North America: June 1969
In the wardroom at the base in Labrador, Kinch stared down at the battery acid that passed for coffee. Hogan and Colonel Anderson argued quietly, but loudly enough for him to catch snippets. "Rob, this has got to be your craziest stunt yet. The director's going to have your ass."
"Mike, just refuel the plane, will you? And then we'll be even."
"Until the next time." The Air Force colonel walked away, muttering angrily.
Hogan walked over to Kinch, who remarked casually, "That didn't sound good, colonel." He didn't like the older man's paleness, either.
"I had to call in a lot of favors to get this project off the ground. If it works, I'm a hero."
"And if not, you're a goat." He stopped Hogan from grabbing coffee. "You need sleep, not caffeine."
Hogan ran a hand over his face. "Yeah. And I'll get a few hours before we take off at dark for Andrews. Where I know the director is going to meet us." He sighed. "At least, Marya's asleep."
"I thought she'd never shut up. What was all that nonsense she was spewing? And frankly," he slammed his mug down, sloshing coffee over his hand, "why the hell did you do this?"
Hogan softly replied, "Marya wants revenge. Her only child was literally stolen from her to keep her an active field agent. It might not have been so bad if she hadn't found out the lie and the girl. It's a whole host of 'might've beens'. I thought we'd been through this."
I still don't buy it. Kinch's eyes dropped to his shoes; he couldn't look his former CO in the face. He didn't want him to see the disbelief, so he abruptly changed topics. "Thank you for your efforts to find Henry."
"Not at all," Hogan straightened, waved it off. "Saves me from working on Chris. A brigadier general is an object of some importance. If I go poking around, it'll flag somebody's attention."
"And a private is a nobody."
"In this case, a good thing."
A buck sergeant walked in. "Excuse me, sir, but which one of you is John Steed?"
Hogan snickered. "That would be me, sergeant." Turning back to Kinch, he added, "My secretary's a little too tuned into TV."
*****
An airman stiff-armed him the phone. Mary Kaiser's voice started yammering in his ear. "Hello, Mary," he interrupted.
"Congratulations! That cane is a swordstick."
"You didn't call transatlantic on a secure line just to tell me that. Who's upset I perforated the earl?"
"You damned near killed him. Bled like a stuck pig. Of course, that's what he is. Anyway, who's upset? Shall we start with the prime minister? And half the British government? Sir James has been arguing that His Liplessness abused his authority by picking up your son, but outside of the Lord Chancellor and the Home Secretary, he's getting no support."
"I didn't think he would be."
"Expect a formal complaint from the British government, which will, of course, make it to the director's office. In short, Boss, your ass is in a sling."
"No, sweetie, it's grass, and the director's the lawnmower."
"Whatever. Shall I put in the paperwork for your retirement? Will 31 December work? It'll take that long to clear up the office."
He coughed slightly. "Looking for a new boss, are we?"
"No. I'm having a baby and don't want you to have a new secretary. I'd be insanely jealous." He gagged and choked. "Besides, I want to limit your opportunities for stupid stunts like this one. Your godchild will appreciate it."
Thunderstruck, Hogan managed, "I'll be honored to be your child's godfather. I can only hope he or she takes after Bernie. You are going to make an honest man out of that Iowa farmboy you've corrupted, aren't you?"
"You're so Catholic, Boss."
Hogan ignored the teasing. "When are you due?"
"20 December. Your birthday."
He spluttered, "No, no, no you don't. Don't you dare!"
"Anyway, since you sliced the earl, the KGB's come out of the woodwork. Expect trouble from them. Haven't the foggiest on how, though. Bye, Boss." Click.
"Great, just great." Hogan sat down hard, his legs rubbery. I'm going to kill her. What am I thinking? I can't do that. She's an expectant mother. Mary--married with children? Mother of God! Who'd've thought it? She is NOT going to name that poor child after me. So help me God. He cradled his head in hands.
"Are you all right, colonel?"
He looked into his co-pilot's concerned face. "Why do we let women into our lives?"
"Good question." Kinch hummed than sang softly, "'Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'/Oh, what a wonderful world it would be/If all the women/Were transported far across the northern sea.'"[1]
"I don't think I'd go that far." He sobered. "I'm a dead man. Forget the prime minister. Forget the KGB. Forget the director." He looked wildly at Kinch. "Mary's called Suzanne."
"Oh, Christ, colonel."
*****
A well-built young man, blond, about 30, tapped his too large teeth with a cheap, plastic ballpoint. The tiny office remained shrouded in darkness. The tapping continued until he threw the pen across the room in frustration. He shoved the chair back from the desk; the screech resounded in the spartan room. He started talking to himself, thinking with his mouth open. "Finally, we locate the insufferable witch," he looked at his watch, "and she's in a B-17 already in Labrador. This is ridiculous!" He started pacing back and forth in front of his desk. "What am I going to do? I can't go shooting down the airplane–MIGs don't have that kind of range, not from Cuba anyway–and besides it would be too damned obvious. What! What!" He slammed his hand down on the solid oak desk.
Shaking his now sore left hand, he reached for his tea, took a sip and spat it out. Gone cold. In a fit of pique, he threw the glass against the wall. He felt gratified by the smash and shatter. He ran his hand through his hair. "Well, Yevgeny Stepanovich, you're just going to have to play this by ear, as the Americans say. Though dealing with that lunatic Robert Hogan...." His voice softened, turned wistful even. "That's it! If that fruitcake," he frowned at himself, for he was going to have watch the Americanisms, "wants to pretend it's 1945, well, we can do that, too!"
He scurried around the desk, picked up his phone. "Prevyet, Pyotr," he began.
*****
The dawn's deep reds and purples lightened as the B-17 made slow progress down the eastern seaboard of the United States. Inside the plane, Hogan checked the instrument panel and then his watch. 2.5 hours out of Andrews. I can't wait to land this bird. I will not be happy until Marya's safely in the Company's hands. Scanning the horizon–-sky now orangey and pinkish, ocean a forbidding dark blue-green–-he sighed, sighting nothing. Let's hope it stays that way.
He glanced over to his co-pilot and met Kinch's eyes. "Checking up on me?"
"Actually, yes. I'm not happy with those circles under your eyes. Or that deep, hacking cough you've suddenly developed."
"You're no prize for beauty, either."
"Well, it's been a long time since I've flown long distance with little sleep between legs. By the way, how did you keep up your flying time? Andrew'd said you'd been grounded."
"The flight surgeon officially grounded me, but it had nothing to do with eyesight and everything to do with my job." He exhaled softly. "I took up flying again after Miri died." He stared out the window. The sky was a beautiful azure.
"What is this Russian woman to you? She's given you nothing but trouble over the last 25 years and is in no small measure responsible for your first wife's death."
Hogan gave him a hard, baleful stare. "Where did that come from?"
"Peter filled us in about what'd happened. So we wouldn't ask any silly questions."
"So that's why the silence about Miri." He refused to talk about that, switched to an equally unpalatable subject. "I'm surprised you guys didn't ask about Hilda."
"Peter said she'd died in a bombing raid on Dusseldorf."
"I wish. It would've been better than what actually happened. I shot her."
"I assume you had a reason."
"Of course he had a reason, dahling. And if he hadn't shot her, I would have." Both men craned around to see Marya crouched precariously behind them, one hand on each pilot's seat. "She'd followed Hogan...."
"...to confront me about Miri...."
"...and overheard an entire mission plan. She walked in and threatened to turn us all over to the Gestapo. I do not understand what she expected."
Hogan continued, "It was too important a mission for her to blow, and it would've taken you guys out as well. I try to avoid others paying for my mistakes." His voice was both hard and regretful. He gave a quick scan of the skies and his watch. 2 hours.
"And to answer your question, he's doing this to gain revenge on those who killed the Snow Queen. The enemy of my enemy is my ally."
Staring out the window, shocked by the truth of the assessment, Hogan ignored Marya's usual epithet for Miri. "And right now, Kinch, the KGB is our mutual enemy. Getting her safely to Washington, getting her to talk...."
"...which I'll do, dahling...."
"...will set the KGB back ten years. The number of destroyed projects and dead agents will be high." Unsettled by Marya's acumen, Hogan further felt uneasy at the depth of his own hatred. I need to retire. I've been at this too damned long. What was it you said, Miri? You couldn't do this any longer? I think I've hit that wall. A chill breath blew across his shoulders.
"You look as sick as I feel, colonel."
Pretending not to feel Kinch's eyes boring through him, Hogan shared a quick, sharp glance with Marya. "At least we know it's time to quit." She nodded vigorously.
A burst of .50 calibre machine gunfire got their attention.
"What the hell was that?" cried Kinch.
"Feels like machine gun fire to me." Hogan spotted the P-51. "What the hell is it doing....Oh, God!" He banked the aircraft sharply. Marya'd already disappeared to her spot at the navigator's station. "The KGB sent us a welcoming committee."
"How the hell did they find us, colonel? The number of people who knew about this was small."
class=Section2>"Not small enough. But the only place the leak could be is the director's office. I had Mary call him well after we left England." Bullets ripped through the fuselage. "Dave's going to kill me. He's just not going to believe those holes are pigeon peckings."
"Forget Dave!" Kinch yelped. The bomber rolled sharply downward, changed course, headed out to sea. He took in the course change. "What are you up to, colonel?"
"What our overzealous Soviet friend may not know is that the USS Enterprise and her carrier group are returning to Norfolk, Virginia from NATO exercises in the Med. A dogfight over the carrier group's airspace will definitely attract Admiral Thomason's attention."
"And then, what part of short chase does our friend not understand?" Kinch swallowed nervously. P-51 Mustangs were much faster than B-17s. "If that crazy Ivan keeps it up"–-another burst of gunfire blew out the windows, glass cascading into his lap–-"he'll eventually blow us out of the sky." The bomber took a nose dive. "You aren't going to put this baby on the water?"
"Why not? Cutie pie back there isn't quite the pilot he thinks he is. Nor does he really understand the punishment a B-17 can take. He's going to have practically shred this bird before I can't land her."
Hogan concentrated on dodging the swooping fighter. Bullets flew everywhere, puncturing the wings, the tail. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their upper lips.
The carrier group appeared on the horizon. Another spray of gunfire, a few more holes. The Russian didn't seem concerned about the flotilla before him. Hogan pulled up slightly, pushed the throttle forward, and roared over the deck of the Enterprise. They could hear the shouts of the surprised and angry swabbies, some of whom had had to dive for cover. The P-51 followed suit. Hogan pulled the bomber higher into the air, circled around the carrier. The Mustang continued to come on.
Suddenly, the radio in the bomber crackled. "Unidentified B-17, who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're playing at?"
With remarkable nonchalance, Hogan replied, "This is Robert E. Hogan; I'm running a low-profile exfiltration operation. Can you get this Soviet-flown P-51 off my ass, Enterprise?" He shrugged at Kinch's surprise. The KGB already knows what we're doing here; we're not giving away any state secrets at this point.
"Already scrambled." 2 F4 Phantoms suddenly joined them. The P-51 refused to disengage and fired on one of the Phantoms. It put a missile into the vintage fighter–-which disappeared in a large fireball. "Was that good enough for you, Rob? When the hell are you going to quit this cloak and dagger crap?"
"Sorry to spill your coffee, Wally. Thanks for the assist. And would you believe the end of the year?"
"Promises, promises. Now, will you get the hell outta my airspace?"
"Yes, sir. And thank you, sir." Hogan saw Kinch's raised eyebrow. "I was only a 1 star general; he is a 3 star admiral. Be nice, especially over his airspace."
"Yeah, I'd say he has you over a barrel."
They flew on in silence for several minutes before Hogan muttered, "I wonder what other little surprises the KGB has got for us. They did rather tip their hand." At the sound of a spluttering engine, he looked out to see smoke billowing from the number 4 engine. "This is just wonderful. We're going to limp into Andrews–at best."
*****
Hogan handed Marya a cup of tea in the drab wardroom at Andrews Air Force Base. With a raised eyebrow, she took it, noticed the Lipton tag on the teabag. He shrugged, not caring about the subtleties of tea. The fine tremors of her hands hadn't escaped him. They reflected the air attack and the difficult landing. He rubbed his arms anxiously. The B-17 was in bad shape, and it had been a long time since he'd had to land anything that shot up.
Locking eyes with her, he thought: Did you somehow not think they'd try to knock you off? Get real, Masha, 'cause they're gonna do it again. Real soon.
His eyes scanned the room. Burly air police guarded the door. Boris and Natasha lay in their crates, the tranquilizer just wearing off. Exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Kinch slumped on the sofa. Hogan sighed: Any landing you walk away from is a good one, Kinch. He glanced at his watch. Never one to enjoy waiting, even though he could do it well, he felt very tense, almost ready to snap in two.
The door opened, and the director of central intelligence marched in. Every aspect of his wiry, angular frame radiated a controlled rage. Hogan simply raised an eyebrow at the man. Marya moved closer to him, and to comfort her, he put an arm around her waist. Seemingly accepting the consolation, she placed a hand over his.
The director stopped in front of Hogan, his foot tapping out his anger. "Congratulations, Hogan. This stunt has got to cap your already bizarre career." The foot thumped even faster.
Hogan's lips quirked into a sardonic grin. "You're right. It is quite the end to an unusual career. But one should go out at the top." Marya's fingers were tapping rhythmically on the back of his hand. It took a few seconds for his brain to register. It was Morse code, but rusty as he was, he couldn't read it. What is she trying to tell me?
The director's openly puzzled expression drew his attention back. "If a defecting station chief isn't cause enough to celebrate, you should know I'm planning on retiring, director, at the end of the year. The paperwork is already in process."
The director looked like someone had struck him. "Are you serious?"
"Given the number of violations of regulations, including two marriages to foreign nationals and this absolutely juvenile exfiltration, cashiering would be too good for him. I can't imagine, sir, you'd even entertain the notion of allowing him to retire unscathed." Lena Engle, a tall, bulky Polish-American woman and the director's executive secretary, growled. She snapped her fingers, "And let's not forget the creation of an international incident--you nearly killed the head of MI5."
"Ah, Lena, how nice to see you. Glad to know you haven't changed in the slightest."
Marya's fingers suddenly became painful on the back of his hand. Still, he didn't understand. He tried moving his hand, but Marya kept it in a vice grip.
Lena's sidestep attracted his attention. Hogan watched her with narrowed eyes. He'd always disliked her; aside from the fact she'd never been civil to him, she'd always seemed too much the bean-counter.
"I'm surprised you're not complaining about my commandeering that B-17 and sticking you with the repair costs."
"If she doesn't, I certainly will, Hogan." The director's wrath returned full force. "Who the hell do you think you are? What hell makes you sacrosanct? Do you think you're still fighting World War II? Because I can assure you you're not."
"Actually, sir, you're wrong. All the Cold War is and has been is an extension of World War II. If you think the combat stopped in 1945, I'm sorry to disillusion you. Only the enemy and the weapons have changed. And no matter what esoteric name you hang on it, it's still all about great power politics and controlling satellites. The nukes are the only things that keep us from killing each other." He sounded tired and disgusted.
A young, blond agent stepped slightly to the side of him. Marya's gripped Hogan's so fiercely he thought she'd break it. The Morse message finally registered. Him, him, him. Hogan twigged to its meaning. His eyes caught the unbuttoning of a jacket. Face contorting in apparent pain, he suddenly clutched his chest over his heart and started gasping and panting. Leaning to the left, his knees began to give. The director, shocked almost white, reached to grab him. Kinch jumped up from the sofa, took two giant steps forward. Avoiding the director, Hogan collapsed into Marya, taking her to the floor.
Pistol in hand, the blond man shoved Lena out of the way and squeezed the trigger. As people scattered, took cover, the air police jumped forward, .45s drawn, and peppered the assailant. His riddled body hit the floor.
Kinch rolled Hogan's limp form off Marya. "Get an ambulance! He's had a heart attack!"
"Bozhe moi," Marya breathed as she knelt by his body. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
*****
Snorting in a mixture of boredom, frustration, and anger, Hogan jammed his hands into his hospital bathrobe and continued to pace around his room. Everything after the seeming heart attack remained a bit of a blur. But his diversion had worked, had saved Marya, and she was now in the hands of an expert crossover team. The assailant, Yevgeny Stepanovich Petrenko, had missed, the shot having ricocheted off the floor into the wall. Unfortunately, the ploy had incarcerated him in the hospital. The ambulance crew had seen immediately there was nothing wrong with his heart, and while Hogan had tried to explain, his doctor–-and everybody he'd scared out of their wits, especially Kinch and Marya–-had insisted on a complete examination. Retribution he figured. One look at Kinch's angry expression had convinced Hogan to mind his manners; he hadn't been too sure the former Golden Gloves champion wouldn't have slugged him. It hadn't stopped Marya. His face still stung from where she'd slapped him; his ears still rung from the loud Russian bawling out she'd given him. She'd then been led away. Not even so much as a quick hug.
Feeling like a caged tiger, he snarled, "Don't yell at me, director. With every port and airfield blanketed by both the KGB and MI5, the B-17 was a godsend. The airshow ended that night, and I simply filed Dave Lisacki's own flight plan 12 hours early. It was the lowest profile means of extraction possible. I followed that flight plan, the standard one we flew during the war, until that P-51 showed up. And it wouldn't have shown up if Petrenko hadn't been a mole in your office." Hogan turned to the window in disgust. "I assume the plane will be fixed?"
"Oh, the plane'll be fixed and returned to its rightful owner with a carefully worded letter of national thanks." The director took a deep drag on his cigarette. He took another pull before stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. "Enjoying this, Hogan?".
"Look, the KGB went to great lengths to kill Marya. They were willing to run the risk of war and were willing to expose one of their most highly placed moles to stop her. It's only her great value that's going to save your ass with the President, if not Congress." Turning to face the director, he caught the flinch before the man lit up again. "And as to why I sliced the earl, he picked up my son for questioning. His goons got a little carried away." His voice was stony, unforgiving.
"Sorry about Patrick's bruises, but DORA[2] can be a nasty piece of work."
"Especially when the earl wants to be a bastard," Hogan hissed. Patrick had gotten more than bruises.
"That's how he gets the KGB." The man blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'm not going to be sorry to see you go, Hogan. You've been a goddamned maverick from day one. You have violated just about every rule in the book--including your two marriages to foreign nationals, your foreign national children, and your being in situ for too damned long--and you've gotten away with it. You do have the luck of the stinking Irish, but no more. The era of Wild Bill Donovan is long since past. You're a dinosaur, Hogan, and we don't need you any more." He crushed out the cigarette and strode for the door.
"And I don't need you anymore, either. Vietnam has sunk everybody's morale." The director abruptly halted, door half opened. "It's not a question of winning. It's a question of how badly are we going to lose." He'd read the reports, too.
"Go to hell, Hogan." The director bolted, almost bowling over Suzanne.
"After you."
Suzanne asked, "Who was that, Robert?"
"Just my ex-boss." He peered over the half-eyes perched on his nose. The strain showed in her drawn, pale face and chewed lips. Lena, I'm going to have your head for this. Pushing a mop in Pakistan will be too good for you. The only good thing is that Mary beat you to Patrick and Renate. "Suzanne...."
"You're looking awfully well, Robert." Her voice was flat.
He coughed slightly, asked, "Would it help to know I have bronchitis?" He gave her his most disarming smile. No response. Oh, boy. This is going to cost me at least a dozen red roses and dinner at Washington's best restaurant. He tried again. "Suzanne...."
"Sacre bleu, Robert! Qu'est qui se passe? Pourquoi tu ais le fait?" She moved away, rejecting his open arms, stopping his advance. "Pourquoi, Robert? J'ai eu une peur bleue," she wailed, throwing up her hands. Tears turned her cheeks a mottled red.
"Suzanne, I took this mission as a personal favor. It was also a mission of vital national interest." He refused to discuss his baser motives. "The faked heart attack saved a life and the mission."
"Je le déteste! Je le déteste!"
Watching her pace with her arms wrapped around her chest ripped at Hogan's heart. Her words only salted the wound. "Ma belle, c'est le fin." His French sounded terrible in his own ears. "I quit. I'm retiring at the end of the year. As of 1 January 1970, you'll have a completely ordinary husband."
She stopped pacing, glared at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes. "Tu ne fais pas pour moi."
He sighed in dejection. "No, Suzanne, I'm not doing it for you. This was one of those decisions I had to make for myself. You and the whole family will benefit from it, but I'm retiring because I've hit the wall. I can't and don't want to do this anymore. And," he sighed again, "in many respects, the director is right: I am a dinosaur. So all the way around it's time to quit."
"Robert, I came down here with the expectation that you were dying. I was so terrified you would pass away before I got here...before I could tell you I love you." She started to sob. "I couldn't sleep because I was so worried I wouldn't get the chance to say good-bye. I didn't...don't want to be your widow. And then I find this. It was all a performance. Do you have any idea how I feel?"
Have you heard a word I've said? Do you know how much of a heel I feel like? Hurting you, keeping secrets from you isn't my idea of fun, either! With effort, he cast his irritation aside. Her tear-ravaged face projected open pain. He swiftly moved to her, took her in his arms despite her struggles. Her hands pummeled his chest before sliding around to his back, pulling him closer. She bawled uncontrollably for a few minutes against his shoulder, thoroughly soaking it. The storm blew itself out, fell off to a hiccup.
She pulled away from him, but he didn't let her go. Gazing upward at him, she gulped a bit before asking, "You promise this will be the last time?"
He nodded his head vigorously. "I promise, Suzanne." She seemed to droop, and he guided her to the bed. He reached up and unzipped the back of her dress. "Let me get you out of this dress and into bed."
"Robert!"
He rolled his eyes. "Suzanne, you're mad enough at me as it is. If I let you sleep in your dress, and it gets all messed up, you'll be madder still. Sorry, I'm not that brave." He slipped the linen sheath from her shoulders, laid it on the back of the chair. "I'll let you sleep in your slip and stockings, but not your dress." He kissed her and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Perching on the side of the bed, he gently played with her hair until she relaxed and fell asleep.
Without warning, the door opened. Hogan watched his wife carefully. She stirred only slightly. "Whoever you are, go away," he growled softly.
"General, you should be in bed." The woman took in the bed. "But you can't do that. Who is she?"
"My wife, doctor." Hogan faced his on-scene physician, Major Ruth Spenser, a short, athletic Afro-American doctor, approximately 45 years old. "So, when are you going to let me out of here?"
"General, your reputation for being a difficult patient preceeds you...."
"Kinch told you." Hogan hadn't missed the divorcé's interest in the lady. "Go gently with James Kinchloe. Recent years have not been kind." Divorce and a son MIA weren't the only things. Civil rights activism had added official and unofficial harassment to his woes. Lena Engle had waved the files–-ones he'd already read--under his nose this morning.
"My private life is not up for discussion." Her short, straight hair with its light dusting of gray bounced slightly.
"Good. You're interested." He smiled broadly. Taking up a pen and paper, he wrote down Kinch's address and phone number; he gave her the slip of paper. "Don't lose this."
"You're incorrigible."
His wicked smile widened. "Yeah. Always have been. Now, I suspect you want me to be a good boy and lie down and rest."
"That would be good for openers. Then take your medication to clear up that bronchitis."
A hacking cough erupted from his chest, emphasizing her point. Obediently, he hopped up on the bed, gently moved Suzanne to the side, and joined her under the covers. "Grandchildren are marvelous. They share everything with you–-including their illnesses."
Major Spenser flicked an eyebrow with a well-manicured nail. "Whatever, general. I'd like to know how your physician deals with you," she muttered as she went to the door.
"Dick manages." Hogan beamed mischief at her. Only a grunt reached his ears as he watched her leave. Leaning back against a pillow, he contemplated the ceiling while enjoying Suzanne's warmth beside him.
*****
Smothering a cough, Hogan took back the plane tickets, received the baggage tags. Suzanne stood next to him, cradling her two dozen red roses. Looking over his wife's head, he caught sight of James Kinchloe walking up to the counter. Instead of following his wife toward the coffee shop, Hogan simply moved to one side, waited for Kinch, and rolled his eyes at the bemused expression.
Hoping to head off commentary, he asked coyly, "Why aren't you staying in DC? Major Spenser seemed more than reason enough."
Kinch handed the clerk his ticket and bag and whispered, "Two dozen, colonel?"
"Yeah, and the most expensive meal I've ever paid for in Washington, DC." He grimaced, contemplated the hole in his wallet. "Burned up almost $300."
"Damn Sam! That hurt!"
"No kidding." He flicked a glance at Suzanne, who'd finally realized that he wasn't with her. She started back toward him; he shared a conspiratorial moment with his co-pilot. "But the worst was a full day's shopping expedition. No African big game hunter has anything on Suzanne."
"Mais, cheri, you seemed to enjoy the time you spent in the lingerie shop. You were very interested, very attentive."
Suzanne sidled up to her husband, curled her hand inside his elbow. She gave him a sidelong glance that promised him no end of misery.
"Yeah, the Caribbean blue and cream lace teddy would have looked spectacular on you. Pity you wouldn't try it on."
Finally, she spluttered, "Oh...oh...whatever am I going to do with you, Robert?"
"Love me."
She threw up a hand. "J'y renounce. Pardonnez moi, monsieur mais je vais au café."
She got about two or three steps away when Hogan dodged to one side, peered around Kinch's shoulder. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I don't believe it!" Concerned, Suzanne was immediately back at his elbow.
Marya, russet hair shorn to a gamine cut and wearing a mod, deep purple trapeze dress, sauntered up to them. She was immediately trailed by a bewildered middle-aged man who kept scanning the area. Puckering her lips lightly, Marya gave Suzanne a couple of subtle chin and eyebrow lifts. Hogan heard his wife suck in her breath.
With a low-lidded expression, the Russian said to the Frenchwoman, "Don't worry, Madame Curie, I'm not going to steal your husband."
Hogan spoke directly to her handler. "What do you think you're playing at, Brent? This woman should be under wraps. Where the hell is your sense of responsibility? Your training? God, if you lose her now, it'll be a gigantic disaster–-from which your career would never recover."
Brent Ryle absorbed the tongue-lashing without comment. The tall man–he was 6'5"–just shrugged and cast a meaningful glance at Marya.
Hogan shook his head. "You're going to be in bed with her before you know what hit you."
"He's mahvelous, dahling," Marya purred.
"You know, I'm not going to miss this nonsense," Hogan remarked, staring at his feet, rubbing his forehead.
Marya moved to within inches of Hogan. "But I will miss you, dahling. I had to see you once more, to say goodbye. Robert Kyrilivich, you're a girl's best enemy." She wrapped her arms tightly around him, giving him a huge hug before kissing each cheek. There was the barest hint of tears in her eyes. "I doubt that we'll ever see each other again, so I want you to have a memento of me." She pressed a gold-framed icon into his hand. "My grandmother gave me this when I was a child, for my name day. It would've been Sophia's, had she been mine. You understand, so I want you to have it. Do svidanye, Robert Kyrilivich." She stepped back against Ryle, who took her upper arm and led her away.
To her retreating back, he murmured, "Do svidanye, Masha." He sniffed, more moved than he was willing to admit. He studied the icon, recognized the Blessed Virgin Mary. Of course, Masha, your patron saint. He walked toward an empty row of seats, stared down the long concourse before glancing back at the icon. A few chuckles bubbled up.
"Colonel?"
"Robert?"
Kinch and Suzanne Hogan looked at each other as the chuckling escalated to outright raucous laughter that startled passers-by. For Hogan, their confused faces only added to the hilarity. He practically doubled over with laughter, not noticing when the tears came.
*****
Kinch drained his beer, finished with his story. "The P-51 really ripped us up. One engine cut out; we had to shut its opposite off for balance. That made life fun. Then, after we landed, I saw just how shot up we were–-the tail was almost hanging off."
"That's an exaggeration, but I will concede it looked a lot like baby Swiss. But still, it wasn't as bad as the previous B-17 I'd had to land. I hit the runway a little too hard, and the tail actually fell off.." To the raised eyebrow, Hogan patted Kinch's arm. "You've just become a nervous flyer. We hit a pocket of turbulence on our way back, and he nearly freaked out."
"How would you know? You slept through the whole flight." Disgusted, he looked to the guys for support. They were all gathered at a back table at the Major's Folly. "His head pillowed on his wife's shoulder."
Newkirk smirked, but Carter cried petulantly, "And what's wrong with that?"
A mischievous grin curled Hogan's mouth. "He'll change his tune after a few dates with Major Spenser. He'll find how pleasant it is."
The dark eyes rolled until the whites showed. "Thanks a lot, colonel. And did your back appreciate the corkscrew you turned it into?" Hogan shrugged sheepishly, and Kinch added, "I rest my case."
Louis LeBeau demanded, "Is she safe? Is she happy?"
Leaning back in his chair, Newkirk muttered, "You've no idea 'ow glad I am that owld witch is in the States. Now, will ya just get over 'er?"
"Cochon," LeBeau spat.
Hogan ended the fight. "She's as safe as she can be. Happy is another matter. I don't think Marya can ever be happy."
"That's unfair, mon colonel." LeBeau got upturned hands as a response. "Well, I wish her happiness, and I'm very glad she got away." He raised his glass and toasted in rather slurred French.
"I didn't say I didn't wish her well. And in some respects, she'll do very well in the US." Pop culture she'll eat up. Being on the other side of the Cold War is another matter. I don't see you taking retirement in stride, Masha. You liked to play games too much.
Carter dragged his attention back to the present. "You know, general, we've been talking about how we all got to Stalag 13. It's your turn."
Hogan's eyes focused on the empty tulip glass between his hands. He then looked up, meeting the earnest blue eyes. No way of dodging it this time, Rob. He answered truthfully, bluntly. "I went to Stalag 13 for three reasons: combat fatigue, the death of my fiancée, and the death of my cousin."
"Blimey," moaned Newkirk softly.
Hogan went on, surprising himself more than his men. "I'd been seconded to the RAF in January 1940, and once the phoney war ended, I began flying bombing runs, originally as an observer, more often as a co-pilot. By the time I returned to the Army Air Corps, I was already tired of flying, but it's how I met Robbie and through him, his sister Barbara."
He slumped a little, remembering his tempestuous, headstrong fiancée. "We got engaged in October 1941 and were supposed to get married in April 1942, but she broke her neck in a riding accident about a month before the wedding. But what really sent me off, though, was my cousin Tommy's death."
"Mon colonel...." breathed LeBeau, face full of compassion. The rest of the guys had pulled closer to the table. Kinch's hand lightly touched Hogan's elbow.
Steepling his hand, rubbing his nose with his index fingers, Hogan harrumphed a couple of times before continuing. "Tommy O'Reilly was my cousin on my mother's side. Grandfather and his sons didn't emigrate to the States, and while they were Nationalists, they all understood that if Britain fell, Ireland was next. So, all the cousins who could joined up. Tommy flew with the RAF. That's how I met up with him." He stopped, composed himself. "Tommy was shot down over Germany in early 42, got tossed into a POW camp, and got killed trying to escape. I found that out from a buddy of his who made it back. I took the decision to go to Stalag 13 during his requiem."
"Yikes, general."
"Yeah. Grandfather'd said that anybody who died fighting against Hitler died on the side of the angels, and while I didn't and don't disagree with that, I was determined nobody else was going to buy it like Tommy. Not if I could help it." He took a deep draught of the full pint of Guinness Newkirk had placed in front of him.
"You were a man with a mission, colonel," remarked Kinch quietly. He lifted his glass. "To our mission. We did a damned fine job." They all klinked glasses.
"And to all those who died on the side of the angels. Their sacrifice was not in vain," added Hogan in a shakey voice.
"Amen, guv'nor."
They all touched glasses again.
[1] The woman's version is "Rachel, Rachel, I've been thinkin'".
[2]Defence of the Realm Act.