In War Times (35 page)

“He probably has different memories too. We didn’t really talk about it much. What are you doing now?”

“I finished my degree at MIT and I’m working at a big research facility.”

“What are you researching?”

“Peaceful uses for atomic energy.”

“I’m saving people from fires.”

“Good man.”

They were deep in conversation at four
A.M.
, as were a few other guys, sitting at various tables, all of them extremely drunk.

Then Wink excused himself to use the bathroom. Zee, disheveled and grinning, teetered across the room and said, “G’night, Dance. Great goddamned party. We gotta do it again.”

The rest of the men left with Zee. And Wink did not return.

“Damn!” said Sam, when he realized what had happened. “
Damn
!” he shouted.

But that did not bring Wink’s world back.

Sam went outside, his head spinning. The stars sprawled across the night sky. He lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously, wondering what he ought to do now.

The first thing he did was go to his parent’s house. He got the device and brought it back to Cleveland.

In his apartment kitchen, he took it from its lead box and examined it carefully.

It was no longer clear, but smoke-gray.

The following day, he went through three newspapers, listened to the news, talked to his officemates with such enthusiasm about history and current events. He kept this up for two weeks, until he could see they thought he’d gone around the bend.

The HD2—the second incarnation of the Hadntz Device—still did not respond to his touch. Things remained constant.

As far as he could tell.

He considered his next move carefully. If the OSS was on their same clockwork schedule, they would arrive in a week and give their pitch. They could, conceivably, ransack his apartment.

He put the HD2 back in the lead box and returned it to the radio at his parent’s house, satisfied that, for the moment, it was quiescent.

After that, he tried to look up Kocab. Found, through his mother-in-law, that Kocab and his wife had moved to California. “It was so sudden,” she said wistfully. “I miss the baby. Sure, I’ll send you their new address, as soon as they’re settled.”

At least he wasn’t dead, Sam told himself.

He never did get that address, and the next time he tried, he could not reach any of Kocab’s contacts.

Maybe Kocab had segued into that other time as smoothly as Bird segued from key to key.

Yes, it worked. But how? Did it need another nuclear blast to work again?

He considered creating another device, or taking the HD2 to the nuclear tests he was sure were taking place, somewhere in the world. Perhaps that would activate it. He didn’t have access to that information, though.

It seemed best to leave things on an even keel. That, in itself, was not doing nothing. It was doing something.

It was leaving well enough alone.

His own world was strange enough.

Sam did some of his own research, and discovered that the atomic airplane was supposed to be a perpetual warship which never had to land, since it would never need refueling. The design proposed an airship large enough for a thousand men, a village of warriors patrolling the globe from the air as submarines did beneath the oceans, with breaks only every few months, armed with nuclear bombs.

Atomic bomb games, atomic razor blades, and atomic golf balls, among many other “atomic” items, filled the stores. He reviewed atomic blast emergency plans from the point of view of fire protection.

The bomb had definitely changed this world.

O
NE NIGHT IN
July, Sam was awakened by a ringing phone. The glowing dial on his bedside clock, blurry without his glasses, seemed roughly aligned to a three
A.M.
position. Instantly, he thought of his parents. In his hurry to get the phone, he stumbled over a stool in his dark kitchen and caught himself on the sink.

“Hello?”

The line hissed. Definitely long distance.

“Sam?” Her voice was small.

“Bette?”

Silence.

“Are you okay? Where are you? When can I see you?”

The phone went dead.

He could not sleep, so he made some coffee. After frittering around his apartment for an hour or so, he was relieved to hear the paper thump onto the front stoop. Putting on his robe, he retrieved it. Though he combed it from front to back, including the personals, he found nothing out of the ordinary. Finally he got dressed and took the streetcar to his office.

The next night, he didn’t even plan to sleep. It was Friday, and Ellington was out at the pier, but Sam stuck by the phone, deciding he would do so as long as it took. It was summer, and his apartment windows were open. Humid air off the lake put a sweat on his Yuengling, and he brought the phone on its long cord into the living room and got out a bag of peanuts. Later, he might hear gunfire. As his mother repeatedly pointed out, Cleveland was not the best place in the world to live. He opened a Mickey Spillane novel he was reading to the marked page.

The phone did not ring.

It did not ring on Saturday night, Sunday night, Monday night, or Tuesday night.

It did ring on Wednesday night. Again, it was around three in the morning.

Bette’s voice was stronger this time. “Sam?”

“Bette! How are you? It’s been a long time.”

“I know. Listen. I’m going to be in Washington this weekend and I’d love to see you.”

“Where will you be?”

“The Mayflower.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And Sam?”

“Yes?”

Her voice broke a little. “It’s just lovely to hear you.”

“You too.”

He hung up, his deep glow of happiness edged with worry.

Union Station was a madhouse. Passengers ran to catch trains, the clicking signs rotated constantly with new trains, times, and destinations. He pushed back his feeling of nagging dread and stepped into the hazy late-afternoon sunshine of the nation’s capital.

To his left, the Capitol blazed white. Columbus Circle, in front of the station, echoed all the lovely gardens and squares of the city, and was presently graced with purple lilies and pink, white, and red begonias.

Normally, he would have walked down 14th Street and checked the club scene. Instead, he grabbed an
Evening Star
from a newsboy and caught a Mall-bound streetcar.

The Mayflower had shed its shabby wartime business suit. The lobby was posh, elegant. Elegante, he thought, and smiled. It would take a goddamned month’s salary for him to stay here. The Y, if it was still on 17th and K, was only a few blocks away. He turned to leave, and Bette was there.

His heart was beating hard. “Hello!”

“Hi!” She stepped forward into his open arms. She offered her cheek and stepped back, and stared at him, eyes brimming. “Um—let’s get a drink and catch up. Have you heard from Wink?”

He considered, then said, “No.”

She seemed to relax.

They went out into the hot, hazy evening. She steered him right. “Think we’re going to have a thunderstorm soon. I love the storms here.”

“How long have you been here?”

She glanced around. Though the sidewalks held plenty of pedestrians, none of them were particularly close. “I just got back from Moscow. I’ve been there for two years. Frankly, I’m frightened.”

“You! I don’t believe it.”

“The war never ended. It may go nuclear. Did you know we’re working on a hydrogen bomb?”

“No. I’ve been pretty much out of things.” Except for seeing Wink. And that had taken him somewhere passing strange.

“Would you like to join the CIA?” she asked.

“You want to recruit me?” His heart sank. Not again. The OSS was now the CIA—same mission, same deadly dull black suits. They knew he’d seen Wink and they knew what was going on and they’d lured him here with Bette.

“And to ask you if you want to get married.”

He stopped and turned to her, took both hands.

“When?”

“Let’s talk about it.”

“You’re going to be offered a job,” she told him over oysters at Hogates. She squeezed lemon on her sixth and sucked it down with gusto. Apparently she was no longer in worry mode.

“I’ve
been
offered a job. Several times. How much are they offering now?”

“Ah, practical you. Enough to raise a family on.”

“Who the hell is following you?”

“SMERSH, probably. Russian intelligence. And you too.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be briefed.”

“Maybe I should be briefed first.”

“First before what?” Bette raised smiling eyes to his.

“Before we get married. I don’t want to marry you for any other reason than the fact that I love you. What’s your reason?”

“The absolute same. I’m thinking about quitting this line of work. As much as I possibly can. I’m telling you now, straight up, that there will always be ties. I want to have children.”

“How many?”

“Two girls and a boy.”

“What if the ratio is off?”

She grinned. “I can take anything you dish out, Dance.”

“That goes both ways.”

She sobered, and said in a fervent tone, “I hope so.” She reached across the table and grasped his hand tightly.

“Absolutely not.” Sam sat in Roscoe Hillenkoetter’s office and turned down his generous offer. Hillenkoetter was presently the director of the recently created CIA.

Bette kept her poker face. He supposed that she was pretty good at that.

“If it’s pay—”

“No.”

“Well then, what?”

I don’t want to hand over Wink’s universe to these folks who fucked up the peace on a platter, thank you
. “I can’t accept your offer because you want me to give the—”

“Hadntz Device,” Hillenkoetter prompted.

“To the government. Or whatever you are. I don’t have it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Sam did not look at Bette. He was starting to get angry.

“You can’t make that a condition of his employment, Roscoe.” Bette was out of her seat, strolling matter-of-factly back and forth in the large office, hands in the pockets of her slacks. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sam was relieved to hear that, but on the other hand, it could just be a game she and Hillenkoetter were playing.

“And as for you, Miss Elegante, I don’t want to lose one of my best agents. This is all completely unreasonable.”

“I agree.” Sam got up and moved toward the door.

Hillenkoetter got up, followed him, and grabbed his arm. “Fine. Then I have another proposal. You’ll be part of my new black ops department.”

Bette was standing behind Hillenkoetter as he said this. Her eyes widened for an instant.

“Better pay, fewer duties.”

“Which are?”

He laughed. “Never in writing. You’ll have to move to D.C. Basically, you’ll be on the payroll until we have a need for you. Till then—nothing. Maybe never.”

“Well,” said Bette. “He has a perfectly fine job with an insurance company, and that’s okay with me. I don’t think this will work out. But thanks, Roscoe. I appreciate it. You’ll have my resignation by next Monday.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Sam. They both looked surprised.

His main thought was, maybe I can get in touch with Wink, using whatever information
they
have, and figure out something between us. He had no intention of telling them he had the HD2, but he could find out what they knew.

Then he realized he was thinking like Them.

Well, maybe it was time to get with the program.

Hillenkoetter shook his hand with a firm, dry grip. “Welcome aboard, Dance.”

They got married, he took a job with the U.S. Navy, found an apartment, and moved to Washington within a week.

T
HE MORGANTOWN BRIDGE
seemed like the gateway to a new world, a new wilderness of time. Bette’s folks lived up north, in Michigan, and were summering at their place in East Tawas, on the shore of Lake Huron. After visiting them, they would loop down through Middleburg, and Bette would meet his folks.

And he would pick up the device. He hadn’t told Bette this part. He still wasn’t sure where she stood.

“It’s so strange,” Bette said, as they stopped at A&W for hot dogs and root beer floats. A girl roller-skated their order to the window tray.

“Root beer?”

“I just never thought I’d ever feel so…normal again.”

“I don’t suppose we’ve ever seen each other in normal circumstances.”

“There’s just that tie. Of thinking about you without end.”

“I’m glad it got to you.” He leaned over and gave her a brief kiss.

“But there is a lot we ought to talk about.”

“Like what you’ve been doing the past few years?”

“That’s classified.”

“So tell me.”

“I can tell you in a general sort of way.” She finished her hot dog and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. The summer wind rushed through the car and blew the napkin out the window. It skittered across the parking lot. She leaped out of the car, retrieved it, and stuffed it into a trash can. She got back in the car, but just stared out the window at the menu.

Finally, she spoke.

“It’s Moscow. It’s February. I have a fur coat, fur gloves, I look like an exotic animal. I’m in a café and my contact comes—”