“You’re an alcoholic.” He hadn’t meant to say it, any more than he had meant to argue. The accusation came in a normal, almost casual tone and for several moments she did not appear to have heard him. He saw that the hand holding the orange juice glass was white with tension.

  “I’m not,” she said at last. Her voice was perfectly controlled, as his had been. They could have been discussing the weather.

  “I want you to get help, Lucille,” he said. It was not going as he had planned.

  “I said there’s nothing wrong,” she insisted, with just a slight rise in her voice. “Nothing at all.”

  “I don’t want to go away and leave you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “There are places …” he started out again. “Proper clinics.…”

  “Asylums.”

  “Of course they’re not asylums,” he said, trying to curb his exasperation. “Proper hospitals. Why not talk to someone, at least?”

  “There’s no need.”

  Should he tell her of Paul’s belief that Beth wanted to come back home? No. It might only be an interpretation of an incoherent letter. To raise hopes he could not fulfill would do more harm than good.

  “We could see our own doctor.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.” There was a trace of petulance in her voice.

  “It couldn’t do any harm.” He saw her look quickly at the wall clock. Had they gone past the time when she normally made her first drink? Her hands were moving nervously.

  She stood up, abruptly, then appeared unsure why she had done so. “I’m not seeing any doctor or going to any clinic,” she said. “Because there isn’t any need. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Last night I found you lying in your own vomit,” he said, conscious of her wince. “I can count, for God’s sake; you’re getting through a bottle of vodka a day in the house alone, without taking into consideration what you drink outside.”

  “I could stop, if I wanted to,” she said.

  The discussion was becoming as formalized as his daily conversations with the maid, Peterson thought.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. Would she respond to some sort of challenge to her willpower? It was probably too late for that.

  “I just don’t want to,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “Being sociable, that’s all.”

  “When was the last time we were invited to anybody’s home for dinner?” he demanded, trying to get through to her. “Or that anyody has accepted an invitation here?”

  “When was the last time you would have been able to guarantee your attendance?” she tried to fight back.

  “We’re being avoided, Lucille,” he said desperately. “People don’t want you in their houses because they don’t want the possibility of a scene.”

  “I don’t make scenes!” she shouted, at last.

  “Two months ago you broke up a dinner party at John Sinclair’s,” he reminded her. “It took three of us to get you into the car. You were disgusting.”

  She stood with her back to him, refusing to accept the reminder.

  “That was the last time we were invited out,” he went on relentlessly. He thought she was crying, but when she turned he saw that he had been mistaken.

  “Let us give a party,” she challenged.

  “We can’t, not yet,” he said.

  “Too busy?” she said, seizing his favorite expression and imagining she had gained an advantage in the argument.

  “I said I had to go away. I’m not sure how long it will be.”

  “Where?”

  “Europe.” Could he take her with him? Immediately he realized the impracticality of the idea. He would not be able to control her drinking, not all the time. And he would be taking an incalculable risk in accepting Petrov’s approach anyway; Lucille would be too great an additional burden.

  “So there it is,” she said. She looked again at the clock.

  “Have you a lunch engagement?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the second time you’ve looked at the clock in five minutes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Past first drink time, Lucille?”

  She tried to stare him down, but her look wavered. Defiantly she went to the cupboard and with her back to him mixed vodka, vermouth and ice into the shaker. There was a pathetic eagerness in her movements.

  “Do you want one?” she said.

  “No.”

  “I don’t need it,” she said, trying to maintain the defiance.

  Peterson didn’t respond.

  “But I’m damned if I’m going to have you tell me what to do.” She gulped at the drink, half emptying the glass.

  Peterson felt a surge of pity for her — and annoyance at himself. He had handled it appallingly, as he did everything connected with his family, and as he was now, with the President.

  The maid appeared at the kitchen door, to tell him that his car had arrived.

  “I won’t be late,” he said.

  “Like you weren’t late last night?”

  “I’ve apologized for that.”

  “I could make dinner,” she said.

  “I’d like that.”

  “What time?”

  “I’ll be here by six-thirty. I promise.”

  “Fine.”

  “Please try …” he started, stopping immediately.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What were you going to say?” she demanded.

  “Try not to drink too much today.”

  “I’ll do what I damn well like.”

  The maid was probably somewhere in the passageway, able to hear, thought Peterson, standing.

  “Six-thirty,” he said again.

  “All right.”

  The newspapers and the digest awaited him in the car, laid out in the usual orderly fashion. By now they were out of date, Peterson realized. He still read them with his customary absorption, irritated that he had wasted the morning. Illogically, he felt he would have missed something by not having been in his office at the proper time.

  Walter Jones was waiting for him at Langley, stoking the perpetually difficult pipe.

  “Well?” demanded Peterson, before he’d even removed his hat and coat.

  “Something interesting from Jerusalem,” said Jones. “Levy thinks it’s got some connection with Africa.”

  The Mossad message was uppermost on the material set out on his desk. Jones concentrated on his pipe while Peterson read.

  “Spectacular demonstration,” quoted Peterson, looking up.

  “Could be unconnected with Chad,” said Jones, cautiously.

  “Then again, it might be,” said Peterson. “What have you done?”

  “Cabled every station in the Middle East, in case one of our people pick up something the Mossad didn’t get.”

  “That’s unlikely,” said Peterson.

  “Still worth the cables.”

  “I agree,” said Peterson. “How about Germany?”

  “That too.”

  Peterson nodded. “That’s where we’re going to have to begin,” he said positively.

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Still going to see Petrov?”

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t have the right feel about it,” said the deputy.

  “It’s only a meeting.”

  “You should tell the President, at least.”

  “It would mean refusal,” said Peterson. “I’ve got to get the timing right.”

  The Deputy Director’s pipe went out and he abandoned it into the top pocket of his jacket. “You’ve certainly got to get the timing right,” he said, heavily.

  “When does Brownlow get back to Vienna?” asked Peterson, subduing his irritation at the other man’s perpetual caution.

  “Four this afternoon, our time. Even if he manages contact with the Russians straight away, I don’t imagine there’ll be a report tonight. Both surveillance squads will be in position by mid-evening.”

  “Good.”

  “I wonder what the hell is really going on?” said Jones, with an intensity that surprised Peterson.

  “Whatever it is, it’s making us look pretty damned stupid at the moment.”

  “Let’s hope it stops here,” said Jones.

  “It will,” said Peterson, confidently.

  “The remains of Brinton and Williams have arrived at Andrews,” said Jones. “Will you go to the funeral?”

  “If I’m back from Vienna. If not, it’ll have to be you.”

  “I thought I’d go anyway. I’ve arranged for you to see the people who came back from Africa after lunch.”

  Peterson nodded, rising at the reminder of the time. He and Jones ate together in the executive dining area. In anticipation of his encounter with the Russian, Peterson used the time to debate with his deputy everything that had occurred since their attempted entry into Chad. The meal and the discussion ended at the same time and Peterson sat back, satisfied. The entire operation so far was perfectly indexed in his mind. The men who had gone to N’Djamena to retrieve Brinton’s body had been given explicit instructions not to attempt any approach to the complex, and so Peterson’s meeting with them was a formality, providing him with nothing more than he had learned already from their cabled reports.

  After the debriefing, Peterson remained along in his office, wondering at the uncertainty he felt. It was the inactivity, he decided. He wanted to be doing something, making decisions and initiating actions, but until he’d met Petrov the operation had to swing in limbo. That was a criticism, if one were to be made.

  He leaned back, considering his decision about Vienna. It could go wrong, he accepted, realistically. And if it did, it was conceivable he would lose his job. He smiled, confronting another question. Would it really matter? There was always a board-room place or a directorship for an ex-CIA Director, so money would never be a problem. It might mean normality again; time to spend with Lucille and the children. No more presidential breakfasts or middle-of-the-night telephone calls or bullet-proofed limousines or the gut-churning fear that once, just once, he might make a mistake. A mistake like agreeing to meet a Russian in a mid-European capital.

  Twice during the afternoon he attempted to call his son but got the answering service on both occasions. He left a message for Paul to call him, but there had been no contact by the time he left the CIA headquarters. Peterson had been very careful about the time; it was just six-fifteen when the limousine pulled up outside his house.

  He hesitated, uncertainly, just inside the door, listening for any sounds of activity. The maid, who did not live in, would have left hours ago. There was movement from the kitchen and Peterson went towards it hopefully. Lucille turned at his entry, her smile rigidly in place.

  “Home the happy warrior,” she greeted. She enunciated very clearly, with no blur in her voice.

  “Six-thirty,” he said, reminding her of a promise kept.

  “Pot roast,” she said, “and pecan pie.”

  Peterson hated pecan pie and thought she knew it, but he said, “Marvelous.”

  She came towards him, carefully, as if she were trying to walk along a straight line, and offered her face to be kissed. He put his lips against her cheek. Vodka didn’t smell, he remembered. There was a trace of vermouth.

  “Shall we have wine, to celebrate?” she said.

  “Celebrate?”

  She breathed out heavily, challenging him to find the alcohol on her breath. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly,” she said, aware of his check.

  “I’m pleased.”

  “You sound like a teacher I had at high school.”

  “I really mean it. Thank you.”

  “Told you I could do it.”

  “Please don’t drink while I’m away.”

  “I shall, if I want.”

  “Not so much. Please.”

  “I can control it!”

  There was a danger of his being more occupied with Lucille than with the African affair, thought Peterson suddenly. The feeling surprised him, bringing a burn of embarrassment. Wasn’t that how it should be? No, he decided, immediately. For an ordinary person, perhaps. But his job did not allow him to be ordinary. For the power, the prestige and the money, he had offered a sacrifice. Like the commitment of Faustus, it was too late now to attempt to withdraw from the bargain — no matter how much he regretted it.

  The pot roast was undercooked and the pecan pie as sugared as he had known it would be. Lucille drank nearly all the wine and then, determined to make up for her daytime abstinence, she demanded brandy. It was still an improvement on her usual intake.

  “Is it important?” she asked, after they had finished their meal.

  “What?”

  “This European trip.”

  “Extremely important.”

  “It’s a long time since we’ve been to Europe together,” she said, as if she had been aware of his earlier thoughts.

  “How about a vacation?” he said, suddenly eager. “When I’ve cleared up this thing, why don’t we try to get away for a while together?”

  She looked at him uncertainly, someone expecting disappointment.

  “Where?” she said.

  “You can choose.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “Your choice,” he assured her.

  Lucille smiled at an inward thought. “It seems to have been so long,” she said, distantly. “It would be nice.”

  “Why not start planning, while I’m away? Get some brochures.” It would be activity, Peterson thought; something other than a vodka bottle to hold her attention.

  “Maybe,” she said, still seeming suspicious of the conversation.

  “You could make the reservations,” he said, trying to infect her with his enthusiasm. “Surprise me when I get back.”

  “All right,” she accepted. “There’s no restriction on money?”

  “None.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, too quickly, misunderstanding the remark.

  “If Beth could come,” she completed. “And maybe even Paul.”

  “She might,” said Peterson, anxiety moving ahead of his caution. “Perhaps I could persuade Beth to come.”

  Lucille replaced her brandy bowl, gazing at him. “What do you mean?”

  “We could invite her at least,” said Peterson, trying to evade the curiosity.

  “Are you in contact with her?”

  “No.”

  She was looking at him with her head tilted to one side, in the disbelief of early drunkenness. “You in contact with her?” she repeated. “You know what my Beth is doing?”

  “No!” insisted Peterson, with a different urgency now. “It was a passing idea, nothing more.”

  “I want her back, James,” said the woman. “I want Beth back. Why can’t you get her back for me? Aren’t you almost as powerful as the President himself?”

  “Stop it, Lucille.”

  “Why can’t you?” she said, gripped now by the thought. “Why can’t you get Beth back?”

  It was no more possible than getting Lucille into a clinic to treat her drinking, thought Peterson.

  “Get her back for me, James. Save her for me.” Embodied in the plea was an aspect of his wife that had been missing for so long.

  “I’ll try,” he promised.

  “When you’ve time?” she demanded, erecting the barrier again.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I promise.”

  “I want us to be a family again,” said Lucille, letting the desperation show. “I want us to be normal.”

  Would it ever be possible? It was much later when he realized that Lucille expected him to sleep with her. He tried and failed to remember the last time; it had to be months. With it came another realization. He didn’t want to. He tried to avoid the embrace at her bedroom door, but she seized him eagerly, pulling his face towards her and kissing him messily. He tried to respond and became frighteningly aware that Lucille had no attraction for him.

  “Don’t go to your own room,” she said. She was almost begging.

  “You’re tired.”

  “I’m not.”

  He entered hesitantly, conscious of the outburst that any continued refusal might cause. She attempted the coquette as she undressed, but was too unsteady on her feet to make it work, tottering dangerously; he felt very sad for her.

  They lay side by side, untouching, but more conscious of each other than they would have been had there been any contact.

  “I’m sorry, James. For what I am.”

  “It’ll be better. Everything will get better.”

  “Oh Christ, I hope so.”

  It became so quiet that he was aware of the sound from his wrist watch.

  “I love you, James.”

  “I love you.”

  “I didn’t mean this to happen. It just … happened. Oh shit.”

  He felt out for her hand and she took his, anxiously.

  “You do love me, don’t you?”

  “I told you.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  “Show me then.”

  “I’m very tired, Lucille … exhausting day.” He said the words and hated himself as he spoke them.

  “Oh my God!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry!” She began to cry at almost the same time as he did.

  It was a long time before she became conscious of it, and she tried to control her sobbing, as if she were frightened of making any mistake.

  “James!” she said, disbelievingly.

  Peterson wanted to blow his nose but remembered the tissues were on her side of the bed; he scrubbed the sheet over his face.

  “Sorry,” he apologized again.

  “You’ve never cried before. Not in all the years. Not once.”

  “Didn’t mean to.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “No!” he said, forcefully.

  “What then?”

  “I’m very frightened, Lucille.”

  Now she moved, reached out for him and he went to her at last, grateful for her comfort.

  “Of what, darling?”

  “So many things. Just frightened.”