Last Snow (21 page)

J
ACK PUSHED
Annika off him, not roughly but firmly, so that there would be no question of his intent.

Part of him felt as if he should be thinking of Sharon, but Sharon was far away in every manner imaginable; she was lost to him in the way he’d been afraid he’d lost Emma. He realized now that from the moment he’d first met Sharon, from the instant of their first incandescent coupling, they were headed toward dissolution, like a body that sinks beneath the waves and, in a split instant, becomes nothing more than a reflection, a reminder of what was or, possibly, what might have been. But, in any event, it was losing its coherence, if it had any to begin with, as it plunged headlong into oblivion.

Emma had been their only chance to stay together, but, really, that was a false hope. For a moment he forced himself to imagine his life had Emma not died, and the inescapable conclusion was that as far as he and Sharon were concerned nothing would be different. From the moment Emma was born, they disagreed on everything concerning their daughter, a dangerously scattershot method of child-rearing, but they were both blinded by their immaturity. It was the wrong moment for them to become parents, and they didn’t handle it well, taking their fundamental differences into a more public arena.

The other part of him was both hard and on fire. Though he fought against it, his breath came in short, hot pants, as if he were nearing the end of a long, grueling race. He knew the thoughts of Sharon and dissolution were meant as a distraction from his current situation, but his mind refused to stay thrust back in time, returning again and again to the seductive stimuli his five senses brought in.

He drank in Annika’s scent, felt the warmth of her body, heard the soft soughing of her breath, like wind through the treetops. He could not help but savor the taste her lips had left on his, the first bite into a fresh peach.

He turned his head to see her lying on her right side, facing away from him. Her body was curled up slightly, lending her a more vulnerable appearance, as if she were already asleep, but he could tell by her breathing that she was still awake.

Her blouse, or what was left of it, had ridden up, revealing her bare back. The sight of the scars took his breath away. They must be from the eighteen months she had been incarcerated. The abuse she had suffered had been extreme, or one manifestation of it had been extreme. How extreme had Alli’s abuse been, how profound her terror and her suffering? How deeply was Morgan Herr embedded in her psyche? “
The terror dissolves like dreams when we wake up and go about our daily routine
,” she had said, which set him wondering. At the moment
when Annika’s scars lay revealed to him, when it crossed his mind to touch them, to ask her how she had come by them, it occurred to him that there was something voyeuristic, even obscene about poking around in a person’s sordid past. That’s what people did these days, however, and the more sordid the deeper the urge to pry, to learn why, when logically the opposite should apply. But there was nothing logical about the reflex to stare at a car wreck, to watch, spellbound, as bodies were pulled from the wreckage, to think: How badly hurt are they? Are they alive or dead? Thank God I’m here, safe and sound, passing by this disaster, but, hang on, slow down, I want to see more, blood and all.

Without a clear understanding of what he was doing or the consequences that might ensue he reached out. As he curled his hand over her hip she emitted a sound that was neither a sigh nor a moan, but contained the essence of both. That sound acted like a trigger, releasing him from whatever safety mechanism that had short-circuited what he had been feeling ever since he’d crossed the threshold of the bedroom.

“Forget it,” she said in a voice partially muffled by the pillow or perhaps her arm. “I don’t want you now.”

Laughing softly he removed his hand and turned off the second lamp, enveloping them in twilight. And yet it seemed to him that he’d been plunged into darkness so absolute it was possible to lose his bearings, as if he were at sea beyond sight of all land. He wondered whether he should go or remain on the opposite side of the bed, trying to find a place comfortable for himself, at which point she turned around as lithely as a gymnast, folded her arms around him, and pressed her soft, half-open lips to his. He could feel her panting breath as his mouth closed over hers.

Their bodies moved in concert, in a back-and-forth rhythm not unlike the tide that rules the seas. They were like engines revving up, yearning to be released, longing for the fury that only a vehicle at
speed and slightly out of control could generate, summoned like a genie or a djinn from shadows where no one looked.

Lost inside her he became unmoored from a sense of either place or time, dimly aware that in plummeting toward oblivion he sought an end to the dissolution of his life.

“L
LOYD
B
ERNS
’
S
death was almost certainly the work of Benson and Thomson.” Dennis Paull, the head of the Department of Homeland Security, leaned forward tensely, seeking to keep his voice low. He was speaking of two prominent members of the previous administration, Miles Benson, the war vet and former director of the CIA, and Morgan Thomson, the former national security advisor, the last of the neocons who had managed to maintain his power, due mainly to his ties to companies manufacturing war materiel.

On one of those dank District days when winter and spring, for a short time evenly matched, fought one another to a standstill, five of the most powerful men in the capital, and therefore in America, clustered beside the newly turned grave of Senator Lloyd Berns, following the mournful pomp and circumstance of his funeral and burial among the fallen heroes of the country at Arlington National Cemetery.

Paull was huddled with President Carson; Vice President Arlen Crawford, the big, rangy, sun-scarred former Texas senator; Kinkaid Marshall, the new head of NSA; G. Robert Kroftt, director of Central Intelligence; Bill Rogers, the national security advisor; and General Atcheson Brandt, who had handled the delicate arrangements with Russian president Yukin for Carson’s historic U.S.-Russian security accord. This meeting had convened following the services, after Berns’s family—his wife, sister, two sons, daughter, various inlaws, and grandchildren—had stood stiffly, wept, and thrown handfuls of dirt on the coffin. Around the six men, at a discreet distance, was a constellation of Secret Service operatives, all staring outward across the sea of headstones, bouquets of flowers, mourners, miniature American flags, and the occasional eternal flame.

“You’ve given us no proof, Denny,” Marshall said, “but even if you had, what have they accomplished with Lloyd’s death?”

“I’ve already appointed Ben Hearth as the new whip,” President Carson said, “and he’s tougher with the opposition than Lloyd ever was. I’m not suggesting that Benson and Thomson aren’t still formidable enemies, but that particular motive’s a no-go.” He spread his hands. “What else do we have?” He briefly considered bringing up Jack’s mission, then almost at once dismissed the notion.

“Setting aside the matter of Senator Berns’s demise, I’m still of the opinion that our most pressing business concerns the changes taking place inside the Kremlin even as we speak.” This from CIA Director Kroftt, who was understandably alarmed by the recent developments in Russia.

Vice President Crawford nodded emphatically. “The severe downturn in Russia’s energy-based economy has made those inside the Kremlin—especially President Yukin—nervous about the longevity of the country’s influence.”

“The fact is,” Kroftt continued, “Russia as a power has been in
retreat ever since the end of the Cold War. The West’s decision to formally recognize Kosevo as an independent Serbian state marked the nadir of Russia’s sphere of influence. Ever since then, the Kremlin has been spinning its webs at light-speed, manufacturing a plan that would bring the country back into prominence.”

“Pardon me, but if I may interject an observation and some pertinent facts,” General Brandt said, “the Baltics, the Balkans, the Caucasus, all of Central Asia and Central Europe, in fact, are experiencing the same fate as Russia’s.”

Carson, watching Lloyd’s family marching slowly toward the limousines that had brought them here, saw a small boy turn and stare back toward his grandfather’s grave. Carson recognized him because he was the only one of the grandchildren who had remained completely dry-eyed during the burial. But now, with his back to his family, free to vent his terror and his sadness, he wept openly. Perhaps he was remembering how his grandfather had taken him to the zoo, or to a movie, letting him stuff his face with chocolate and ice cream. Certainly he had no inkling that his beloved grandfather had left behind a mistress, a mysterious younger woman who might herself be mourning his passing, wherever she was. And seeing the sadness leak out of this child reminded him of his own daughter so far away in every manner imaginable. The thought pierced his heart, made him want to run to the child, pick him up in his arms, and tell him that everything would be all right.

“However,” Brandt continued, “Russia maintains a distinct advantage over its surrounding neighbors in that, owing to its rich stores of oil and natural gas, it maintains an enormous amount of reserves, both in funds and in currency, more than all the other countries combined. Moreover, it owns and controls the natural gas that supplies virtually all of Western Europe.”

“True enough,” Kroftt affirmed, “as far as it goes.” He cleared his throat as he handed around Xeroxed dossiers. “However, my Russia
desk has prepared a white paper, the major thrust of which is this: Based on the successful military incursion Russia recently made into Georgia we envision an imminent reemergence of Russian power using a three-pronged strategy through military, intelligence, and energy means. What this, in effect, means is that the era of Russian retrenchment is over. Yukin intends to extend its sphere of influence outward once again, to encompass Georgia and Ukraine, to name only the first two strategic expansions.”

“This is all purely conjecture, and in fact has been put forward in other forms by other members of the intelligence community.” Closing the dossier, which he had skimmed with a practiced eye, General Brandt turned to Carson. “Sir, as you know, I’ve had many one-on-one meetings with President Yukin over the past eight years and in all that time I’ve never once caught a glimpse of this bellicose scenario.”

“I beg your pardon, General,” Crawford drawled, “but I can’t think how it would benefit Yukin to let you in on what he’s planning. On the contrary, as you can see by the previous administration’s hostile response to Russia’s war with Georgia, he would take great pains to keep you from knowing anything at all.”

“It’s the previous administration’s grievous errors vis-à-vis Russia I’m trying like hell to amend,” General Brandt said. “What we don’t need is a return to our old adversarial position, which resulted in the bitterest of exchanges between the White House and the Kremlin.”

“The Kremlin’s time has come and gone, which is why it’s flailing away at anyone or anything it believes is antagonistic to it.” The CIA chief thumbed through the dossier. “As you all can see from the exhibits on page five we are most concerned with Ukraine because strategically it’s the cornerstone of any Russian expansion. Ukraine’s location gives Russia access to the Black Sea and, from there, the Mediterranean. Without an integrated Ukraine, Russia is vulnerable to the south and the west. Furthermore, the preponderance
of a Russian-speaking population, along with the fact that Ukrainian transport is already entwined with Russia’s agricultural, industrial, and energy businesses, make it an absolutely vital acquisition.”

Kroftt let the pages of the dossier flutter closed. “All that being said, there’s yet another aspect to Russia’s designs on Ukraine that make us the most uncomfortable. As he’s done with Gazprom, Yukin has nationalized Russia’s uranium industry. Like China, Russia sees no viable future without atomic energy to take the place of coal, oil and, yes, even natural gas. The trouble is that Russia itself has fewer uranium resources than its geologists had forecasted even three years ago. That means Yukin
must
venture outside Russia’s current borders in order to build up its reserves.”

General Brandt cocked his head. “Have you heard something I haven’t, Bob? Because there’s been no indication that Ukraine is or even could be a significant source of uranium.”

For the first time, the CIA chief looked less than confident. “That, of course, is the conundrum we’re wrestling with. The General is correct. As of this moment there has been no major uranium strike in Ukraine.”

General Brandt looked vindicated. “Sir, I’m not trying to dismiss the hard work the CIA has put into this white paper, but the fact is that during the past eight years so much damage has been done to our relationship with the Kremlin that just to get President Yukin to agree to the summit with you took untold hours of blood, sweat, and tears. I respectfully submit that now is not the time for rash action, saber rattling, or even accusations. Sir, together we’ve made significant progress. We’ve forged a diplomatic détente with Russia. Now you’re about to sign an accord that will solve the worldwide deadlock on the Iranian nuclear weapons threat and bring a renewed level of security to the American people.” He looked around at each grim face in turn. “Do we really want to jeopardize what will turn out to be your presidential legacy on the basis of one intelligence report? Besides, as
we are all painfully aware, our military capability abroad is already stretched to the breaking point.”