NOVEL I

PROLOGUE

The following--a reconstruction of a crime allegedly committed by the Executive Branch--relies on documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act from the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) and the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).

Peter J. Bittler (US Army, Ret.), a career intelligence officer, was very helpful in understanding the heavily censored material. Q.E.D., lies and secrets are the mortar of history; and power, as often noted, invariably corrupts.

For assistance in the final editing of the manuscript, the author is endebted to Harry B. Price III (his brother), Virginia Budny, Beau Walker, Carol Temple, Carol Straetten and Siobhan Walshe.

“We have conducted a thorough investigation of all our records. We never had any sleeper agents in America. What a ridiculous idea!”

Vladimir Lammick
Deputy Director
Russian Intelligence Service
(RIS; formerly KGB)

on News & Views, Oct. 3, 1994

____________________________________
“...and as for Pat Wentworth, the President regrets that he never had the opportunity to meet this outstanding young American. All who knew Pat speak so highly of her. Her death at such a young age is a great tragedy.”

Michael Lockwood
White House Spokesperson

on PressTime, March 5, 1996

FIRST DAY

AUGUST 5
MONDAY

1:20 PM Pungo Shopping

Joe Norris parks his white panel truck and steps out into the harsh sunlight, thinking of the items he has to pick up for his wife Mary. Shampoo, some Clairol #26. "I'm gonna make a new woman out of me," she told him, laughing, "then I'll make a new man out of you." What the hell, you get to thirty-five, realize you're half as horny as you used to be but your wife's gotten twice as hot. Come on, God--make sense. Joe steps away from the truck, studies the new sign on the side: NORRIS CONSTRUCTION. Yeah, he decides, looking good, sort of fancy. I do believe I’m ready for fancy.

He turns toward the strip of small stores. A hundred feet away, through the wavering heat, he notices a green Ford pick-up, the kind his father has, and two men standing just beyond. Yeah, Dad and his bib overalls, you can spot him a mile off. Joe starts toward them to say hello. What’s this? Joe tilts his head so he can see over his sunglasses. A young man in a white cowboy hat is standing close to his father, smiling like they’re good old buddies. His father isn’t smiling, he’s leaning away, stiff and uncomfortable. For a moment it looks like a fight or a hold-up. Joe tenses to rush forward.

The stranger reaches out to pat his father’s shoulder. His father recoils. But the man laughs, talks some more, a sense of swagger about him. Suddenly they walk across the shimmering asphalt toward Blue’s Coffee Shop. Joe stands for a minute in the hot sun, staring after them, trying to make sense of it...Dad’s not that fast with a smile but if he liked this guy at all, he’d be smiling back to be polite. Looks like a hippie drug dealer to me. Lot of blond hair, blue work shirt hanging out like maybe he’s carrying, dumb-showy. But Dad’s having lunch with him?? Well, well.

Joe Norris walks inside the Health-Rite Pharmacy, and searches for the HAIR CARE sign. What the heck color is #26 anyway? Joe laughs out loud when he thinks: No big surprise unveiling for Mary. I’m supposed to stand in here imagining what she’ll look like with a new color. Mary, I know you too well...

Searching along an aisle, Joe thinks, I gotta stop by Dad’s later, find out who that guy was. It’s not that Dad wouldn’t know a guy like that. He wouldn’t like him, that’s the point!

-----

Roy Norris, Joe’s father, stares at the young man across the table. Still wearing the cowboy hat and sunglasses, still smiling all the damned time. Roy can't recall meeting anybody this pleased with himself. Makes the old man's teeth hurt. “I got two words for you,” Roy says. “Go away.”

The stranger chuckles. This old farmer pretends to be brave but is only, how you say, stupid charade. The stranger leans thick muscular shoulders over the red formica table and takes another big bite of his cheeseburger, now and then glancing, one by one, at the other people in the small restaurant. Finally he says: "Roy, is important to be realistic. Roy--is good name, like Roy Rogers, yes? Police don't believe you and if they do, they put you in jail.” He talks along in a breezy way. “Come on, sleeper man, we do some nice business. Then I have my money and your soul is feeling clean. What a good deal, yes?”

Roy Norris fiddles with his cup of coffee. God, this pushy character, grinning at him like they're old friends, demanding--what the hell?--two hundred thousand dollars. "I don't have any money,” Roy says flatly, “and once we walk out of here, I don't want to see you again.”

Roy Norris is a lean, sturdy sixty-eight. He used to be five-ten but not anymore. He looks like a man who's done rough physical work his whole life. The sinewy forearms are tanned a dark burgundy. His once-black hair is streaked with shades of gray but still thick and a little wild. His face is lined and weather-beaten now; years ago he was probably real handsome, killer handsome. His eyes are dark and watchful and not at all friendly.

"Hello, Roy?" The stranger studies his victim, then goes on. "My English is good, no? I am learning in New York and Washington, seeing all your movies. If I were half the man I used to be, I'd put a flame thrower to this place. I am that man!” Not smiling, he leans closer to Roy Norris and slips the glasses off, revealing cool blue eyes that don't blink. The broad face of a gladiator or boxer. No humor at all to look at him now, only a hard practical intelligence. "Do you see me, Roy? You must be realistic. Roy? Or be sorry."

Roy glances around as if he hasn’t been this bored in a long time. "I'm a farmer, you idiot. If you knew anything about this country, you'd know farmers don't get rich."

The tough young man smiles, his blue eyes shine with pleasure. “Oh, Roy, please. Americans are rich.” He slips the glasses back on, speaks in a soft voice. “Is three hundred acres, right. Good what you call collateral. You collect money. Two days I give. In return I hand over your KGB file.” The stranger looks deeply pleased he can do this great favor. “Here, is for you, page one of twelve.” He slides over a sheet of paper, all the words in Russian except a name and an address. “You don’t want FBI to have file? Or your neighbors? Roy?”

“Go away, you silly bastard.”

“Please, I am telling you, call me Don. Like the Godfather, yes? Also is a river in Russia. So beautiful. I am sorry to be playing Sigmund Freud, a quack, right? But I think you want to resist. This is never possible!”

Roy smirks at the sheet of paper. “Stole it, huh? So you’re a traitor. Them KGB killers will hunt your ass down. You’re dead. You know that.”

The stranger grins back with a startling confidence. “The KGB name is old. Like you, Roy. Problem is not RIS killers. Problem is one foolish old farmer who wants to play games. Stop it!”

Roy Norris breathes deeply, staring at this apparition. Okay, I had a good ride, but now the tax man shows up, huh? Well, I know something about dealing with these bad boys. You don’t flinch and you don’t back up. You don’t say please. You say, screw you, Russkie. Then the bastards love you. “I already told you, cowboy. Forget it. I don’t know why I’m talking to you except,” Roy smiles cagily, “you did say you’re buying.”

“Cowboy? I like this. Yes, am American cowboy. Now, Roy, you listen. Don’t be smart ass. Think of sweet wife Sarah.”

Roy’s dark eyes flicker.

“Oh?! Now you listen?” The cowboy smiles as dreamily as a school boy in love. The game is fun; but winning is the big fun. “We know everything. I am your shadow and how you say, your bad conscience. And your lucky day! I give your heart back to God, one way or some other. You do understand me. Roy?”

Roy looks him over and shrugs. Now what do I do with this goddamned thing here?

“Good,” the cowboy grins, “you are listening. Now we do nice deal.”

_________________
8:15 PM Norris Farms

Joe Norris stands at one end of his wide front porch, watching his eleven-year-old daughter dribble a basketball on the cement driveway. Jill stops, spins and shoots...swish!

The sky softens to oranges and purples. Lightning bugs blink in the high dark trees. The air is heavy and sweet. Mary walks out and stands beside him. Barefoot, wearing short pants and a little jersey. "What a great little kid. How's she doing? NBA material?” She puts her arm around Joe’s waist. “Hey, lover, something on your mind?”

"Dad and this guy were talking over at the shopping center around lunch.” Joe goes on watching his daughter. “Maybe arguing. I stopped by before dinner, asked him about it. Oh, Dad says, just some guy thought I took his parking place.”

"So?” Mary frowns. “Where’s this go?"

"Wasn't like that. Guy had on a cowboy hat, looked maybe like a Texan, Southwest. You ever see somebody like that working the farm? Kind of flashy. About our age."

After a long moment, Mary says, "Don't think so."

"Something wasn’t right...Dad’s on good terms with everybody. I thought."

Mary smiles when her daughter makes a shot. "You get to know him, your dad’s a right decent old gent.” Mary’s voice is soft, tender, sort of absent-minded. “But I tell you, somebody meets him the first time and Roy gives him that dead look he’s got...Shucks, I’m still afraid of him.”

Joe laughs. “Sure, I know what you mean. But the guy today wasn’t afraid, he was all smiles.”

“Really?...Look at her, Joe. She'll be a teenager soon."

Joe Norris spins away a little, not wanting to think about that at all. He stares at his wife, her smooth soft face, the lazy sexuality she exudes. Jill will be like this? Ohmigod. "Point is! Why lie about nothing?”

"Go on over and ask him again." Mary gestures behind them. From their back windows they can glimpse, through a band of trees, the house where Joe's parents live. “Probably just one of Roy’s cousins looking for a loan. They will ask!”

A chorus of crickets is wailing back and forth, a terrifying noise the first time anybody hears it. Looking for love, Joe supposes. A warm breeze pushes in from the big fields near the house. The perfect summer evening. Joe decides his wife is right, he's making too much of something he hardly got a good look at. "Hey," he says, "are you rubbing my ass?"

“Thought you'd never notice." Mary slides her arms around him and hugs him.

Joe feels a little pang of guilt. He worries that Mary will always want more than he can give. Love, emotions, passion, all that. Then he thinks, No, you just do what you can do, that’s it. “Come on, hot stuff,” he tells her, “let’s see what’s on the tube.”

“I got us a movie,” she says.

“A boy movie,” he smiles, “or a girl movie?”

“Well, smartypants, maybe I’m gonna surprise you.”

Hell, Joe thinks, it’s gonna take a lot these days.

____________________
11:20 PM Norris Farms

The cowboy--yes, he likes this name very much--spends three hours at a Karaoke bar, follows every word on the monitors, dreaming of some night when he is singing. He is almost ready for his premiere. He will sing a crying Hank Williams song. Almost!

He waits until after eleven, then drives his stolen TransAm southward into Pungo, the less settled part of Virginia Beach. “The part,” he smiles, “where crazy old farmers live.” He slows when he reaches Anglers Road, a two-lane black top pointing straight north-south through vast silent fields and ominous dark woods. Roy’s world.

The cowboy eases off Anglers, parks among bushes and small trees. He knows all the acres for a quarter-mile around. He walked them. The land to his right, on the west side of Anglers, belongs to other people; mostly it’s thick woods, rising beside his car now like an alien fortress. Everything to his left is Roy’s land. Half the acres are filled with crops rising tentatively from the sweet earth, the rest is massive stretches of high imperious trees that jut at odd angles among the fields.

Fifty yards ahead and back off the road, the old farmer's white house gleams in the warm liquid darkness. Birds shriek far off. Maybe they are killing; maybe they are killed. The cowboy watches Roy’s house for twenty minutes. Stars twinkle and dance. A meteor flashes for an instant. Only two cars pass by. He could sit there an hour savoring this beautiful night, this beautiful country. America! I am in you now, we make love forever. But maybe some cop happens by, maybe some kids. Is always little things that cause big problems in life.

The cowboy knows Roy’s house and garage and barn, inside and out. He knows that the top right-hand window is the main bedroom where Roy is sleeping now with sweet wife Sarah. "Maybe not sleep so good, huh? You foolish man!" The meeting at the coffee shop still nags at him. This old farmer did not say all the right things. He did not surrender, not truly, not in his heart. Maybe he wants to play a little. Old man, why?? Okay, we play!

The cowboy starts the engine and drifts in first gear along Anglers. No lights. He turns left into Roy’s driveway. Twenty yards short of the house, he swings slowly to his right so his window faces Roy's bedroom. He slips the gear shift to neutral, lets the car roll to a stop on the front lawn. No brake lights! The cowboy lifts his Beretta from the seat beside him, gives the silencer a final twist. He supports the pistol with his left hand, aims at the top panes, fires. He fires again and hears another tinkling sound over the pffft of the silenced gun.

He lays down his pistol, puts the car in gear, rolls to the blacktop. Anglers Road is dark and deserted, the cowboy can barely see the sheen of black asphalt. The sky is brighter than the nearly invisible road. He drives a hundred yards before he switches on headlights. "Ya-hooo," he shouts out the open car window.

Then he wonders how Clint Eastwood would act. Maybe do nothing, not even smile. Just light a cigar and stare real cool at the lonesome stars. The cowboy laughs but self-consciously. "You think you are so tough, Mr. Clint, because you don't meet me. I put that cigar up your ass. Oh, never mind, old sourpuss Clint. Who is having most fun? Tell me that, pard-ner.” Yes, is some fun really, this old farmer wants to play a little. But now do smart thing, Roy. Or I burn down your house!

The cowboy drives north through miles of quiet streets and small houses toward a topless bar on 17th Street, planning to drink vodka and watch skinny American girls. Then about two, call Roy, see how he's sleeping. Say, “Roy, old farmer, give me my money. Don’t make me hurt you. I will!”

SECOND DAY

AUGUST 6
TUESDAY

______________________
9:50 AM Norris Construction Co.

Joe Norris jumps up and comes around the desk. “Mom? What's doing?"

“Just out for a walk.” She says this as an obvious joke. But she’s not smiling.

“Darn,” Joe exclaims, “last time you were here was five years ago. You wanted a new floor in the kitchen."

Sarah Norris sits down in one of the chairs Joe has in front of his desk. He goes back to his chair, waits, watches her. She was cheerleader cute when she was young, now she's an energetic, classy-looking grandmother with a trim figure and champagne blonde hair. She taught seventh grade for many years and holds herself in a way that states, I won't put up with any nonsense. "Joe, you want to shut that door?"

"Nah, they're busy out there.” He smiles, proudly. “Business is good. About a dozen homes going up."

"I guess the starch is the final touch." Everything about Joe is informal--brown corduroy pants, running shoes, his black hair needs a trim. But he's wearing a clean white shirt with starch in it, the cuffs folded back two times, perfectly.

"Says we will not put fingerprints on the new paint! Go on, Mom, you got me curious."

"Funny thing happened last night. Roy said to forget it. But that's funny too. Seems to me."

Joe raises his black eyebrows like he’s sure she’s going to tell him some wonderful good news. “Well, Mom, shoot."

She chuckles faintly. "That's funny too, I guess. About midnight somebody just drove up in front of the house and shot at the bedroom window."

"Come on!"

"Didn't hurt much--couple panes of glass. Dad said it's just some crazy kids. Okay but we still ought to tell the police. Right?!"

Joe’s mind jumps to the man in the cowboy hat. "Dad said don't tell 'em, huh?"

“Said it wouldn't do one bit of good. There's been quite an argument over this, I can tell you."

Joe tries to keep her on the details. "So where'd the bullets end up?"

"The ceiling." Sarah jumps a little in the chair. "Oh, and I'm sure I didn't hear shots. Just, you know, the bullets hitting glass."

"Wait. You got the AC going, don't you?”

“I like fresh air so I crack a window. All right, I can't prove that part. I just think it's weird your father wants to ignore it."

"Yeah..." The scary part for Joe is that his mother grew up with rifles, she can shoot better than most men. If she didn't hear shots, that can mean only one thing, a silenced gun.

"Come on, Joe. Talk to me. Somebody mad at us?"
Joe leans back casually in his swivel chair. "You tell me. Dad's got some secrets?"

Sarah Norris shakes her head, her tanned face looking a little drained now.

Joe tries to probe but in a joking way. "What’s he up to? Maybe a little moonshining down in the backwoods?"

"Better not. I'll shoot the crazy man myself."

"Mom, hey. Let's be real cool now. I was kidding."

Sarah sits very still for a moment. “Doggone it," she exclaims, "I still say we call the cops. Maybe we got us a psycho. You watch television? Psychos everywhere!”

"Tell you what. You forget all this. I'll talk to Dad."

"Forget? We get this cleared up, son, or I'll be waiting in my easy chair with a rifle. That will be one surprised psycho.”

"Mom, seriously. Got to be a random thing, never happen again."

"Really?” Sarah Norris peers intently at her son.

“Really.” Joe Norris never appeared more relaxed, pleasant, and trustworthy than at this moment.

“Okay, Joe. You're probably right. You have good judgment." Joe's the favorite of her three children, the one she trusts the most. People always say, "Joe's solid. So dependable." Got Roy's backbone, Sarah thinks, and my easy manner with people. “Dad's gonna be mad with me for telling you. Say I sounded upset about something and you twisted my arm.”

“Sure. The way it happened.” Joe tries to go on looking calm and casual. Thinking about what his mother said, that he has good judgment. Hell, if I had that, I'd have gone right over to Dad and that cowboy-hat-guy, say hello, how you doing? what’s going on? "Okay," he smiles soothingly, "I'll do a little one-on-one with Dad. Not to worry." Joe comes to walk her out. "Maybe don't mention it to Mary. No use upsetting her."

Sarah Norris searches her son’s face, not quite trusting his tone. “Okay, Joe, we’ll talk later. See ya.”

She walks outside troubled. The morning glare makes her grimace. She stands by her car, a green Ford, and softly clicks her fingernails on the roof. Darnit, Joe. What the heck was that? Don’t mention it to Mary? Well, why not if there’s nothing worth mentioning? Moonshining? Why’d he mention that. He thinks Roy’s doing something down in the backwoods? Doggone it. With Roy, you never know for sure abut anything. But Joe. I thought I brought that boy up right!

Sarah Norris slides in her car and drives off toward the nearby Wal-Mart. She feels a little unsettled, then she tells herself not to be a silly goose. Then she exclaims, “Well, look here. I’ve got bullets in my ceiling! Didn’t imagine that. And I say no kid is gonna do such a thing. This is some sick SOB. He intended to do what he did. And Joe and Roy just better not know more than they’re saying.”

_______________________________________
11:20 AM FBI Field Office (Virginia Beach)

Special Agent in Charge Ed Jenkins leans on his desk, scanning memos. Garbage decidedly in, garbage definitely out. He's a few years short of twenty-five when he can retire and try something else. He wouldn't mind if it was tomorrow. His fax machine pings and a sheet comes through with FOR YOUR EYES ONLY written on it. “Yeah, right,” Ed says, snatching the paper. He reads it twice, carefully, then punches his intercom. “Lucy, you free?”

Lucy Thomas, a fairly attractive young woman and Ed’s new Special Assistant, walks purposefully into his office. “Yes, sir?” The word around the office is that Lucy is perky, which everyone finds a provocation.

Ed reaches the paper across the desk to her. “A little love note from CIA headquarters in Washington,” he says somewhat gruffly. “Run it down for me.”

"Ed," she says, wrinkling her face, "sometimes you don't treat me with what one might call professional courtesy.” Lucy pauses, struggling to say this just right. “I’ve been wondering if you resent women in the Bureau."

Ed Jenkins looks at her sadly. Today he’s wearing a blue blazer, white shirt, and out-of-style tie. His posture and manner don't change much. His voice is more animated. "Grow up, Lucy. We get too palsy, you'll ruin my marriage. My wife will shoot one or the other of us. And that’s for starters."

Lucy tries to be cool and professional but her eyes widen slightly. "Ohh."

“Think I’m joking?”

“I hope so.”

“Nothing but the truth, my friend. Harvard can give up on it. Those Commies would never pick Veritas today. But let me tell you something, Lucy. Truth is the name of our business. Hold on to it for dear life. Now! Run-It-Down."

"Yes sir! Let's see, the Agency wants us--no, Ed, it says For Your Eyes Only.”

“You and me, babe.” He smiles friendly encouragement. “We’re in this together.”

“All right,” Lucy says, obviously uneasy about breaking a rule. “It says, uh, two members of the German Embassy, Washington, probably posing as businessmen, may be in our area. Uh, mission unknown. Estimate of danger, minimal. Do not intervene. If men are observed, report to S. Phillips. That’s it."

Ed Jenkins is suddenly wrapped in deepest melancholy. His wary eyes become more hooded, his face looks older and more lined. This is a man who has barely survived disasters and mayhem. "No, Lucy Haygood Thomas, that’s not it. No. If you should happen to become involved with the Central Intelligence Agency, you may have to forget some of the rules you know. These people don’t tell the truth if they can think of a lie."

"Really?” Lucy slides the paper across the desk. “Our own government?"

Ed sighs. She makes him feel antique. "Look, you're in the Bureau because you're a straight arrow. Congratulations. You know there is truth, and there are lies. Agency people, on the other hand, are house-of-mirrors types. Some would say sociopaths. But they have to be! Because they’re up against the Russians and so on, guys who hold all the patents on mirrors. And sociopathology."

"Ed, please slow down. I’m not sure I understand where all this goes."

“First of all, Lucy, the CIA can’t operate inside the United States. That’s our job.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Looks to me like they’re operating. Surely you want to know why.” Ed is grinning at her, as if he just told a joke. He’s become a different man. Again. Younger now, more dangerous. “Simply handling this thing might make you a co-conspirator.”

“Ed?? It’s just a fax.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you...Lucy, here’s an assignment. Make a list of all the assertions expressed or implied in that Advisory. I'd say at least ten or twelve." Ed pushes the fax back at his assistant and growls at her, a deep angry voice: "I’ll bet you more than half are goddamned lies!” He becomes neutral and normal again. “A hundred dollars against a big kiss right here." He taps his cheek.

"Ed!"

"Want the bet? This is serious." Ed shrugs, the old pro breaking in the rookie. Yeah, the old pro. Now they'll probably bring him up on charges. Big kiss was a bit much. Ed Jenkins stares in surprise at his assistant. “Lucy? You still here? Take that fax and get to work. If you wouldn’t mind."

“Yes sir.”

He watches Lucy grimace and leave. He believes he has her on the edge of flummoxed. A good place for her...Now, about that Advisory. If the Agency says it does not know the mission, they’re up to their lying eyeballs in it....Ahh, maybe I’m in too long, got cynical. Did you say I’m not in line to be the next Director of the FBI? My wife is real pissed about that, in case there's anybody left who doesn't know. And why aren’t I? Bad attitude! Says so right in my file. The poor chump came back from Nam with shrapnel in his leg and a chip on his shoulder. Never mind. I can still teach little Lucy a thing or two, make her into a top-flight agent. Ah hell, she’s got the gifts. All it’s gonna take is somebody seriously trying to kill her. How much credit can I take for that? Goes with the job.

And who was that guy sent the fax? Yeah, S. Phillips! Wouldn’t put his whole name. Probably isn’t an S. Phillips in that whole joint. Okay, two Germans are coming this way. Probably posing! That is definitely my favorite part. It means what?? They are definitely posing. Or definitely not. There is no probably, that’s the point. Goddamned CIA will lie about the weather outside. And cut through all my bullshit, they are operating. Aren’t they operating?? Maybe just a little investigation, a mission of no importance, heck, maybe they’re training some kids. But they are operating!

Ed Jenkins stands up angrily from his chair. “And I don’t like it.”

-----

Lucy goes back to her desk, pretty sure she does not like her boss and never will. Ed Jenkins seems to come out of left field half the time. Or most of the time. He has this trick of changing tone in mid-sentence. Not just tone, his whole personality! The man’s just a great natural actor or a ham or maybe it’s police technique gone ballistic. Still, when she really looks, he’s usually all business. She hopes he is! If he was any other way, she couldn’t respect him at all.

Lucy thinks, Truth? Shees, truth is you have to wonder if a white agent could get away with Ed’s, uh, creativity.

She reads the fax again...Imagine, this brief fax and he sees a dozen assertions--expressed or implied. Already he’s concocting a CIA conspiracy. Permit me one little private thought, Ed. I’d say what we have here is an old FBI man with too much time on his hands. Or maybe he’s done 5000 burglaries and he’s just sick of burglaries. Now he wants exotic! Germans? German Embassy? Actually, that is a little exotic.

Lucy Thomas smiles contentedly, which makes her especially attractive. Hey, this is the real thing, girl friend. Everything I want! Home front is busted. I just can’t do domestic, can I? This job is all I want. Now let’s examine this fax with a depth of shrewdness that will leave dear old Ed gasping. I am going to put the fear of Lucy in that man.

________________
2:45 PM Ocean Front

Early afternoon, the cowboy goes to the south end near 8th Street where the surfer dudes hang out. He wears the kind of bathing suit they like, long with neon colors, wearing mirror sunglasses and a baseball cap, his blond hair tied back with a piece of black elastic. He knows he looks good as he stretches in the sun or strolls at water's edge. He doesn't have the bulked-up muscles of a weight-lifter but the flat useful muscles of a worker. Of course, he is from Workers’ Paradise! He sits on his towel to watch the surfers, to study their moves, sure he can do them if he wants to. Not that this is the point. The point is to live inside this beautiful mysterious dream that defeated the USSR.

High up in the fierce blue sky two F-l6's swoop out over the ocean, then circle slowly back toward Oceana, the big base for Navy jets. The cowboy adores the sight of these machines. To fly them, to shoot down other jets, is ecstasy. Is easy! But psychiatrists in Moscow say he has rare James Bond skills. He cannot be a mere pilot! He must serve the Motherland in special ways. Surprise, little shrinks, surprise!

The cowboy glances around at other people on the crowded beach. They don't even look at the jets. This foolish country! Where everything is taken for granted! The cowboy flops back on his towel, groaning in his soul. Oh, that is history. I learn from America, live now. The first sleeper, a retired bureaucrat in Maryland, was easy--forty-thousand dollars easy! But here is one stupid old farmer who wants to waste time. Well, Roy Norris, you know better now. I am serious and you cannot escape. I have time, plenty of time, even some time to waste on you, old man. My pieces are in place, nobody knows I am here. Everything is A-okay in America.

The cowboy sees two young women spread towels higher up the wide white beach near the gray concrete boardwalk. Oh, these are cute chicks, especially busty blonde one hardly wearing two napkins. They have books! Now he knows how to talk to them. Gregory Peck style is best. No crazy sunglasses. He puts these in his backpack and takes out RayBan knock-offs.

The cowboy waits until they are settled, one lying on her side, the other resting back on her arms. He walks over and drops deliberately to his knees. He waits. He smiles. "Hello, girls. I am Peter, Polish exchange student, study political science at your great university, Old Dominion. I am very keen talk to Americans."

The women smile awkwardly, blinking behind their sunglasses. "Well, hi, Peter," one says. "I'm Cindy, this is Laura." Cindy with more breasts than napkin is one he likes. She has bright smile, feels full of life, is honest sincere person. Other one, Laura, is full of distrust, is probably mean capitalist bitch.

"I will chat just some minutes," the cowboy says, sitting almost daintily on the hot sand.

"You a student," the dark-haired Laura says, figuring his age. Over thirty for sure, maybe thirty-five.

"Many delays. Yes, now close to PhD. You are college girls?"

"Been there, done that," Laura laughs.

"Now you have title on door," the cowboy insists. "American success story!"

They both laugh at that. Dark shadows slide over their sleek, tanned bodies. "Real estate,” Laura says with a grimace. Her muscles are stringy from endless exercise. Cindy hastens to explain: “Peter, I wait tables, take a few courses on the side. No success story here.”

The cowboy insists again: “But you will be! I am sure.”

Cindy shrugs, smiles at him. “I’m working on it.”

Laura asks, “And you're from--where?"

"Poland...Poland? We struggle now to join your Western world after many years oppression by the Red Bear." They look at him blankly. "You know Russia?"

"Sure," Cindy says, "it's way over there." She points at the vast hard curve of the eastern horizon.

The cowboy's mood jumps back and forth, rage to confusion. They know nothing. "But..." The cowboy gestures at their books. "You are reading. To improve the mind, is right?"

Cindy laughs. "Peter? This is Passion." As if everyone knows what that is. "I don't know what trash Laura’s got. Oh, that thing about Calvin."

"He paid a million dollar so they don’t publish it. You know it's good."

The cowboy looks embarrassed. He knows now he could tell them the truth about himself. Everything. They would blink, smile, not get it...

Listen, girls. I use many names, but my Russian name is Yuri Lurtisky. Until two weeks ago I am RIS agent. This is Russian Intelligence Service. I did spy work in Washington, wet work in New York. The wet, my dears, is blood. Lots of blood. I kill five men and one woman. Cindy and Laura will say, Gee, really? What for? Come on, Peter, be serious. So how do you talk to such creatures?

"Well," the cowboy says, "I tell you truth. Today I am playing fantasy. All-American surfer dude. Is big dream of all Poles."

"Really," skinny Laura says, rolling toward him, smiling for the first time in a really relaxed way. "Surfer dude, huh?"

"Yes, yes. Are you surfer dudes?"

"That's for kids," laughs sweet blonde Cindy, “we're tanner dudes."

"Hooky dude," Laura says. "I should be selling. Need a nice little condo?"

“Some day. But today must stick to fantasy. You play with me. I have," he points to his towel, the backpack there, "what surfer dudes call wicked weed."

"Gee," Laura says, showing a little excitement, "I didn't know Poles were so cool. Where is Poland exactly?"

"Over there." Peter points to the horizon. "Very far." He sees, way out, the black conning tower of a monster sub knifing through white foam. What lovely machines; and the sailors, they say, don't glow in dark like ours. He winks at wonderful Cindy, then at stringy Laura. Girls, I am free man now, my own boss. They want to use the great Yuri Lurtisky--”Yuri! Yuri! Yuri!”--for errand boy and to slap around gangsters. Would handsome Mel Gibson do this? Never! Would soulful Rambo? No! “Come, girls, we walk to pier,” he points, “where we can dream the American dream. No one will notice. Wind is blowing smoke to sea.” He grins. “Toward Poland!”

He stares happily, openly at Cindy. Yes, his instinct is always right, like cat’s. She is perfect American girl, the beauty and mystery of his new country is there in Cindy. Already his heart aches for her, longs for her, would kill or die for her. The cowboy stands up and walks toward his towel. He stares at the shapely blue waves falling over in a happy murmur. Hello, they are saying, welcome to America. Thank you! Thank you! I am so happy to be here.

_____________________
4:40 PM Norris Farms

Joe Norris walks around to the shaded lawn in back of his father's house. Joe stares eastward into the hot wavering distance. So many lovely things growing out there--beans, corn, cantaloupe, spinach, berries, tomatoes. As a boy, Joe Norris knew two things. A farm is one of the prettiest things on earth; and he was not going to be a farmer. The work's hard and he had a sense he might some day be friends with his father but not partners. Joe hears a door slam and turns toward the house.

His father comes out with a glass of iced tea. Wearing the usual bib overalls, blue and faded, and a scruffy tee-shirt, this one red. Roy Norris glances at his fields, and runs his left hand back through his unruly dark hair. "Well, boy, what you got, good news or bad?" He says this with a gruff smile.

"Say you had a problem.” Joe moves toward the big picnic table. “I'd get to help, wouldn't I?"

"Sure. When I got one, I'll let you know." They sit down facing each other across rough unpainted wood. The light under the oaks is much softer than in the bright fields, which sometimes appear beige or a gauzy white. “Hear there’s a hurricane coming. Isn't it something we still got these oaks? Many a storm I expected one of them in the house.”

Joe Norris waits patiently, sitting there in his pressed khakis and blue business shirt with the cuffs folded back. Finally he says, "I was talking to Mom this morning, knew right off something wasn't right--"

"Ohhh," his father interrupts, "she’s been blabbing, huh?"

"It seems somebody shot at your bedroom."

"Come on, boy. You probably did it yourself. You were a hellion, you know."

That stops Joe for a moment. "Shoot at somebody's house? No, no, that's serious."

"You shot a squirrel off Jack Randolph's roof. That's just plain crazy, you ask me."

"Dad. Let's leave me out of this. Somebody shot twice into the ceiling of your bedroom, about one in the morning. This right?"

"I reckon, more or less."

"You got the slugs? What kind of gun?"

"Who cares? I put some spackle up there. Good as new!"

Joe loses some of his patience. "Dad? You getting goofy on me or what?"

"Or nothing!" Roy Norris sips noisily. "I do love my iced tea. But it’s time I was working, don't you think?"

"The man in the cowboy hat? You knew him before?"

"Told you I didn't."

Joe studies his father intently. The old man's doing the opposite, suddenly very interested in birds. "Argued over a parking space, huh? How long?”

"Couple minutes. Nothing to it."

"Look at me. You and that guy went into Blue's."

"Oh, now you're spying on me? Ain't that something?"

"What did he want?"

"Oh, damn it, man. You're carrying on like your mother. Not very becoming, you want to know."

"Dad! What did he want?"

Roy Norris gives his son a sly look. "He had this idea, wanted me to get involved. Some kinda race track.”

"Really?" Joe feels like he's seeing something new in his father, cunning perhaps. "Dad? Say you have a problem with money. We can put some together."

"Just told you there ain't no problem."

Joe stares down at the table, realizes how annoyed he feels. The man might not be lovable, Joe thinks, but I’m determined to love him. “Well, I have a problem. My mother's upset, that's one. Two, you flat-out lied to me yesterday."

"Watch your mouth, boy."

“Dad, listen to me. Mom figures that gun had a silencer.”

“Ahh, your mother was snoring a storm. I heard one of them shots. Now you listen to me. Let’s get back to work.”

Joe grinds his jaw. The main thing, he lectures himself, is not to say anything I'll regret. "Okey-dokey, Dad. Things change, you’ll let me know."

"There you go." Roy stands up. "Amen."

Joe swings his feet from under the table. They look each other over for a moment, not very kindly.

Joe walks back around the house to his white truck. Getting in, starting the engine, he thinks, Goddamn that man! He definitely lied about the cowboy. And what else? He heard a shot? Mom’s snoring? Any of that true? And suppose some kids did come shooting at his house in the middle of the night, he'd be screaming. Say the kids are just playing; say the kids were paid by somebody. Either way, Dad is going to be screaming.

Joe drives to a construction site some miles away, a dead-end road where his crews are putting up three houses for a developer. Joe parks, wanders around saying hi and checking the workmanship. Stay visible, that's the main rule. Joe walks until he finds some shade. Temperature hit 97 earlier and hasn’t gone down much. The sky is a burning blue, no clouds anywhere. The air smells sweet--flowers and fresh lumber. Joe makes a show of watching his workers but thinks about his father and the kind of people he came from. Watermen on the Albermarle Sound. Tough people. Almost every day they go out for clams, oysters, crabs. Joe remembers the hands of the men, all beat-up and gnarled. Not the kind of people who say "Don't mean nothing" if somebody's shooting at their house. They jump in a pick-up and go beat out somebody’s brains.

Joe shouts at a big-bellied man laying tarpaper. "Yeah, Bobby, looks good.” Find something nice to say, there's another rule.

Joe goes to his truck, drives off to a second site. He punches on the radio, maybe find an update on that hurricane. If it comes north, it could mess up all his timetables. Well, Joe decides, there’s two possiblities. Dad does not have a problem, or he thinks he can tough it out. I wish I could find that showboat in the cowboy hat. Talk to him one minute, I’d know everything.

“Meantime,” Joe sighs, “it’d be nice if my dear father would stop lying to me. Damn! It’d feel real good to just kick his ass.”

_________________________
5:40 PM Exit 272 off I-64 (Norfolk)

Two Russian intelligence officers** carrying German passports drive south on the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel in a rented green Chevrolet. “Here,” the driver gestures at the horde of cars, “is the American genius--the traffic jam!” The driver is a Major with the code name “Otto.” He is a handsome, worldly man almost fifty. He speaks with a theatrical flair, his confidence appears limitless.

"We need to stretch," the younger man says. He’s a Captain, code name “Eric.” He looks like an athlete. Eric has a map on his knees and a booklet titled Fun in Virginia Beach. "Pull off at the first exit, okay?”

The Major complains, "You like to make decisions, don't you? What do you think you are--an American? Haha. That seems to be the problem with our friend Lurtisky."

Eric points up the long causeway to an exit sign, the first on the Norfolk side. "It's not personal, sir. We do need to stretch and to feel this strange place."

To their left the Chesapeake Bay looks choppy and restless. Still further east the Atlantic Ocean spreads out dark blue and cold-looking beneath a soft blue sky. To their right lies Norfolk Harbor. The land all around is low and weed-colored. A half-mile away loom the faint silhouettes of huge aircraft carriers. Otto, the Major, stares indignantly. "And why do they have eleven carrier groups? To oppress the great Russian people!”

Eric nods respectfully. “Yes, sir.”

Otto, his face full of dramatic disgust, pulls off on Exit 272 which descends into the parking lot of a marina and seafood restaurant. The men stand by the car, talking over the roof. Wearing dark slacks and dress shirts and sunglasses. The Major sniffs at the people coming in and out of the restaurant. “Such a vulgar country. Yes, Lurtisky tested high on everything. Susceptibility to the American virus, however, is most difficult to measure.”

Eric, the young Captain, looks away impatiently. This Major is what their superiors call "a face." That noble Russian look, with strong features and a mane of dark hair. The Major can be sent to a university, embassy, or corporation. He can talk his perfect English non-stop about the New Russia, the spirituality of the land, about this New World that is always arriving in our country. Sentmental fool, Eric thinks. We don't want a New World, we want this one!

Next to the handsome Major, Eric knows he must appear rather plain. Muscular, with short brown hair, not bad looking, some women are drawn to his obvious strength and toughness. But nobody says noble or sensitive. Well, I am the practical one, he thinks. My job is to keep this noble Major on target. Eric gestures at tourists near the restaurant. "Sir, look at their clothes. That is best cover, don't you think? We should buy some shorts and stupid tee-shirts."

"Please." The Major stares at the marina a hundred yards away. "Come, Eric, we can walk. Still hot! What these people need is good Russian weather to stiffen their souls."

The two men, beefy but fit-looking, stride toward the wide array of masts. Four long piers stretch into the bay, lined with all classes of boats, hundreds of boats. A breeze, smelling of salt water and fish, stirs past the men. The sun, lowering now, is huge and orange in a pearl sky.

The Major looks to see if anyone is walking nearby. "On a map, Virginia Beach is huge but much of it is wilderness. Motels are in the northeast by the ocean. The problem is tourists. I fear our friend Lurtisky will try to blend in. As for attire, I agree partially. Some informality is correct. But no stupid tee-shirts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Eric, from now on, do not say Sir to me. Although I hope you will not forget how appropriate it is.”

“Of course.”

“Before all, we must remain hidden within our cover story. It will be a most satisfying day if we can also,” Otto smiles, “find this bastard traitor and eliminate him.”

“I am looking forward to it.” Eric hesitates. “Otto? Do you know why?”

Otto raises his hand like the Pope. “Eric, I’m surprised. Do you need to know this?” Or is the simple young Captain, Otto wonders, merely trying to test my professionalism? How amusing.

“No, Otto, of course not. But my work is perhaps more satisfying if I know his great crime.”

“Eric! So sentimental. Our only purpose in life is to serve--without questions--our glorious Motherland.”

“You are quite right.” Eric agrees as if he’s been agonizing over his sins. "But trust me as much as you can. This is helping our success.” And helping me know how the Major is thinking.

"Of course, my dear Captain. Oops--a word I will not use again. Eric! Yes, to be flexible, that is a most important asset in our work." The Major chuckles handsomely. "Not, of course, so flexible as Yuri Lurtisky! He has lost his soul entirely.”

Does having a soul, Eric wonders, mean you are like the Major? In that case, I don’t want one. "I confess, Otto, I don't understand Americans."

"It is truly difficult. Many experts think they are mutations. Virulent and deadly for a time, but already passing into history." The Major gestures toward the soft gray shape of an aircraft carrier. “Eric, when we are working hard and not having enough sleep, think of that.”

The Captain shrugs. Yes, Otto, I’ll do whatever you say, you pompous...He stops himself and smiles. “Come, Otto, my excellent German friend, let us dine and discuss our marketing plans.”

“Eric! That is good. Yes, I feel optimistic. Perhaps it is this silly weather. But I do see--in our future--one dead traitor. You know what that means.”

They nod knowingly, neither daring to say the words--medals, promotions.

The Major slaps the younger man’s broad back. “Yes, let us have some authentic southern cooking. Y’all! Then we start the hunt. Eric.”

Otto fixes the younger man with a cold gaze. “I know you think I’m a bit theatrical at times. It works here, believe me. When people speak of the American dream, the operative word is dream. This entire country is a dream. However, I’m not being theatrical but merely factual when I tell you this truth. If Lurtisky is here, we will find him. And we will kill him. Or die in the effort. Do we understand each other?”

Eric cannot hide his utter contentment. “Yes. Absolutely. I live for that moment. Death to traitors. Sonofabitch Lurtisky--” The young man spits violently in the dirt.

--------------------------------------------
* Major Boris Petrovic and Captain Ivan Saminov were attached to the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C. as “trade representatives” from 1992 to 1996.

THIRD DAY

AUGUST 6
WEDNESDAY

_________________
6:15 AM Norris Farms

At first light the cowboy leaves his car a few blocks from the eastern edge of Roy’s farm and works in among the masses of trees. Today he is a hiker or bird watcher. Wearing khaki pants, a green tee-shirt, a green baseball cap and a flat gray backpack that holds his tools and weapons. Binoculars are slung across his chest. He came in this way before to put a tap on Roy’s phone and an incendiary device in the barn. But now is not time for big violence. The cowboy smiles to himself, proud he has a clever idea for this stubborn old Roy.

A hundred yards ahead he sees the red barn and beyond it, the ghostly white of the main house. Behind him, an orange sun oozes upward through Roy’s trees. The fields all about are dreaming their green dreams. Here and there, dark walls of forest jut at unexpected angles. A white mist boils slowly off the landscape.

The cowboy sees no one, he hears only the sharp singing of birds. He stays in trees that reach to the rear of the barn, then eases to a window on the side away from the house. The exterior planks are old and starting to warp. He lifts a heavy wooden panel hinged above a square opening, uses a stick to hold it open. The cowboy leans over the sill and falls to the damp ground inside. "Hello," he says. Maybe someone sneaks in to spend the night. Two brown cows in separate stalls roll their big wet eyes at him. "Wait now, the milk man is coming."

The cowboy climbs a shaky ladder to the loft and lies down on very old straw. Everything, he thinks, is silence, and mildew, and cow manure. John Lennon says imagine. Well, John Lennon, imagine this old farmer. He should be in his rocking chair but instead he wants to play games! The next sleeper lives in South Carolina. A few times the cowboy thinks: go there, take the easy ones. That old bureaucrat in Maryland, his heart almost stops--so easy. Ah well, now is game of wills. Charles Bronson smiles, walks up to his enemy and defeats him, not thinking of easy ways.

The cowboy hears noise from outside. The farmer, in overalls and old boots, ambles in whistling. He positions the stool and sets to milking. The cowboy lifts his head enough to watch. Oh, see how good he is with teats. And such a lot of milk.

The cowboy stands slowly, adjusts the pistol inside his waistband, the tee-shirt hiding it. He goes slowly down the ladder, knowing the old man will hear the creaks. Roy Norris straightens up, still gripping the cow. When he turns, his expression doesn't change, as if he expects someone to be there. The old man plays the game good. Too good.

The cowboy says: "I give you two days. Are you ready?" Knowing from the phone tap that Roy has not discussed money with anyone on the phone, he has not talked to police or friends about his problem. Imagine!

In a flat country voice, Roy Norris says: "I told you, I ain't got no money and if I had it, you ain't getting it."

"You have it. I will have it."

Roy starts to get up but the cowboy shakes his head no-no and lifts the tee-shirt. Roy shrugs, like a gun is no big deal. "Think about it, cowboy. Russia's gone, the one I got involved with. Long time ago. Maybe I was dumb as hell, huh? So you want me to be dumb twice? No sir!"

The cowboy listens for sounds from outside, then steps closer. He points a finger at the old man's face. "Give up."

Roy makes a sarcastic little smirk, dismissing the cowboy and everything he's saying. Not a syllable is spoken but it’s as if the old farmer shouted, Screw you, Russkie.

The cowboy hears it. "Roy. I am not here to talk but to show. You can have no safety. And everyone in your family." The cowboys lifts the pistol with its silencer attached and moves around the old man on his stool. He extends his arm until the black silencer is tickling a cow's reddish ear. "Old man, say yes.”

Roy hardly seems to hear. He shrugs. Screw you.

“You say what??" The cowboy fires twice. Pffft, pffft. The cow makes no sound. The barn is silent. Then a thousand pounds of dead animal crashes against wood slats. Both men blink, as if surprised things went this far.

Roy Norris stares at the dead cow, his eyes getting wider. "Boy, I got to say it, you're some kind of crazy sonofabitch."

The cowboy grins. "Nothing you can do, Roy. Because we have your file and your family is not living it, how you say, up? Down? Now get my money."

Roy feels a few tears moving down his face. His mouth twists oddly. "I ain't got no two hundred thousand dollars. You nut. Talk sense now and then."

“Now we haggle, is that right?"

Roy looks up at him, a little sheepish perhaps. "I can try one hundred thousand...Take it."

"Is progress."

"You bet."

"Tomorrow afternoon. Don’t screw around, old man. Next I kill people. Norris people." The cowboy’s expression is hard and merciless.

"You killed Edna. Best cow I ever had. Hard to believe...Edna."

The cowboy slips the gun back inside his pants. "Edna is good cow, I am sure. Also good dead. Look--she makes even you smart."

“Two days? Listen here, cowboy. Maybe there’s some delay at the bank.”

“You are old and good customer. They do what you say. Two days!”

The cowboy goes to the entrance, comes back, studies the old farmer. Was ready to bite his own country, will always be ready to bite me. "Roy, I know your heart, your thoughts of fighting me. Please be American-style businessman, make deal with shake of hands." The cowboy reaches out his hand and waits.

Roy looks up, really hating to touch this man. "Sure, cowboy."

The Russian grips his hand hard. "Do not think of it, Mr. Roy Norris. Next I kill nice wife Sarah just like nice Edna with her nice teats." The cowboy lets go and straightens up, happy he has finally won. He has a syringe in his backpack, can put Roy to sleep, decides he does not need it. "People watch house, Roy. You stay here with Edna. Look how peaceful she is. I hope you die so good. You Yank! Is pleasure to do business with you. Thursday, 3 PM."

Roy watches the cowboy stroll out of the barn into air so thick with light it looks like water.

Okay, Roy thinks, I bought some time. Now what? Love to figure a way to kill that fool.

Roy tries to smile. “What the hell, some ways it’s a good day. I just saved a hundred thousand.” Roy stands up, staring at Edna. Isn’t this something? I almost forgot the whole thing, those damned Russians and all those little trips in the night...Well, one thing at a time. First I got to figure what to tell Sarah about how we lost a real fine cow. Sweet Sarah, as the cowboy says. Ain’t he cute?

July 2006. That's about 40 pages of a 600 page manuscript. Reviews and suggestions are welcome. wisewords AT earthlink.net