. So both of us would be old enough not to resent a new wife. Really, all Suzanne is going to be is Dad's wife. She's not going to be a stepmother." He cocked an eyebrow at his sister. "Rennie, what's really driving this?"
Only the plopping and bubbling sounds of food cooking answered. Finally, Rennie spoke, her voice faint to Patrick's ears.
"It makes me miss Mama all the more."
He caught all of the unspoken thought. If your mum were alive, then maybe, just maybe, you could have your parents together, like I had mine for awhile. I don't blame you because I do understand: I'd bloody well like Mummy back, too. He replied softly, "I know. But let's wish our father well. He deserves some happiness. Right?"
It took her a moment, but she agreed. "Right."
A knock at the door turned both their heads. "Will you get that, Patrick?" She wiped her hands on her apron, saying, "I'll take the little monster, if you want."
"No. Let Suzanne find out what being grandmama is all about." He gave his sister a puckish grin. She giggled back.
*****
Bare-chested, Hogan sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. Between his grandchildren's unwillingness to mind or sleep and his daughter's uncertainty--he'd had to reassure her that Suzanne wouldn't come between them--Sunday dinner had been an overwhelming affair. Compounding the tension had been Paul and Suzanne's argument over ICI's inadequate environmental policies. Suzanne is sure to ditch me and flee to France. He tossed his socks on top of the wingtips. Standing up to take his trousers off, Hogan watched Suzanne in her long, rose silk and lace nightgown flit past him. He got his belt unfastened before asking her, "Well?"
"Well, what?" She picked up her brush and gave several quick strokes to her hair.
"You know what I mean. Were you completely overwhelmed by the family?" He stepped into his pyjama trousers, pulled them snug at the waist, and reached for the jacket. "Suzanne, I didn't intend for you to meet everybody all at once. And the kids were supposed to have been in bed." Nigel had been, but upon hearing his grandfather's voice, had come barreling out to demand Granddad read to him. After two Winnie the Pooh stories, Miles had had to be soothed, and that had taken some effort--even for Granddad.
She smiled at him as she pulled her side of the bed down. "No, Robert." As he looked askance at her, she ruefully confessed, "All right, just a bit. Once your daughter got over her nervousness and realized I don't bite, she was very charming."
"Renate is a good German hausfrau." Hogan knew what had driven her to making it her life's ambition: stability and security. And while Paul isn't terribly exciting, he's certainly stable.
"And your son, well, I don't think I phased him at all."
"Nah. It's hard to ruffle him." Not impossible, though. His temper is pretty impressive when roused. I should know; I've been on the receiving end of it. "He's going make a good doctor. He's got the personality for it." Gingerly, he climbed into the pencil-post bed. He'd replaced the four poster he'd shared with Miri not long after she'd died. There'd been no way to sleep in it any longer. "About the only thing Patrick's ticked off about is that we're getting married at the Registry Office, and not in church."
"Your children are Catholic?"
"No. Actually, Renate is Lutheran, though I think she goes with Paul to the Methodist Church these days. Patrick was supposed to be Catholic, but ended up Anglican because his godparents--Robbie and Judith--are. And this is in spite of the fact that he went to Catholic school for 12 years. Or maybe that had something do with it. I don't know." Forgive me, Miri, but I couldn't get over the hypocrisy of going to Mass when I don't believe. What kind of lesson would that have been for Patrick? "Technically, I'm the only one in this family who's Catholic, but I lapsed years ago. Last Mass I went to was my brother Ted's requiem."
"Oh, Robert."
Settled against his pillows, a book open in his lap, Hogan looked over to her, over his half-eye reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Don't tell me you're upset about not getting married in church?"
"Non. I'm an atheist." Her wire-rimmed half-eyes sat on her nose as she faced him. "I didn't know about your brother. I'm so sorry." Le Monde and Le Figaro lay spread across her legs.
Softly, he told her, "It was not unexpected, Suzanne. He'd been in bad health for several years, and the heart attack, his third, took him very quickly." Hogan sighed deeply, ignoring the lingering grief. "We'll go to Connecticut later this year to see my sister Maggie." I refuse to tell her tonight about Maggie's breast cancer. I'm just going to blot that out for now. "All right, the final question: what do you want the grandkids to call you. You'd better think about this because they aren't going to be allowed to call you Suzanne."
She bit her lower lip—which Hogan found charming. "What do I want to be called? I've not given this any thought. Being instant grandmother is a bit daunting." She inhaled, exhaled sharply. "I suppose the English is Grandma." He nodded. "But I think Patrick had it better. Grandmama."
"Okay, Grandmama, you've got it." He kissed her and tried to read a bit. Giving up, he tossed the book and his glasses on the bedside table, switched off the light, and settled down to sleep.
Within a few minutes, gentle snoring reached Suzanne's ears. She continued to read, fascinated by the public embarrassment of Prince Etienne de Poulenac. The rhythmic snoring began to have a tranquilizing effect. With a yawn, Suzanne laid the newspapers and her glasses on the floor and turned out the light. She nestled against Hogan, wrapping an arm around his chest, catching his hand in hers.
*****
A man, of average height and stocky build, dropped the body of the CIA agent assigned to watch the Hogan house. Moving on, he carefully neutralized the alarm system before picking the lock to the back door. Creeping slowly forward on crepe-soled shoes, the intruder flicked on his flashlight, pulled out his gun, silencer attached. He tiptoed through the kitchen to the hallway. Glancing up the stairs to where his target lay sleeping, the prowler heard only the house settle. He glided to the study where he sighed. Ordered to make this look like a murder during theft, the man wondered how he was going to accomplish this. Making that much noise just went against the professional grain. The door to the study was open. With the flashlight, he took stock of the room. He pulled books and pictures off their shelves, hurled them to the floor. He swept papers off the desk.
Frightened from his Tiffany lamp perch, GDP gave a loud squawk and flew past the intruder for the kitchen. As the wings brushed his forehead, the man let out a matching shriek.
*****
Upstairs, the noise woke Suzanne. Parbleu! It's that damned parrot. Robert, that wretched bird has got to go! I don't care if it is Patrick's pet! It goes! She climbed out of bed, throwing a disgusted look at Hogan, who hadn't so much as twitched. She didn't bother with her kimono before heading for the kitchen where she found GDP sitting on the back of a breakfast table chair.
"Come on, you annoying creature. Back where you belong. Why do you have to prove you can get out whenever you want? Why can't you stay in like a good bird?" She shooed the parrot back into his cage and firmly latched it.
Turning go back to bed, she heard noise from the study. Suzanne grabbed the porcelain-covered, cast-iron sauté pan from the dish drainer and went to investigate. Carefully, in trepidation, she slunk into the study, stayed close to the wall, but kept her weapon raised. A flashlight in the eyes blinded her even as she screamed and swung simultaneously. The sauté pan connected with the side of the prowler's head as he squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild, shattering the window.
*****
The scream and shot woke Hogan who came pounding down the stairs to find a dazed, but uninjured Suzanne standing over the body of the intruder. After settling her on the sofa with a generous portion of brandy and wrapping her in the crocheted afghan, he made a couple of phone calls. Within an hour, Hogan's house was filled with people, not least of whom where Sir James Roberts and the Earl of Suffolk, the head of MI5.
Hogan, dressing gown untied, handed a bleary-eyed Robbie a cup of tea. The Englishman accepted it gratefully even as the Earl declined, more interested in the unconscious man on the floor. The mellifluous voice carried surprisingly well. "I'm sorry about the disruption of your rest, Brigadier, but you've a prize catch--Vladimir Kornilov. How'd he get so far?"
Robbie looked at Hogan and mouthed, barely audible, "Trust his lordship to cut to the heart of the matter, old son."
Shrugging slightly at his friend, Hogan, who hated the Earl's practice of referring to him by his army rank, answered the carelessly dressed aristocrat. "He apparently decoyed--with help no doubt--your surveillance team and attacked my man. He shut down the alarm system and picked the lock." And Peter Newkirk would have done a better job, too. "It appears the game plan was to make it look like an ordinary murder during theft."
"That makes no sense. The KGB has already tried twice to kill you, in rather more grandiose fashion. Why this simple ploy now, when we still know it's them?"
"Desperation, my lord?"
"Possibly, Sir James, but unlikely. Your opinion, Brigadier?"
Hogan kept his voice carefully neutral. "None at this moment. My agent, Robert McCall, is still unconscious. I'll know more after I hear from him."
Suffolk merely lifted an eyebrow.. Hogan read his mind: You know I've got ideas, but you know I'm not saying. Very well. You'll respect my silence--until it becomes necessary to have my knowledge.
"Did our friend here," Suffolk prodded the now groggy agent with a toe, "say anything?"
"Oui," answered a new voice, "before he lost consciousness, he mumbled something. I think it was Russian. All I got was Ivanova."
Hogan watched Suffolk turn to Suzanne, didn't care for the way the earl's ice blue eyes swept Suzanne who'd been silently sitting on the sofa, brandy snifter between her hands.
"Madame," he acknowledged.
"Curiouser and curiouser," muttered Hogan under his breath.
Suffolk fixed Hogan with a penetrating glance. Hogan said nothing, returned a level stare. The earl said casually, "I'll take my leave of you, Brigadier, and if you don't mind, I'll relieve you of this miscreant."
"Knock yourself out."
After Suffolk and his prisoner, carted out by two MI5 agents, left, Robbie breathed a sigh of relief. Hogan, equally eased, went over to Suzanne, gently picked her up. "I need to talk to Robbie for a little while, so why don't you go back to bed, sweetie." Stroking her arms, he felt her body tremble. "I promise I won't be long." He kissed her forehead and then her lips.
"D'accord, Robert." She pulled the afghan around her.
"Good night, my dear." Robbie shook his head, adding lightly, "Remind me not to anger you. I've no desire to be knocked about the pate with a sauté pan."
"He leaves that to Judith." Suzanne's smile widened as she left the study. Hogan closed the door to the study and turned to his old friend. "All right, spill. What do you think?"
"I think what you told his lordship was utter tripe. By the way, you didn't fool him."
"Nor did you, Robbie." Hogan shoved his hands in his dressing gown's pockets. "He knows I've got ideas, but he can't put the screws to me. "
"Technically, he can't put them to me, either." He held up a hand. "We both know that law has never truly restrained him. Marya?"
"Yeah, but she's got her own agenda--and I doubt my death is part of it."
"A little factional rivalry within the KGB?'
"Politburo spillage. We both know that Brezhnev is the number one voice."
"He controls the party, even if Kosygin is premier."
"Kosygin isn't going to be premier long. Czechoslovakia is going to make sure of that. The liberal purge has taken out most of Antonin Novotny's conservative clique. Dubček's got spine; his free expression, Western-oriented regime is not playing ball the way the hardliners, like Brezhnev, want. One high ranking military officer has already suggested using military force. They'll use it; it's only a question of when."
"Hungary all over again." Robbie sat down, made a face as he drained his lukewarm tea. He'd seen MI6's version of that report. "All right, Robert, where does this assassination plan fit? I don't see how killing you makes their life easier. If anything, it will infuriate your government, fuel the Suffolk's overzealous interpretation of his mission statement, making their lives nearly impossible, and generally heighten tensions among us."
"Exactly. That's why it's not Marya. This little stage-play this evening was for my benefit." At Robbie's raised eyebrow, he continued. "Look, this whole thing was a set-up, a phony attempt. For whatever reason, she wanted to get rid of Kornilov. She made sure he spilled the beans about the real force behind the attempt to kill me because she wants me to take care of this person. I suggest that Marya is trying to save herself and/or keep the balance stable." Marya's got a brain in her head; she knows damned well, as does Aleksei Kosygin, whom I suspect she covertly supports, that there's plenty wrong with the Soviet economy. And that is where power these days really lies.
"And you're the pawn…or the charwoman?"
"I resent the hell out of either position. However, if the person behind this, our mysterious Ivanova, is one of Brezhnev's little minions, then we could expect her to take an intractable stance--if she stepped into Marya's shoes. Therefore, it's in our interests to do Marya's bidding. And that's what I hate the most."
"And Andropov, our charming KGB head? Suppose Ivanova is his girl? For all you know, Marya's real goal is to remove Ivanova, thus ridding herself of a hated rival, while at the same time carrying out Ivanova's mission of killing you and garnering the glory and the salvation for herself."
Hogan shuddered. "A distinct possibility, Robbie, but I really do think this is more along the lines of blocking factional fallout and keeping things at the status quo ante. Marya's always been a survivor. And her survival is best guaranteed by nothing changing too much. But there's one thing that Ivanova, Brezhnev, Andropov, and the rest need to understand."
"What's that?"
"I have no intention of kicking the bucket any time soon. I plan to die in my own bed at a very old age."
"I hope you can pull it off, old man."
"Don't worry, Robbie, I will. But I'm going to need a little help from my good friend, the earl of Suffolk."
The Englishman's dark eyes widened before he burst out laughing. "Only you, Robert, would use the earl for your own ends," he choked out between gales.
*****
An hour or so after the head of MI6 went home, ostensibly to bed, Hogan desultorily picked up the mess in the study. His brain turned over various schemes of getting the earl do what he wanted. Nothing he really liked presented itself--largely because the pain radiating from his hip clouded his thoughts. He was beginning to pay for the run down the stairs. "Aw, to hell with it," he muttered after setting a battered picture back on the shelf. "I'll finish this later." Turning out the lights, he headed upstairs where he almost collided with his blinking son.
Clad only his Jockey shorts, Patrick looked really pathetic and starved. Hogan could count the ribs from a distance of three feet. The tangled mop of salt and pepper hair only added to the effect. Hogan stared at him dumfoundedly. "Good grief, Patrick! You wake up now, after all the hoopla?"
"The light woke me up." He scratched his abdomen. "So what happened?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just that the KGB broke in, trashed the study, and took a shot at Suzanne, scaring the hell out of her."
"Oh, okay," Patrick mumbled at his father.
Forcibly turning his son around, Hogan marched the young man into his bedroom, a disaster area in its own right. "You're hopeless. Go back to sleep." He waited until Patrick had crawled back under the duvet before leaving. Shaking his head, he retreated to his own bed. A Saturn booster could lift off from next to your head, kid, and you wouldn't wake up.
