WHere Have All the Flowers Gone?

by Kate Browne

All the gang's come to a 25th anniversary reunion in Britain--as has an old headache who wants Hogan's help. Can the Heroes pull off one last, desparate escape?

2. East Anglia June 1969

East Anglia, England: June 1969

The men threw their cards on the table in dismay and disgust.  Peter Newkirk raked in the chips. 

"You may've grown older, Peter, but you haven't changed a bit.  You could bluff the Queen out of her socks," muttered James Kinchloe.  He ran a hand over his silver-white hair.

"Now, mate, I'd never do that," replied the Cockney. "It'd be treason.  'Er Majesty can keep 'er socks.  The PM's another matter. I'd take old Wilson, no question there."  He paused a moment, before adding, "I wouldn't give 'im any but long odds in the general election."

"Still a bookie, mon guerrier?" asked LeBeau.  "All we need to make this complete is mon colonel, the Boche, and of course, the delectable Marya."  He looked around.  "So where is Colonel 'Ogan?  He should've been here by now." 

"Quit your worryin' about the colonel.  'E'll make it."  Newkirk kept his own concern under wraps.  The colonel'd been exhausted every time he'd been in the Major's Folly.  I wish 'e'd retire.  The poor man'd be a damned sight 'appier 'ome playin' with 'is grandkids, hinstead of galvanting back and forth between London and Washington.

Kinch cut across Newkirk's thoughts.  "Oh, come on, Louis.  How can you be so gullible?  And after all this time, too? If there was one person don't want to see again it's that Russian woman.  Trouble followed her like a faithful dog."  He shook his head. "I ought to tell your wife.  What would Anaïs say?"

"Tell her what you like. Anaïs is French; she understands these things."

"Well, I don't," declared Andrew Carter who nervously rose from his seat, knocking the table with his thigh, sloshing everybody's beer.  "I'm going to call Mady."

"That'll be the third time today, mate," moaned Newkirk. 

LeBeau muttered to Kinch, "You had to endure this all the way here?"  He shook his hands in front of him and whistled as Kinch nodded in confirmation.

"There's something wrong with being concerned about your daughter?  You don't know anything. You guys aren't grandfathers."  He spun around, coming face to face with Robert Hogan.

"Well, I am, and I think you're carrying on a bit much." 

He gave the pharmacist a broad grin and then warmly shook hands with everyone; Louis added a kiss on each cheek. 

"Sorry I'm late.  I had to get my wife to the airport and then stopped for tea with Crittendon."  They all groaned.  "Hey, I'll be the first to admit the man was a disaster as an officer, but as an amateur botanist and gardener, he's fantastic."

"Geraniums, n'est-ce pas?" LeBeau shuddered.

"Yeah, geraniums."  Rolled eyes.  "You should see his roses.  They're gorgeous. He developed a rosebush named for Miriam.  Deep red, velvet-like petals."

"That geezer must be older than Methuselah," opined Newkirk.

"At 72, he's in better shape than you are, my friend."  Hogan reached over, took away the Englishman's cigarette, and stubbed it out.  "You'd think after a heart attack, you'd quit." 

Kinch and LeBeau swivelled to stare at the Englishman.  He ignored it, but didn't light up.

Carter started to head for the lobby of the Victorian Gothic hotel.  "I don't care want anybody says.  I'm still calling."

"Andrew, don't go believin' the colonel.  'E was a ruddy basket case when the first one was born.  And you should've seen 'im three weeks ago when the twins were born.  Blimey!  You'd've thought 'e'd been shelled." Hogan did a slow burn.  The Englishman returned a broad, sunny smile, appearing completely unfazed.

"How many grandchildren have you got, colonel?" asked a surprised Kinch. 

"Four.  And one on the way. Patrick never listens to me.  A new husband and a new father in the same year. Idiot child."

Distracted from his own mission, Carter asked, "You've got pictures?"

"'Ellfire, Andrew, did you 'ave to go askin' that?" 

Hogan smiled at the publican, sat down and pulled out his wallet.  "You'll be happy to know, Peter, that Suzanne pruned my wallet before I left."  

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"Thank Gawd."

"Love you, too, Peter."  He turned to Carter.  "Here you are." 

He produced a modest stream of plastic covered photos.  He identified each child and grandchild to them.  They all remarked on how much Patrick resembled his mother, how much Renate took after her Uncle Chris. 

Carter shook his head, as he passed pictures of his wife and three daughters around.  "Nigel, Miles, Sebastian, and Alastair.  General, what's your daughter got against Tom, Dick, and Harry?  Annie and Ken have decided on Mary if it's a girl, which Annie says it is, or John if it's a boy.  I'll probably call him Jack."

"Three daughters?  And each one a 'eartbreaker?  I don't henvy you, mate. That's three weddings to pay for!"  Kinch and LeBeau chuckled.

"It's not my daughter."  Hogan shrugged, ignoring Newkirk's interruption.  "It's my son-in-law.  He's named all his sons for relatives, including his father, who died during the war.  I understand.  I named Patrick that way; if I'd had another son, he'd've been Kevin Michael Timothy, for my father." 

He added, "It's a good thing Paul's out of dead relatives because Renate has sworn she's having no more children.  The twins were quite a surprise."

Carter bounced back up.  "I'm going to call Mady."  And this time, he managed to get to the lobby--and a phone.

Hogan looked at his men.  "What's going on? I thought we had avoided Annie's due date."

Kinch exhaled sharply before explaining.  "Annie's overdue.  And Mady's fed up with Andrew's anxiety. So when he said he wasn't coming, she phoned me in Detroit, told me what was going on, and insisted that Andrew come.  She drove him all the way to Minneapolis to make sure he got on the plane; I met up with him in Detroit.  I had to shepherd him the rest of the way.  Now, it's your turn."  His dark eyes swept them all.

"Oh, brother," groaned Hogan.  He spotted the cards in Newkirk's hands.  "Deal."

*****

"Louis, you've outdone yourself."  Hogan patted his stomach as he rose from the table.  "If I keep eating like this, I'm going to gain 10 pounds."

"No kidding," groaned Kinch. 

"'Ere, 'ow'd you get the chef to let you 'ave 'is kitchen?"

LeBeau answered smugly, "Professional secret."  He smiled serenely at the exchange of glances and derisive noises between Carter and Newkirk.

They adjourned to the balcony for port and the cigars that Hogan had brought.  Kinchloe appreciatively blew smoke rings into the slight chill of evening.  A relaxed, gentle smile split his face; he thoughtfully glanced over to Hogan, who savored his own cigar.  "Where did you get such fine cigars?  I haven't tasted anything this good in years."

"You haven't tasted anything this good since the Bay of Pigs."  The Americans blinked.  "Yep, they're the finest Cuban cigars that you can't get in the States anymore."  Carter stared at his as if it would bite him.

Hogan blew smoke straight up.  "And you can get 'em--if you have friends in the right places."

LeBeau purred, "I don't care where you got them, mon colonel.  Ils sont magnifiques." 

Kinch cocked an eyebrow at his former CO who worked his mouth around for a couple of seconds before confessing, "Marya gives me a box every Christmas."

Holding his cigar carefully, LeBeau hugged himself, dreamy expression softening his face.  "Ah, what a woman.  I wish she were here."

Trying to run interference, Kinch asked, "What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" 

"Shssh!" Hogan hissed, giving the little Frenchman a hard look.  "She might hear you."  And then to Kinch, "We're visiting an old air base."

Carter opened his mouth to speak, but Marya cried,"Hogan dahling!" 

The CIA chief cringed as the Russian charged through the open French doors, white silk chiffon gown and duster following expansively behind her.  She reached him, hugged him at the waist, took his cigar and puffed on it.

She then noticed LeBeau giving her sheeps' eyes.  "Ah my delicious small one!"  Leaving Hogan for the moment, she swept up the Frenchmen into a tight embrace.

Making a strangled noise, Hogan murmured, "She heard you."  He looked over to Kinch leaning on the wrought iron chair, eyeing the Russian with evident distaste.  Carter and Newkirk had moved toward the potted plants, apparently to plot tossing her off the balcony.  They chattered quietly, punctuating their remarks with fingers stabbed at her. Hogan interrupted her lovefest with LeBeau by bluntly asking, "What the hell do you want, Marya?  This is a private reunion."

Marya Sergeivena Bunitskaya gave him a wickedly humorous glance under hooded eyes. Her lips pursed expectantly, giving Hogan  shivers. 

"Dahling, you know there's no such thing as privacy in our business.  I mean, after all, I know how both your wives were and are screamers.  Of course, you're not so bad yourself for making noise. Even at your advanced age." 

"You bugged my bedroom," he shot, each word a bullet.  "And you're as old as I am; I just wear it better."

"Not your bedroom, dahling. Your bed."  She let go of LeBeau to put her hands on her hips, to cock her head.  "However, those years of celibacy made that bug worthless.  Nothing.  Just nothing.  You didn't even talk in your sleep," she breathed, ignoring his crack about her age.  She turned back to LeBeau, running her hand through the Frenchman's iron-gray hair. 

In a fit of real anger–jaw set, eyes blazing–Hogan grabbed Marya's arm and spun her around to face him and demanded, "All right, Marya, what the hell is it?  You wanted my attention.  You've got it," he barked.

Marya laughed, shrugging his hand from her arm.  "I couldn't miss your reunion."  She thwacked his chest with the back of her hand.  "We had such fun together, Hogan, that I just had to join the party."

"Speak for yourself, lady."  Kinch crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a stubborn, immovable visage.

"I'm so glad you're here, Marya," cooed LeBeau.  "I had wished you here."

"And so I am, my small one. Your wish is my command."  She took his cigar, puffing and savoring eagerly.  "The Cubans make good cigars."

"Oh, you two deserve each other," remarked Hogan dryly to the odd couple.  He moved over to Kinch, who'd been joined by Carter and Newkirk.  None of them were happy at her appearance.  "How the hell did we get so lucky?"

"Could be worse, general," answered Carter.

"Right.  Old 'Ochstetter could bloody turn up," added Newkirk, half-turning his head.

Hogan rolled his eyes upward before resting his forehead in his palm.  Kinch clapped him on the back in weary understanding.

*****

Carter, in nightshirt and robe, mournfully stared out the window of the lounge. Hogan, restless himself, walked in and immediately noticed the stiff, awkward body. "You're up late, Andrew."

The lanky North Dakota native jumped, snapping, "So are you, general."

"I just got off the phone with Suzanne."

"It's 2am.  Isn't that a little late to be calling your wife?"

"It would be if she were in London, but she's in Boston for an academic conference. It's a five hour difference."  Hogan sat down, pulled the ends of his dressing gown over his knees.  "What's wrong, Andrew?  Mady give you bad news?"

"No.  Okay, yeah, I'm worried about Annie.  What's wrong with that?  Is there something wrong with wanting to be with your family?  Caring about them?"

Each question drove Hogan a little further back into his chair.  Rarely had he ever seen Carter so upset. "There's nothing wrong with it," he answered firmly, but smiled wryly.  "Unless we carry it too far and become smothering.  Something my daughter has accused me of every time she's had a baby."  He

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chuckled softly.

The sound lightened the atmosphere.  "I just don't get the guys," Carter admitted.  "They talk about marriage as if it were a disaster.  I love being married."

"For Newkirk, it was.  Two lousy marriages and two bitter divorces.  Now a rocky relationship with Ginger."   At Carter's questioning face, he went on, "Ginger and Newkirk've been shacking up for 5 years  now.  She throws him out and takes him back on a regular basis.  He's a real yoyo."  Hogan scratched his ear.  "I think he's on the outs now."

"I guess the only woman he really loved was Sister Raphael."

"I wouldn't say that.  I think he genuinely loves Ginger; they just have a tough time living together." 

Hogan didn't like to think about the young nun who'd rescued Newkirk back in 1944, who'd been up to her wimple in resistance work.  She'd gone missing in a bombing raid on Hammelburg.  He assumed she'd been killed; he'd never heard anything to the contrary.  And he never spoke of the nun to the Englishman.

"You know what else I've been thinking about?  Our little trip to eastern Germany during the Airlift."

"Ah.  I thought I'd heard you explaining to the guys why you call me general instead of colonel." I'm not even going to try to get you guys to call me Rob.  No way that's happening.  "It still gives me nightmares." 

Hogan's mind tripped back to spring 1949 when he'd pulled a mission to rescue a fleeing German scientist.  Carter, who'd also volunteered for flying duty, had ended up on his plane despite his best efforts to get the young man grounded.  The mission had been a disaster from the beginning, and they'd been declared dead.  Their return, with the German scientist, had stunned everyone and had angered more than a few.

"Does it really?"  He swallowed hard.  "Mady was carrying Annie at the time; they told her I was dead."  He turned his head from side to side.  "Whatever happened to the jerk who sold us out?"

"Court-martialed, but he disappeared.  I found him years later still working for us.  I returned his little party favor."  A couple of popping noises.  "And he didn't fare nearly as well as we did."  He looked away a moment. "I hated going to Wales to collect 'my widow'.  Grief had damned near killed her." 

He'd gotten to Caernarfon only to find Angharad beside herself:  Miri would barely eat or take notice of the world around her.  Only Patrick had brought her joy, kept her going.  Angharad had told him that if hadn't've been for the baby, Miri'd have quickly willed herself dead.  It  hadn't felt like that, though, when he'd gotten Miri's fist in his jaw, knocking him flat. 

"It took Miri about a month to snap back to reality, to really understand I was alive, well, and around again.  But it left a permanent scar.  Which was why when I almost killed myself crashing a B-47, she grounded me–2 years before the flight surgeon." 

"I've never been away from Mady for more than a day since then.  Until now."

Hogan stood, tightened his dressing gown.  "Andrew, I'm not ashamed to admit it:  I miss Suzanne.  That's why I was on the phone with her; it's why I can't sleep.  Frankly, I wish she were here instead of Boston." He clapped Carter on the shoulder, but yawned enormously before he could say anything more.

"You need to go to bed, general."

"That's what my wife told me.  It's what Mady would tell you, too."  Carter nodded.

*****

The heavy, cloying scent of jasmine hung in the air. A sultry feminine voice wafted through the dark as Hogan climbed into bed.  "Dahling, why don't you turn on the light?"

Jumping, he caught his foot in his silk robe and hit the floor hard.  Marya heaved a huge, exaggerated sigh and switched on a light.  Wearing a slinky black peignoir, she reclined on her elbow, watched Hogan stare at her in wrath and shock while rubbing his backside.  "Hurt yourself, dahling?"

"God dammit, Marya!  You're not content with giving me terminal embarrassment, now you've got to both cripple me and give me heart failure!"  He continued to glare up at her from the floor. 

She leaned provocatively over the edge of the bed–he got a very good view of her cleavage–and said, throatily, "I want you to sleep with me."

"And people in Hell want ice water, too!"  Hogan got up with difficulty.  His rump hurt.  He rubbed his hip, trying to massage the pain out of it.  "If this sends me back to Dr. Rathbone, Marya, I'll kill you."  He took in the scantily-clad body.  "Will you get the hell out of my bed?"

She drew herself up and assumed an air of wounded dignity.  "Well," she snorted as she tossed her head back.  "Is that any way to talk to a beautiful woman?"  Tilting her head, she pouted, using her lips to full effect.

Hogan folded his arms over his chest. "Knock off the overacting.  You want something.  What is it?"

Without batting an eyelash, her whole demeanor changed, became quiet and serious.  "I want to defect.  And I want your help, Robert Kyrilivich."

His knees nearly buckled.  He fell forward and leaned on the bed, weakly asking, "You want what?"  There was a roaring in his ears. 

Marya slid off the bed, helped him into it.  As he adjusted himself, she plumped his pillows.  "I want to defect."

"That's what I thought you said."  He sank into his pillows.  "Let me sleep on it," he murmured, feeling enervated.  She pulled the covers up to his chest and kissed him on both cheeks. He couldn't believe it.  From seductress to nanny.  Yeeesh!  What's the world coming to?

*****

Kinch eyed his coffee warily.  He'd discovered very quickly that Louis had been correct when he'd said that the English destroyed coffee.  Ignoring the tepid, weak brew, he bit into his hot, well-buttered toast.  Munching, he saw Hogan step through the French doors, hawthorn cane in hand, and limp over to the

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table.  His former CO had barely sat down and poured a cup of tea before Kinch asked, "Out for your morning constitutional?"

"Out on the beach. I walk every morning.  I have to–both to keep this from getting any bigger," he patted his small paunch, "and to keep my hip exercised." He downed his daily regime of pills with his tea.  "I just wish I had a dog to keep me company.  There's no way I'm getting Suzanne up and out walking at 6 o'clock in the morning."  His wife rarely woke up before 7:30am and was always snarling before her first cup of coffee. 

"What's keeping you from getting the dog?"

"My son's parrot and my wife's cat." He shivered slightly.  "They ping-pong around the house as it is.  If I added a dog, it would be a madhouse."

I'm not going to touch that one, colonel.  Your domestic arrangements are your problem. "Peter mentioned you'd had your hip replaced.  Do you still need the cane?"  He didn't miss the dark circles under the colonel's eyes or the sound of a stuffy nose.

"Not really, but I've used one for almost nine years now, so that not having it seems stranger than having it. I keep it mostly as a security blanket these days." His expression turned self-conscious.  "Actually, I fell last night, and now, I've got some pain.  Taking it easy should relieve the problem."  He eyed his former radioman. "You've been awfully quiet, Kinch.  What's going on?"

"You don't miss much, do you, colonel?" There was a knife's edge to the tone. "Then again, you can't afford to, can you?"

The toast stopped mid-air.  "No, I didn't get out of intelligence work, Kinch, and you're right, I can't afford not to notice things. But you're a lot more agitated this morning than you were last night.  What's happened?"

Without warning, surprising Kinchloe himself, it burst out.  "Vietnam.  More news about it, and it's a whole lot less complimentary than what's in the States."

"I haven't read this morning's newspaper, and I try to ignore the press on Vietnam."

"You try to ignore it?  How the hell can you do that?  I sure as hell can't.  My only son is MIA over there."  He stared angrily at Hogan before hitting himself lightly in the forehead.  "Of course, you can ignore it.  You live in Europe and you can keep your son out of the US army."

"I have to ignore the news, or I'll drive myself nuts.  I read enough official stuff as it is.  And you aren't the only one with family missing over there!  You remember Chris? My baby brother?  He made brigadier general, volunteered for duty over there, and promptly checked into a POW camp!"  Hogan bolted out of his chair to start pacing around.  "And Patrick," he hissed, "is a British subject, not an American citizen, so he's subject to draft at the pleasure of Her Majesty's Government."

"So he did his national service, like Newkirk's son, in nice, safe Britain?" Kinch shot back, sneering.

"No.  He got himself booted out of the Royal Army about 6 weeks after induction.  Ripped up his knee during basic.  Took him 6 months to recover from that injury.  You should've seen us hobbling around the house together–me on my cane, him on his crutches.  What a pair!" He snorted, stopped pacing, leaned both hands on the table. "He's now so undraftable that they'd take his sister first, 4 kids notwithstanding. 

"And there are lots of unsafe places British troops go.  Like Northern Ireland where things have gone from bad to worse.  I'm not envisioning that to be anything less than a low-grade civil war. Ask Peter what he thinks of Marty being stationed in Belfast." 

The Englishman was low-key about his son; theirs was an awkward relationship at best.

He gave Kinch a hard, level stare that caused the engineer to remember what a fierce opponent his former CO could be.  What a passionate, protective father you are!  Who'd've thought it 25 years ago?  Boy, did the major domesticate you!  You're the spy who stayed home.  Suddenly deflated, Kinch muttered, "I'm sorry, colonel.  It's not your fault.  You didn't start the war, and you're sure as hell not in a position to stop it."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, Kinch. If I were in your shoes, I'd be just as angry."

"You ARE just as angry as I am.  And it's not just Chris, either."

"You're right. It isn't just Chris. It's my nephew and grandnephew who were killed in action, too.  When Ted got the letter saying his younger son had been killed, the news gave him his third and fatal heart attack.  Have you got any idea how painful it is to watch a father and son be buried together?"  He wiped his face with a hand.  "And Frankie. He was the spitting image of his grandfather.  It was like losing Jim all over again."

"And it's all for goddamned nothing."  Without meeting his former CO's eyes, Kinch added, "Don't you talk about this with your wife?"

"Do you?"

"I'm divorced, colonel."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."  Eyes locked.  "Henry was 15 when his mom left us flat.  Life was a whole lot easier–and better--without her." Lydia walked out the door for another man, did it without so much as a backward glance.  Henry hasn't forgiven her yet.  I never will.

Hogan didn't pursue it, but simply answered, "I don't talk to Suzanne about this because she lost both her brothers in Vietnam." He shook his head. "It's unbelievable.  They both survived the war, only to die in Indochina–one in 48, the other at Dien Bien Phu in 54."

"I keep forgetting that France was there before us."

"Well, don't, mon ami," cut in LeBeau who joined them, grimaced at what passed for coffee.  "Les Anglais.  Ils sont incroyables," he muttered as he reached for the tea.  "Indochine did no favors for France."

"At least your government had the sense to get the hell out after 8 years," replied Kinch. "Not like ours that seems bent on continuing a war that no one wants and is tearing the country apart." 

"Oh, as if we don't know anything about this.  We went right from Indochine to Algerie.  From the jungle to the desert.  From one unwinnable war to another.  Except," LeBeau stabbed a finger into the air, "that Algerie helped bring down the Fourth Republic and that almost put me out of business." 

Kinch raised an eyebrow.

"The currency crisis.  The franc became worthless just when I had extended my business.  My creditors suddenly wanted to be paid in hard currency–dollars, marks or pounds.  If it had not been for Schultz, I would have been sunk."

"Schultz?"

Hogan replied, "Schultz got his company back at the end of the war.  Or what was left of it after we'd bombed it flat.  But he started up again, even though the immediate postwar period was anything but favorable.  He got it rolling again, and by the mid 50s, he was quite wealthy.  Well able to help Louis out."

"He loaned me the marks to pay off my creditors and granted me easy terms to pay him back."  He paused a moment, continued. "He wanted to repay generosity.  I didn't do much of my own cooking by 1958, but whenever Schultz was in Paris–and he loved Paris–I'd cook for him." 

"He said right up to the end the only person who could really make strudel was Louis," Hogan picked up. "Schultz had 20 years on me, and I've got probably 10 on you."  He stopped as Newkirk and Andrew drew up to the table.  "Schultz died in 1962 at 75. Louis and I were both at his requiem." 

"Mon colonel, wasn't your daughter with you?"

"Yeah, she was.  Renate was devastated.  Schultz had been like her grandfather for so many years.  She still calls him Opa."

Kinch stared hard at his former CO.

Hogan confessed, "Renate's mother was Fraulein Helga.  Schultz gave her a job and looked after her and Renate.  And when Helga'd died, he told me about my daughter."

"That's why Helga left Stalag 13.  She was...."

He cut Kinch off.  "....carrying my child and I didn't even know it." 

Newkirk asked, chin resting on his palm, elbow right next his teacup.  "So, what 'appened to old Klink?"

"Schultz made him his bookkeeper, mon ami."

"Runnin' a bloody charity shop was 'e?" 

"Klink turned out to be an excellent bookkeeper.  He never was a prize-winner for backbone, but without being threatened at every turn, Herr Kommandant turned out to be competent enough. He's living on his pension in Munich.  With his wife."

"His wife?" queried Carter and Kinch simultaneously, both thunderstruck.

"The former Frau Linkmeyer." 

Between guffaws, Newkirk choked out, "Oh, crikey.  'E's got me sympathy, 'e does.  Klink married to that Tiger tank?  Poor bloke.  Why 'e don't blow 'is brains out is beyond me." 

Kinch nodded in agreement as he held his aching sides. 

"For all we know, that might be a really happy marriage," said Carter. 

His companions fell over each other in helpless laughter.

Carter pursed his lips and leaned on his tented hands.  "I'm glad you think it's so funny."

*****

Hot water poured over Hogan's head and tired body.  He stood under the cascade, luxuriating in the pleasant heat, relaxing with every moment.  All his life, he'd been a lover of hot water–a simple means of soothing himself--and today had been long and fatiguing.  The visit to the old air base had dredged up a lot of memories–some of them so funny, some of them so painful.  After this, he'd be ready for bed.  With a wistful sigh, he reached for the taps.  Before he could close them, a voice called out, "Hogan dahling!  You wanted to talk to me, so here I am!"

Grabbing the shower curtain–his hands above hers--he tugged against her, keeping it drawn. He poked his dripping head around, leaving the curtain between them.  "Don't even think about it, Marya!"

She cocked her head, eyed him outrageously, batted her eyelashes at him.  "You are terribly, painfully shy, dahling."

"I'm stark naked."

"Yes, I know, dahling."  She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.  "That's why I'm here."  Her throaty voice sent fear washing down his spine.

The water stopped abruptly.  "Marya...."

"We could be naked together."

He watched her take a half step back and pull at the ties of her black silk robe.  "NO!" he yelled.  "Dammit!  Marya! I'm a married man.  A very happily married man.  The only woman I get naked with is my wife!"

Hands on hips, she pouted and asked sulkily, "What has Marie Curie got that I don't?"

"My love."  His quiet declaration brought her up short.  Her expression fell, and he used the opportunity to follow up.  "All right, you want to defect.  Why?  I'm not putting my life and career on the line for a whim.  Or because you don't want to go home.  Now, what is it?" 

The silence weighed heavily between them. 

Kicking himself mentally, he watched the emotional layers peel away from her. A matriuska doll. Why couldn't she have gotten loaded on vodka and saved us both a lot of time?  He took another tack.  "When did you have a baby, Marya?"

"How did you know?" she demanded anxiously.

Uncertain of this new, very vulnerable side of Marya, Hogan, replied casually, covering his unease, "Your bosom has stretch marks.  Not all the potions in the world will get rid of them."  He shook his head fondly as recalled Miri decrying all of hers and using every last cream to remove them.  She hadn't believed him when he'd told her that he considered them beauty marks.

"April 1945, Robert Kyrilivich.  A daughter, born dead."  She paused, looked up at him with hard, hate-filled eyes.  "Or so I was told.  I've recently found out that she was simply taken from me, given to another couple whose child had, in fact, died. It was done to keep me in the field. Her name now is Galina Viktrovna Ulanova. It should have been Sophia Ilyvna Kerenskaya.  She doesn't know me; she will never know me.  Her father had already died in Poland."  She spat.  ""I have served my country well, suffered numbers of personal outrages, only to suffer this humiliation, this betrayal! Let them take the knife!"

He began to shiver.  Younger than Renate, older than Patrick.  I can't imagine that.  Well, actually, I can.  Helga, in her way, almost did it to me.  And Marya's probably banking on that. If I ever needed a reminder of the evil of the Soviet system, here it is in spades. "Why come to me, Masha?"

She stepped up to the shower curtain, barred him from wrapping himself in it.  "You're my best enemy, Robert Kyrilivich...."

"You think you could use Rob?  It's the regular diminutive for my name."

Placing a hand over her heart, closing her eyes, she remarked solemnly, "I am honored."

"Yeah.  I'm just sick of you mangling my father's name.  Now," his voice hardened, showing impatience, "answer me.  Why me?  Why this way?"

"I envy you."  She watched him a moment.  "You have children, grandchildren.  Put yourself in my place."

His mind flashed back to Patrick's kidnapping.  He'd been ready to kill, had had to stay out of the investigation, had had the most horrendous confrontation with Renate–she'd accused him of loving Patrick more–had been so incredibly relieved at getting his boy back that he'd carried Patrick despite the kid's being 13 years old and too large and heavy for him.  To be in Marya's place–not all the loyal service in the world would outweigh his desire for revenge.  

"All right, Masha.  I'll get you out of here."  He took a deep breath, immediately seeing all the dangers.  "Masha, your people are going to pull all the stops on this one."

She composed herself and moved close to him. Instantly wary, he clutched the plastic shower curtain to himself.  "Don't worry, I am the resident, and I'm simply taking a vacation–to investigate the British navy."

"And they think you're in Plymouth.  Yeah, right."

Deadly seriously, she went on: "And I practically handed GCHQ the code pads."

"That'll get the earl's attention."  Hogan ruminated carefully, rubbed his chin.  "You've set MI5 all over your own people.  They're looking for you in all the wrong places and will be tripping over each other."  He chuckled softly, shook his head.

Her smile was huge.  "Exactly, dahling."

"Wrong, Marya.  Getting you out of this country is going to be misery because every point of disembarkation is going to be covered.  Remember, the earl has the Defence of the Realm Act on his side. And he hates your guts.  MI5 is going to get in my way, too." 

Hogan didn't like the odds. I know I'm going to need the guys to help.  Oh, boy.  I don't know if I can sell them on this.  I can't even believe I agreed to this.

"I thought you'd enjoy that challenge, dahling.  Besides which, I can't do everything."  Her dark eyes danced with devilment.  "Well, actually, I can, but that would've threatened your fragile male ego." 

To his furious frown, she laughed throatily before sashaying away in a cloud of black silk and gardenia.  He threw the soap after her.  It made a satisfying thump before sliding down the tile wall.

*****

Hogan sipped his tea, returned the cup to the saucer in his hand, and stared out the window.  The light gray rain contrasted with the dark, gray-green of the ocean; the monochromatic seascape depressed him.  As if he needed anything further to do that.  The guys had decamped for the local pub, but only reluctantly.  He'd had to insist that he didn't feel well, was going to rest.  And it had taken every ounce of persuasion–and some interference from Newkirk–to keep LeBeau from hanging  around as nursemaid.  Hogan smiled to himself.  Louis is still an incredible fussbudget.

"Yo, Boss," called red-headed Mary Kaiser from across the room.

He watched her stride over to him, dressed in a deep purple cat suit.   Is it my imagination, or has she put on weight?  Or is that damned outfit emphasizing everything?  Shaking his head, he groused, "You know, for a spy, you couldn't be louder if you were a fire truck."

"Hey, I learned from the best," she retorted.  "You may be in a lousy mood, Boss, but I didn't come out here, trailed by MI5 the entire way, to have you growl at me.  Papa Bear indeed!"

"Keep it up, Miss Moneypenny, and I'll turn you over to Peter Newkirk."  Hogan knew she had no patience with Newkirk's wit.  Or ladykiller ways.

She shrank back, cringing in mock horror.  "Oh, no.  Not that.  I surrender.  I'll be an obedient, dutiful, little secretary." 

"In my dreams."  He set the teacup aside, asked seriously, "What have you got?"

"At least, you're not so surly now."  She followed him to the stripped sofa by the windows, and settling next to him, she fished through her briefcase, pulled out files.  "Only parts of Bunitskaya's story are verifiable.  Ilya Pavlovich Kerensky was killed in Poland in December 1944–apparently rerouted there instead of Hungary."

"He was a dead man either way."

Mary laid a picture of a pretty young woman on the coffee table.  "Galina Ulanova.  Her birthday checks out, and her parents are listed as Viktor and Yelena Ulanov.  Beyond that, it's all conjecture."

Hogan gazed transfixed at the photo; he felt bewilderment. What could have been a 24 year old Marya smiled up at them.  "Please explain to me how some kids are a carbon copy of one or the other parent, while others don't even look like they belong in the family."

Ignoring his tangential thoughts, Mary went on.  "Okay, from your reaction, I'd say she's got a case.  From the traffic in signals between London and Moscow, our Soviet friends know something is up.  But they've not been able to do anything...."

"The earl's been all over them like a wet blanket."  Taking a couple of deep breaths, Hogan turned to his secretary, asking, "You said you were followed?  Did you ditch MI5?"

"I lost one tail, Boss, but picked up another and couldn't lose him.  Why is his lordship busting his ass on this one?"

"Marya left enough egg on his face to make an omelette.  Robbie and I still haven't quit laughing about it."  He saw her raised eyebrow demanding clarification.  "About 2 years ago, just as the earl got his post, his affairs got the better of him.  Usually, he's very discreet, and only keeps one mistress at a time, but one refused to be dumped, even after he'd taken up with the next one. He's serially monogamous."  Hogan started to snicker.  "Anyway, Marya, with her usual ability to pick up the dirt, turned two minor KGB agents on his former and current mistresses. With a little careful coaxing from Marya, the press blew the whole story wide open."

"Some scandal." 

"I agree; it was a tempest in a teaspoon.  All Marya wanted to do was divert attention from her little operation: ferrying Cuban operatives from Havana through London to Moscow.  She got what she wanted while his lordship had his feet held to the fire by The Times and The Manchester Guardian.  Of course, it was an excellent opportunity for us to take a sneak peek at various British secrets.  The whole thing blew over in a matter of weeks, but the earl has neither forgotten nor forgiven."

"What was the press hoping for? another Profumo scandal?  And where was I?"

"In the hospital."

"Oh."

"The press is very useful–once you've trained them to go where you point them."  He exhaled slowly.  "The earl wants to capture Marya very badly.  What she's got in head...."

"...if she'll give it you...."

"...would upset the balance between us for years to come.  The potential gain outweighs the very great risk." 

Mary rapped him on the knee.  "Boss, this one stinks.  Leave it alone."  She started to repack her briefcase, changed the subject. "Didn't you used to fly B-17s during the war?"

"Paging Dr. Sequitur, paging Dr. Sequitur."  He laughed at her squint of anger.  "Didn't your mother ever tell you that your face would freeze?  Anyway, the answer is yes, I did.  Why?"

"There's an air show not far from here that's got all sorts of vintage aircraft–including a B-17.  Saw it come in for a landing.  Very pretty."

"My favorite plane."  He started rubbing his chin.

Mary executed a perfect pirouette.  "I can see it now.  You're going to steal the B-17, fly it to the States, with Marya Bunitskaya in the bomb bay."  She looked him in the eye.  "Am I right or what?" 

Standing up, Hogan leaned toward her and tapped her cheek.  "You're brilliant, Mary.  Did I tell you that?  You're just brilliant.  Now, scoot before MI5 gets too nervous and comes charging in here.  I don't want to have to tell them we're having an affair. Whatever would Bernie say?"

"About the same thing your wife would: pow, zoom...."

"...straight to the moon."

*****

They wandered around the air show for several hours and had seen just about every plane they remembered from the war.  Newkirk had waxed lyrical about the Lancaster, while Carter had pointed out the C-54 Skymaster he and Hogan had used during the Airlift.  They all had a good laugh when they'd inspected the old Gooney Bird parked on the flight line.  It had vividly reminded them of the 6 nurses and Mad Max, the crazy female pilot, who'd crashed through the front gates of Stalag 13. Eventually, they'd wound their way to the B-17. 

Kinch listened to Hogan question the chunky kid about the heavy bomber: armor stripped? Engine work done? Flyability?  Dismay grew in the Afro-American with every query.  In angry disbelief, he hissed at Newkirk, "He's going to do it.  With or without our help."

"Was there ever any doubt, mate?"

The Englishman's terse reply brought to Kinch's mind the argument that had erupted when Hogan had broached them about helping Marya defect.  With the exception of LeBeau, there'd been outright rejection.  And even the Frenchman hadn't been a supporter of the idea.  Had Hogan taken leave of his senses?  Kinch had found it entirely appropriate for Carter to peer into one of the colonel's ears: Andrew'd claimed he'd not seen daylight.  Hogan's explanation had failed to convince, and they'd all turned him down–flat.  The quiet acceptance of their decision had stung more than Kinch had expected. Dammit, colonel!  I'd feel a whole lot better about this if I knew why you're really doing this.

Newkirk nudged him.  "And you're thinking about going with him."

"Yeah."  He ran both hands over his hair, stared up at the vintage warbird.  "And I thought my ex-wife was the travel agent for guilt trips."

"That's unfair, mate," the Englishman scolded.  "Besides the colonel 'imself, you're the only one who knows 'ow to fly.  And, blimey, I wouldn't heven think of 'elpin' 'im if you weren't goin' along."

"So what are you and LeBeau up to?"  He looked around for the little Frenchman, forgetting that Louis'd stayed behind to keep Marya company. 

"Louis' going to get 'er dogs, and then we're going to help you two roll out the plane.  Andrew'll be providing 'is usual entertainin' diversion."

"Dogs?"  Kinch did a half-turn in amazement.  "This scheme is getting crazier by the minute.  And do we trust Andrew in his condition?"

Newkirk shrugged, turned out his hands.  "Do we 'ave a choice?" 

Kinch bit back a retort because Carter bounded up to them.  More animated than he'd been the rest of the time, he gushed, "It'll be a piece of pie."

"A piece of cake," they chorused.

"Actually," rushed on the pharmacist, "distracting everybody is going to be easy because of the fireworks scheduled for tomorrow night.  A little repack and a little redirection and there'll be enough chaos to cover the takeoff of a whole squadron."

Kinch and Newkirk glanced at their friend, then at each other.  The sparkling eyes and ear to ear grin made them nervous.

*****

Hogan walked up, clapped them on the shoulders, and with a wicked, puckish smile, remarked, "This'll work even better than I'd thought.  The owner of the place is my old co-pilot, Dave Lisacki.  I've been looking to get even with him for 27 years."

"And just what did he do to you, general?"  Carter rubbed his hands together.

"Let's get a pint, and I'll tell you."  They strolled over to the makeshift pub, and when everybody had settled, Hogan began: "Major David Lisacki was my co-pilot when I commanded the 504th bomb wing, and he had a real penchant for practical jokes.  I was his favorite target. Well, on the return leg of a mission, I provided him yet another opportunity to pull one on me: I literally caught flak in the rump.  Came right through the fuselage, the seat, and into my derriere."

Carter snickered. Newkirk waved him to be silent.

"Go ahead, laugh.  I did, eventually."  He chortled softly.  Slapping his right hip, he added, "Of course, the flak had the last laugh.  The damage it did gave me the arthritis and the hip replacement."

"Jesus," murmured Kinch.

"Anyway, back to the story.  Dave and I managed to land, but I don't remember anything after that except waking up in the hospital, on my belly, with a pin the tail on the donkey over my head."  Hogan's voice turned disgusted.  "Dave had pinned one of my rank eagles right on the ass."

The guys fell over in laughter.  Between guffaws, Newkirk rasped, "That's rich, colonel."

Hogan was indignant.  "I didn't think it was so funny–especially with all the nurses twittering about it.  And the one who kept telling me I had the nicest bottom, oh, she was too much!  But the worst was having to talk about the mission at Stalag 13 with two high-ranking members of Allied High Command.  I can still see their eyes darting to the donkey with the eagle for a tail.  I was so glad I was face down." He took a deep draught of his ale.  "It gave a whole new meaning to blushing butt!"

Newkirk just shook his head and muttered, "I'd've died from the bleedin' embarrassment."

"I can't believe the guy," insisted Carter.  "I'd've killed him."

"Now you guys know why I want to get back at him.  I wasn't able at the time because about a week after I ended up in the hospital, he got put there, too, in much worse condition.  And by the time he recovered–-medically discharged, too–-I'd already gone on to Stalag 13.  I never really had the opportunity to give him his just deserts."

"So, why did you go to Stalag 13, general?"

Hogan suddenly sobered and shut down.  Bypassing the question completely, he said brusquely, "The plane is in excellent condition, and with only the equivalent of 4 men, no armament, and no bombs, I'll have much better fuel consumption."

"4 men, colonel?  'Ow big are these ruddy dogs?"

"They're Russian wolfhounds, and they weigh about 115 pounds a pop.  Don't worry, they only look like they can eat Louis."  Hogan cocked his head thoughtfully, enjoyed the consternation on the Englishman's face.  He took another drink.  "Well, actually, Boris and Natasha might lick him to death."

"Boris and Natasha?"

"Bullwinkle," replied Kinch with a slight shake of his lowered head.  He raised it, said, "Colonel, make those weight calculations for 5 people."  He held up a hand.  "Save it, Colonel.  Whether you can fly the plane by yourself is irrelevant.  I'm going with you."

*****

Ensconced in LeBeau's room, a bored, caged Marya plunked a chilled bottle of vodka and two vodka glasses on the table. "So, my small one, do you know how to drink like a Russian?"  At his negative nod, she poured the clear, potent liquor, handed him a glass, and said, "Na zdorovye."  She threw it back in one fluid motion.

LeBeau followed suit. She filled his glass again.  And again.  He asked, words slurring, "Why are you defecting, Marya?" 

"What would it take for you to give up France?  What would have to be taken from you? Your restaurant? Your wife? Your children?"  She rapidly downed two more glasses; the bottle stood ½ full.

"It wouldn't be my wife.  Anybody who wants her can have her."

He took the bottle, poured himself another glass, and threw it back in perfect Russian style.  He walked slowly, almost shuffled to Marya.

"I knew you could do it!  To my small one, who now drinks like a Russian!"  They clinked glasses.  They gazed at each other intensely; she stared right though to his soul. "So what's wrong with your wife?  You had to have loved her at some point.  Where did it go?"

"Elle est belle," he murmured. "Mais sa mere...."  He spread his hands wide, shrugged. "Anaïs ne pense pas sans sa mere.  Elle fait laquelle sa mere dit."

Marya blinked.  "So your mother-in-law has come between you and your wife.  Why did you let this happen, if you love her?  It's one thing to lose your love to Death. You can only sorrow over that.  It's one thing to have your child snatched from you, stolen from you  without your knowledge, to be lied to by your government.  You can only exact revenge for that.  It's something else entirely to let your love slip away so that she exists but not for you.  You're a fool, my small one."  She walked towards the window.

"How can you call me that?" 

"Easy.  You've let go.  You've not fought.  I lost all my family in the Great Patriotic War.  I am the sole survivor.  But none of us went quietly into the night.  My sister struggled against the siege of Leningrad; she lived to see liberation.  That had been her goal.  My brother died in the counterattack before Moscow. My Ilya died in Poland also fighting Germans.  We lived until we died and did not let the Germans take anything from us that was ours–our hearts, our loves, our pride, our land!"  Spinning with arms wide flung, she suddenly laughed bitterly.  "That was left for my own government. Do svidanye Rossiya!"

"I don't know what Anaïs wants; she doesn't talk to me anymore.  We stopped talking to each other years ago.  I give myself to the business; it's very successful.  And she's Mme. LeBeau with all the privileges that go with that–courtesy of my success. Of my two children, only Roberte is worth a damn.  She's coming into the business, and she will take over for me.  My son Armand," he roared, "is a wastrel."

She pointed a finger at him. "You loved cooking more than your wife, than your family."  She poured the last of the vodka into their glasses.  "You named your daughter for Hogan, didn't you, my small one?"

"Oui."  Their glasses clinked.  "I've always wondered what he was to you."

She answered honestly, "A friend, an enemy, even a brother."

"A lover?"

"Never."  She bent down and kissed LeBeau passionately.  He returned it.  Marya drank in his spirit. "Take your wife back.  You still love her.  It's in your kiss." 

She watched him stagger back to the bed and pass out.  Mincing over, she sat down next to his prone form.  "Where's a good Russian when you need him?  These western Europeans and Americans are all lightweights."

*****

class=Section5>

Shaking his head, Newkirk read the note before pinning it to the donkey.  Hogan's bold scrawl read 'IOU one B-17. RE Hogan.'  The Englishman muttered, "Blimey, colonel, remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Don't worry, I will," responded Hogan, kitted out in flightsuit and bomber jacket–stars not eagles on the shoulders.  He glanced at his watch.  This was a precisely timed mission with not much give in the schedule.  "Things set?  Carter's got his stuff ready to go?"

"Well, Kinch's done the preflight check.  We've got 'Er Majesty and 'er stinkin' dogs loaded.  Ruddy miserable animals until we slipped 'em their mickey.  Carter's assured us all of 'ow it's goin' to go off 20 minutes into the show."  He rolled his grey-blue eyes.  "Do you really think we should let 'im?  I mean, 'e was bouncin' off the bleedin' walls this mornin'."

"When he wasn't hyperventilating."  Hogan checked his own worries about Carter.

It had finally come--the phone call he'd been waiting for.  Right at the end of breakfast, Andrew'd found out he was the grandfather of a healthy baby boy of 8 lbs 2 oz.  Everybody in the hotel had heard that.  Annie was sore and tired, but otherwise all right.  Carter then had started crying and hyperventilating, until they thought he was going to pass out.  Hogan'd had to take the phone away from him and had gotten the rest of the story from Mady.  He'd also promised her they'd take care of Andrew. 

"I've no doubt that Jack's in better shape than his grandfather.  And I assume you acknowledge that he took the cake from me?"

"No question about that, sir.  I didn't expect you to 'ave a bloody 'eart attack from the news."

Hogan clapped Newkirk on the shoulder.  "Let's get this show on the road."

"Let's not," insisted an exquisitely cultivated and mellifluous voice. 

Hogan and Newkirk turned and faced the earl of Suffolk, head of MI5.  The ice-blue eyes above the Walther PPK made even the American nervous.   He whispered to Newkirk, "Go on.  His business is with me."  And with more courage than he felt, he walked toward the earl, cane in hand.

"Quite right, Brigadier," Anglesey sneered.  "I want the woman.  Give her up, and you'll be out of here." He suddenly smiled.  "Of course, I doubt you'd need to fly out of here if it weren't for her.  By the way, this isn't one of you more clever schemes, Hogan.  I saw right through this one."

"Oh, you did, did you?  So is that why you picked up my son for questioning, why his wife couldn't get him released on a writ of habeas corpus?  If you're so knowledgeable, you should have remembered that I never discuss business with either my wife or my children."  Hogan's anger clarified, strengthened his mind. He leaned on his cane, twisting its head slightly.

The eyes blinked.  "You knew. Interesting you'd ignore your only son's plight.  You're not quite the sentimental Catholic Irishman I'd thought you. I'll keep that in mind."  His cultured voice oozed contempt.  "Though I should tell you that your son was very frightened, and he didn't stand up terribly well to questioning. His charming and obviously pregnant wife held her ground much better.  Naturally, the judge saw it my way."

The cane head popped in Hogan's hand, and he gripped it tightly.  "To be scared when there's reason is no crime.  Besides which, neither the Lord Chancellor nor the Home Secretary saw anything other than an abuse of power.  I do hope you enjoy the parliamentary inquiry."  Hogan gave a low, mirthless laugh. "I have my connections, my lord."

Anglesey raised his weapon.  "I want that woman.  She is a threat to the defence of the United Kingdom."

"Maybe so. But she's worth much more to the US.  And, my lord, do remember who runs the Free World.  It's not Britain, however much you might like it to be otherwise." 

The fireworks show erupted from the far side of the airstrip.  The violence of the explosion rocked the hanger; the earl was knocked off balance a moment, but that was sufficient for Hogan who pulled his cane apart.  Lunging forward, he thrust the sword through the aristocrat's upper right shoulder, just under the collarbone.  He whipped the blade out and placed the point at the Englishman's throat.  Surprised eyes looked up at him.  "Don't look at me like that.  You should've known that I'm never unarmed."

Unbidden, Newkirk emerged from the shadows with rope.  "I'll make sure 'e doesn't 'inder ya further, colonel."

"Thanks.  Turn him over to Bernie when he gets here."  Hogan glanced at his watch.  Dammit! I hate cutting things this fine.  He sheathed his sword in his cane and trotted out to the plane. "Time to get out of here," he muttered as he settled in the cockpit. 

Fortunately, Kinch'd had the engines revved.  Like a bird, the B-17 lifted into the night sky while huge red, white, and blue star bursts exploded behind it.

Hogan caught sight of the dissipating colors as Kinch banked the aircraft.  "That's what I call a send-off."

"It wasn't for us, colonel; it was for Jack.  Happy birthday, kid!"