Caernarfon, Wales: November 1956

"Donime, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae,/libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum/de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu:/libera eas de ore leonis,/ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum,/sed signifer sanctus Michael/repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam/quam olim Abrahae promisisti/et semini ejus….'"

As well as the choir handled the Offertory, Hogan hardly paid attention to the Mass. His mind wandered, and his soul was numb. What am I going to do without her? The question had hardly left his mind over the past week. What's going to become of Patrick, motherless now? He could hardly focus, and he doubted he'd been much help to his almost 9 year-old son. Blessedly, Dick and Margaret had taken care of them both for a couple of days before Miri's nephews, aghast at their aunt's sudden demise, arrived to handle the funeral arrangements. Hogan knew he could never have managed.

"Vere Sanctus es, Domine, et merito te laudat omnis a te condita creatura, quia per Filium tuum, Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum, Spiritus Sancti operante virttute, vivficas et sanctificas universa, et populum tibi congregare non desinis, et a solis ortu usque ad occasum oblatio munda offeratur nomini tuo.'"

The priest tripped through the Latin of the canon of the Mass. Hogan didn't care. He'd rarely gone to Mass with Miri and Patrick, but now, he'd have to go regularly. Miri had insisted Patrick would be raised Catholic. Since she was no longer here to fulfill that obligation—pain flared through him—he'd have to do it. Duty overrides hypocrisy?

He looked down at his son standing so meekly beside him. The dark-haired boy, already tall for his age, but painfully thin, fought not to cry. For a brief second, his father smiled: he's going to have my height and like me, he won't fill out until he's in his twenties. Poor kid! In the rest, he takes after Miri. The smile disappeared. Hogan put his arm around Patrick's thin shoulders, pressed the boy into his side, and felt his son give way to tears.

"Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam, quia puis es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam, quia puis es.'"

The tiny, closed coffin covered with a dark green pall and topped with a heavy crucifix sat on the bier in the aisle. Hogan looked at it in anguish: Why, God? Why? There was no apparent reason for her death. It seemed senseless and ridiculous to bury such a vibrant woman of 43. He turned away, caught sight of Miri's family. Her sister, Angharad, ten years older, could barely stand next to Patrick. Owain literally had to support his mother. His face was impassive. Not so his brother, Dai, who looked poleaxed.

But dead she was, and by poison, too. That meant murder. Wrath stirred in Hogan, clearing his mental processes. Who killed her and why? Being CIA station chief in London gave him certain perquisites, certain advantages. Whoever had killed Miriam would rue the day.

"Ite, missa est,'" the priest intoned.

"Deo gratias,'" they responded. Hogan snorted.

A week after burying his wife, Hogan walked into MI6 HQ in London, heading straight for the office of his opposite number, Sir James Roberts. Robbie's secretary looked up at him and silently motioned him to enter. His old friend regarded him with tired eyes under greying hair; he had a large patch of white over his right eye. "What can I do for you, old son?"

"I want to read the autopsy report. I know Dick sent it to Intelligence."

"It went to Security Service."

"Can it, Robbie. You got it away from Snuffy. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to actually read it."

Robbie stood up and came around his desk to lean on its edge. "Why, Robert? What do you hope to accomplish, except to make yourself ill with grief and guilt?

Hogan looked his friend right in the eye. "Simple. Not knowing is worse than actually knowing. My imagination has run pretty rampant in the last two weeks." His mind had been playing all sorts of ugly scenarios for him.

"Robert, it makes for some very unpleasant reading. The Soviets have really taken the gloves off."

Shaking his head in disbelief, the American sat down. "Robbie, where have you been? The gloves came off back in '48 with the Airlift—something we both flew, I might add. Maybe you're not seeing it because you're still messing around with empire, but Korea showed us what it was all about. What about the repression in Hungary? Amateur hour has been over for quite awhile now."

Robbie pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to formulate an answer to Hogan's as usual, well-taken points. After a few moments, he riposted, "Your own administration has a lot to answer for with regard to Hungary."

Hogan sighed. "Yeah, I know. But the Republicans, including the President, aren't all that interested in Europe. They're only interested in balancing off the Soviet Union. And your little escapade in Egypt was idiocy. Hungary might have been easier to deal with if we'd not been so embarrassed by your unilateral moves. What the hell was Eden thinking?"

"He saw Nasser as Hitler." Robbie's voice was quiet. Prime Minister Eden had unquestionably overreacted, costing him his health and the premiership. Hogan didn't respond; instead, he stared determinedly at his opposite number. Finally, Robbie reached across his desk to retrieve a folder. He handed it to Hogan. "Here it is."

The widower read the autopsy report, trying, but failing, to control his horror. Dick had said poison; what he hadn't said was what it did. The report concluded that Miri had gotten the poison into her system approximately 3 days before it had killed her. She probably had unknowingly ingested it, making it most likely colorless, odorless, and tasteless. Chemically crude, it certainly was effective--it caused slow bleeding in the alimentary tract. Cause of death: massive internal hemorrhage. He closed the folder.

"My God, what a miserable way to die. She must have been in considerable pain before she ever let me know," he whispered.

Robbie watched him with a guarded expression. "Here's the real question, old man: why kill Miriam? What was to be gained?" The olive-skinned Englishman was silent a moment. "Now, Robert, honestly, does knowing help?"

Twisting his wedding ring around his finger, Hogan heaved a deep sigh and answered more than Robbie had asked. "I feel like hell. Some days I don't even feel a thing. And every day, in a myriad of ways, I am reminded that she's not here anymore." He suddenly resented this. "How do you expect me to feel?" There was a tense pause as Hogan jumped up to pace around the office. "And no, knowing doesn't help."

MI6's deputy chief harrumphed slightly. "Forgive the intrusion, old man, but I think I should point out that right now you are wounded to your core. Grief and guilt…." At Hogan's look of protest, Robbie added, "Yes, guilt. Because you couldn't protect her, couldn't save her." He let that sink in. "Grief and guilt do not mix well with anger in any situation, let alone one of international espionage. Take leave. Give yourself time to mourn."

Silence pervaded the office for several minutes before Hogan remarked, somewhat sourly, "You know, Robbie, if you keep this up, you'll be the vicar yet."

"Just don't do anything stupid, Robert." He watched Hogan head out the door, adding, "Sometimes the vicar has better answers, old son."

Bernard Mays struggled to control his temper. Just 30, with blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like the Iowa farm boy he was than an intelligence agent. And the nearly white-haired woman—odd, because she was barely 40—with the defiant lift to her chin was a prize of the first order: a refugee of the Hungarian Uprising. But Magda Tirza had to be the most arrogant, unco-operative crossover he'd ever had to deal with.

He finally snapped. "Look, lady, we can either get through this debriefing or I can let you go back to Hungary. Do you know what the Soviets will do to you?"

"Undoubtedly, they are already stalking me."

"They probably are, and right now, I'd let them have you. As far as I can see you're not worth anything to us." The dark eyes blinked, and the pale skin lost what little color it normally held. Bernie caught, out of the corner of his eye, someone gesturing to him through the window. He decided to let Magda stew in her own juices. "Mme. Tirza, I'm going to leave you here—alone—to think about your situation. Given your support for Nagy, do you really think the Soviets are going to be pleased to see you?"

"They'll see me dead."

"So be of some value to us." He left the Hungarian to her thoughts.

Mary Kaiser met him as soon as he left the briefing room. Before he could even say anything to the tall red-head, she cut in, "Boss is back. Wants to see his people. Now."

"Do you ever talk in complete sentences, Mary?" For the English major from Grennell, it was the most annoying thing about the chief's secretary. That she never gave him the time of day was the second.

She didn't respond to his query, but she did stop in the hallway to look him in the eye. Her green eyes were deadly serious. "Boss is in a snit. He wants to know who killed his wife and why. So he's checking on projects to see what's most threatening to our friends from Moscow." She'd started walking again in the midst of her commentary.

"Oh, brother," moaned Bernie.

"Yeah. So Boss is in no mood for tomfoolery or smart attitudes."

Just as they reached the door to the office, Bernie realized she'd spoken in complete sentences. My God! She can do it! Maybe there's hope for me yet. His insane hopes died rapidly as he took in his chief.

Already lean, Robert Hogan had dropped ten pounds in two weeks, making him truly spare. With those distinguished wings of silver sweeping back from his temples, he embodied Bernie's vision of Edmond Dantès. But the adamantine dark eyes scared the hell out of him. And the undercurrent of fear in the office suggested it wasn't just him. Mary, of course, was impervious. None of the chief's moods ever affected her.

Hogan spoke quietly, "Most of you have heard by now that my wife died suddenly and unexpectedly two weeks ago. What you probably don't know is that she was killed by a previously unknown poison. The chemical signature indicates that it's a Soviet invention." Shock went around the room. "It's a very nasty concoction that causes massive internal bleeding, and there is no known antidote. You're dead in three days." Bernie felt his stomach turn. "Now, people, I want to go through our projects. Is there something there threatening enough to make the Opposition kill for a warning?" Hogan started grilling each of his subordinates in turn.

Bernie, who'd never really seen Mrs. Hogan—he'd heard plenty about her—faded out a moment as his colleagues gave their reports. This sounded like a fishing expedition to him, and he doubted seriously Magda Tirza was worth killing Mrs. Hogan over. He certainly hadn't gotten anything out of Tirza.

Waiting his turn for the hot seat, Bernie scanned the room. An 8 x 10 color photograph in a heavy silver frame caught his attention. He stared at the photo—a beautiful woman with almost white hair and stunning black eyes over a wide, generous mouth—and he wondered why the chief had a picture of Magda Tirza on his bookshelf. The answer painfully flashed across his brain, and it almost drove him to his knees. He yelped, "Oh, my God!"

Everybody's eyes were suddenly upon him. Hogan's bore through him. "Yes, Bernie, you wish to say something?"

Bernie licked his lips quickly. A nervous habit. "Yes, sir." He pointed to the photo on the bookshelf. "That's your wife, sir?"

"Yes."

"She's a dead ringer," he flinched at his own poor choice of words, "for Magda Tirza, the crossover I've got down in the briefing room."

Silence reigned. Bernie could hear the clock ticking.

"Do you realize what you're saying?"

Bernie swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. The Soviets knocked off your wife in the mistaken belief that she was Tirza."

Marya Sergeievna Bunitskaya slammed the folder down on her desk. London traffic could be heard through the wide window. It didn't mask her genuine anger. "Borka, you idiot! You were supposed to take care of Magda Tirza quietly, efficiently, without fuss!" She spread her hands wide. "Instead I come here from Moscow to find that not only is Tirza not dead, but she's in American hands."

"Masha, darling, what are talking about? Of course, Tirza's dead." Boris Vassilievich Sukurukov had killed the Hungarian at a flower show. He'd just dropped the stuff in her tea. She drank it down without suspecting a thing.

"No, Borka, the Hungarian is still very much alive. The woman you killed was the British-born wife of Robert Hogan, the CIA's station chief here in London." She pulled two photos out to show him. The women could have been identical twins.

"So? Why is this a problem? What can he or they do about it?"

Marya flipped her russet-colored hair back from her face and surveyed Boris with narrowing eyes. He was a strapping specimen of Slavic manhood—brother, was he a giant—and her delicious large one. But he wasn't overly endowed with brains. "Borka, you fail to realize the seriousness of the situation. I know Hogan. He was always very clever and very resourceful. Put those two qualities together with a justifiable anger at the loss of his wife and what do you get?" She didn't give him time to answer. "Trouble. Hogan was—is? I don't know--passionately in love with his wife, though Lenin knows what he saw in that frosty midget. He will direct all his energy to finding her killer."

"I think you overestimate our opponent's strength. And given Tirza's legendary prickliness, do you honestly expect their usual crossover man, Bernard Mays, to break her? No, Masha, you worry too much. Especially about this relic from your past."

Marya came within an ace of throwing her paperweight at him. Coldly, she said, "Borka, if they discover your slip up, Hogan'll break that woman inside of 3 hours. Within 6 hours, Washington and London will know about everybody on that list Tirza stole before leaving Budapest. Your name is on that list."

"All right. I see your point. What do we do now?"

"We wait. We wait to see how much and what kind of damage control your mistake is going to necessitate." She rolled her eyes extravagantly. No way was she going to Siberia for this numbskull. Marya lit a cigarette and contemplated her future.

Sir James Roberts felt absolutely swamped. Reports stacked up at his left elbow that he wasn't getting through like he should. His mind kept straying to Hogan. The last thing he wanted to hear was that the American had disgraced himself with Washington, or worse, had got himself killed. His son didn't need to be an orphan--being motherless was bad enough. Of course, even if Hogan managed to get through this quest for revenge unscathed, what then? Robbie threw down his pen in disgust with himself. Worrying about Robert Hogan wasn't getting his own job done. But still, the American was an old and dear friend. They'd stood up for each other at their respective weddings, were godparents to each other's children. Resting his cheek in his hand, the Englishman muttered, "I really should shake you hard." He was still brooding when Hogan waltzed in.

"Daydreaming, Robbie? That's not like you." Hogan's smile was wide and devious.

"Actually, I was contemplating shaking you until what passes for your brain rattles in your empty skull," the Englishman snapped.

"And who starched your shorts?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I've got some really juicy stuff for you. Sort of a payback for getting the autopsy report. Snuffy will no doubt be very appreciative."

"You're supposed to go through Miss Piggy." Robbie groaned and closed his eyes in irritation. With some asperity, he said, "Now, you've got me doing it." He could not continue to refer to GCHQ's remarkably stout, ravenous liaison that way.

"Actually, it's a lot better and faster if I just give it to you." Hogan put an envelope on Robbie's file-strewn desk. "Try not to lose this. It's a list of Warsaw Pact agents operating within the United Kingdom."

"My God! How did you get this?" Robbie was increasingly flabbergasted as he ripped open the envelope and read the contents.

"Magda Tirza."

"Who?"

"The Hungarian crossover we've got stashed. She was part of Imre Nagy's government. Got clean away with this remarkable list of agents. It's not as complete as I'd like, but it'll set Soviet intelligence back 18 months at least. And it will give us some maneuvering room. The expulsions will be quite public and nicely embarrassing for Moscow."

They both knew retaliatory expulsion of agents was a low-level way of shutting down annoying operations. Diplomatic egg on the face beat bombs and bullets.

"How did you get her away from the Soviets? They must have wanted her dead very badly."

"Probably still do, Robbie. That is, if they've figured out they killed the wrong woman."

Robbie stood up to face a sobered Hogan. "What are you driving at, old man?" The American showed him a photo of Tirza. The Englishman sat down in shock. "God's blood, Robert!"

"Miri was killed by mistake. This point broke Mme. Tirza. Apparently, the Soviets tried first to kidnap her, then assassinate her right before she fled Hungary at the very end of October. Instead of her, they got her husband. She fled for London via Vienna. The Soviets were clearly on her tail. 6 days later, Miriam died. When she found out this, Tirza lost it and coughed up the list."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Well, the administration is going to expel at least 3 agents from Washington and demand the removal of about 6 more from the UN. There are a handful that have penetrated certain sensitive areas and will never be going home. I expect your government will do likewise." Hogan's black amusement ceased. "However, there's one here in London I'm going to grab this evening."

"Robert," the MI6 deputy head warned.

"8 to 5, he's the one who killed Miri. But, there are other things we want him for. Capturing him will be quite the coup." Hogan answered the question in Robbie's eyes. "Boris Vassilievich Sukurukov. Also, going after him will probably reveal who their new station chief here in London is."

Robbie flipped through his files. "I can tell you who that is. Marya Bunitskaya. She got in from Moscow yesterday." He whisked out a photo. "What's wrong, old son?"

"Oh, great, Marya." He heaved a deep sigh. "I had lots of dealings with her during the war. She always made things difficult." He thought a moment. "Sukurukov's dead."

"And how do you figure that?" Sometimes, Hogan's brain box worked either too quickly or too illogically for Roberts.

"Easy. Marya is no fool. She'll have played the game out several ways. She knows me, just as I know her. Missing Tirza and allowing the list to fall into our hands was a serious mistake. Damage control is now her only option. She also understands why I want Sukurukov, but cannot allow me to get my hands on him. That would be worth her own life. Either she spirits him out of the country or she kills him." He picked up the hat he'd tossed on the chair behind him. "Now, it's just a race."

Sukurukov knew he was being followed. It had been obvious at the beginning, but had increasingly been less so. Just when he thought he'd shaken the tail, the man would make himself known, forcing the Russian to change direction. This made Sukurukov nervous and gave him the sense that he was being herded. He hurried down the Strand, ducking down a side street. The man in a trench coat followed, picking up his own pace. Sukurukov sped past the Coach & Horses and turned into a dark alley. His pursuer continued to come on. The Russian didn't hear the tiny pop from a high pile of crates.

The tail had only been about three steps behind Sukurukov when the bigger man hit the opposite wall as if shoved. The trench-coated man put a hand to the Russian's neck, even though he knew he was dead. "Nice job, Marya. You beat me to him."

Marya stepped out from behind the crates. She was panting, as if from strenuous exertion. "Hogan dahling," she purred, overgrowling her 'r's. "You made me work for it. You sprang your little trap sooner than I anticipated. Fortunately for us, I knew Boba better than you did."

"You killed your own lover."

"Either that or go to Siberia for his mistakes. Or worse." She shrugged extravagantly. "Just a little clean up job."

"But somebody had to do it."

"Of course, darling. I couldn't very well let you have him. With your ferocious drive and your usual deviousness, you would have picked Boba clean in less than 2 weeks. And that would have been very bad for us. No, Hogan dahling, you've had enough success for one day."

"I wouldn't have had any success if your boyfriend here hadn't murdered my wife."

"Oh, that's convenient. Blame the victim."

Hogan felt ready to explode. "What do you call Miri's death? The high cost of doing business?" he shouted.

"For once, you are thinking with your heart. I knew you could do it." She felt his anger, but let it wash over her. "Would you prefer the fortunes of war?"

"Miri was a civilian in this war."

Marya took two steps closer to him. "I am sorry about your personal loss, darling, but as the Snow Queen herself could have told you, accidents happen. You regret them, but you don't apologize for them." Boy, was he thinking with his heart. She couldn't believe it. Almost like a Russian! There must have been fire under all that ice.

"I don't know why Miri didn't shoot you when she had the chance."

"Because she knew you adored me." Marya kissed him on both cheeks. "Now, go home to that charming little boy of yours." The Russian straightened her fur hat and then walked nonchalantly toward the Coach & Horses, leaving Hogan standing in the alley.

Hogan quietly entered the Georgian townhouse. At this late hour, both Patrick and Mrs. Trelawny, the new housekeeper, would be asleep. He glanced at his watch. He should be, too. But he couldn't. Sleep had become elusive, and he knew it was because he missed Miri. The bed he'd shared with her now seemed cold and alien. At the drinks cabinet, he poured himself 3 fingers of Irish whiskey and sat down on the battered red velvet sofa. Miri had despaired of ever repairing it, and at this point, he didn't really care.

He threw back a hefty swallow of the neat whiskey and felt it burn his throat. He couldn't get over the senselessness and stupidity of Miri's death. He'd hoped that finding out who and why would help. It didn't. It was just a dumb mistake, a total blindside to a woman who'd retired from the fray. She had had a whole different life. She'd really enjoyed being a wife and mother. She'd had as many outside projects and interests as imaginable—Catholic Relief Society, St. Elizabeth's Guild, the Flower and Garden Association. An active member of the Labour Party, too. Hogan drained his whiskey. To take her away from all that because of a damned error seemed more than he could endure.

Restless, he got up to wander around the silent townhouse. He opened the door to Patrick's room. His son lay spread-eagled under the duvet, his pale face mashed into the pillow. Hogan had noticed some regression in behavior. The boy had clung to him tightly over the last month. It didn't surprise him. With one parent gone suddenly, could the child help but fear the other one would also disappear? After the first horrible days had passed, Hogan had made sure to be home for dinner and to put Patrick to bed. It seemed to be helping. So did having Mrs. Trelawny around—not only was she an older woman, a grandmotherly sort, but was also a Welsh-speaker. Miri had insisted on Patrick learning her language. Hogan would see he kept it. Patrick flopped over in his sleep, scattering the bedclothes. His father covered him again before quietly withdrawing.

The house settled audibly as Hogan wandered into the study cum library. The rolltop desk stood off to one side. Miri had sat there to pay bills, to write letters. Her reading glasses still lay on the blotter. Hogan sighed deeply and turned away. When would this constant ache in his chest go away? Would it ever? Ignoring his own questions, he scanned the shelves for something to distract him until he fell asleep. He pulled out a CS Forester novel. A little, leather bound book fell out. Puzzled, Hogan opened it to discover his wife's diary. He glanced at the desk. So she'd done that, too, there. Pulling his own glasses out of his breast pocket, he sat down and began to read.