Gone Tomorrow

The waiter came back with a tray. He was a tall dark guy, quite old, probably foreign. He had an air about him. The Four Seasons probably put him front and centre because of it. His bearing suggested he might once have been a tea expert in some dark-panelled place in Vie

I nodded. Pictured a massive dish ante

Lila said, ‘My mother knew all about your army’s medals. They were held to be important, as criteria for classifying prisoners. Badges of honour, that would become badges of dishonour immediately upon capture. She knew that the VAL rifle would be worth a major award. But which award? Remember, there had been no declaration of hostilities. And most of your major awards specify gallantry or heroism while in action against an armed enemy of the United States. Technically whoever stole the VAL from my father was not eligible for any of those awards, because technically the Soviet Union was not an enemy of the United States. Not in the military sense. Not in a formal political way. There had been no declaration of war.’

I nodded again. We had never been at war with the Soviet Union. On the contrary, for four long years we had been allies in a desperate struggle against a common foe. We had cooperated, extensively. The World War era Red Army greatcoat that Lila Hoth claimed to have been conceived under had almost certainly been made in America, as part of the Lend-Lease programme. We had shipped a hundred million tons of woollen and cotton goods to the Russians. Plus fifteen million pairs of leather boots, four million rubber tyres, two thousand railroad locomotives and eleven thousand freight cars, as well as all the obvious heavy metal like fifteen thousand airplanes, seven thousand tanks, and 375,000 army trucks. All free, gratis, and for nothing. Winston Churchill had called the programme the most sordid in all of history. Legends had grown up around it. The Soviets were said to have asked for condoms, and in an attempt to impress and intimidate, they had specified that they should be eighteen inches long. The U.S. had duly shipped them, the cartons stamped Size: Medium.

So went the story.

Lila asked, ‘Are you listening?’

I nodded. ‘The Superior Service Medal would have fit the bill. Or the Legion of Merit, or the Soldier’s Medal.’

‘Not big enough:

‘Thanks. I won all three.’

‘Capturing the VAL was a really big coup. A sensation. It was a completely unknown weapon. Its acquisition would have been rewarded with a really big medal.’

‘But which one?’

‘My mother concluded it would be the Distinguished Service Medal. That one is big, but different The applicable standard is exceptionally meritorious service to the United States Government in a duty of great responsibility. It is completely independent of formal declared combat activities. It is normally awarded to politically pliable Brigadier Generals and above. My mother was under orders to execute all holders of the DSM immediately. Below the rank of Brigadier General it is awarded only very rarely. But it’s the only significant medal a Delta captain could have won that night in the Korengal Valley.’

I nodded. I agreed. I figured Svetlana Hoth was a pretty good analyst. Clearly she had been well trained, and well informed. The KGB had done a decent job. I said, ‘So you went looking for a guy called John who had been a Delta captain and won a DSM, both in March of 1983.’

Lila nodded. ‘And to be certain, the DSM had to come without a citation.’

‘And you made Susan Mark help.’

‘I didn’t make her. She was happy to help.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was upset by my mother’s story.’

Svetlana Hoth smiled and nodded.

Lila said, ‘And she was a little upset by my story, too. I’m a fatherless child, the same as her.’

I asked, ‘How did John Sansom’s name come up even before Susan reported back? I don’t believe that it was from a bunch of New York private eyes sitting around reading the newspaper and making jokes.’

‘It’s a very rare combination,’ Lila said. ‘John, Delta, DSM, but never a one-star general. We noticed it in the Herald Tribune, when his Senate ambitions were a

‘Before what? What do you want to do to the guy?’

Lila Hoth looked surprised.

‘Do?’ she said. ‘We don’t want to do anything. We just want to talk to him, that’s all. We want to ask him, why? Why would he do that, to two other human beings?’

THIRTY-EIGHT

LILA HOTH FINISHED HER TEA, AND PUT HER CUP DOWN ON her saucer. Bone china clinked politely on bone china. She asked, ‘Will you go get Susan’s information for me?’

I didn’t answer.

She said, ‘My mother has waited a long time.’

I asked, ‘Why has she?’

‘Time, chance, means, opportunity. Money, mostly, I suppose. Her horizons have been very narrow, until recently.’

I asked, ‘Why was your husband killed?’

‘My husband?’

‘Back in Moscow.’

Lila paused, and said, ‘It was the times.’

‘Same for your mother’s husband.’

‘No. I told you, if Sansom had shot him in the head, like what happened to my husband, or stabbed him in the brain, or broken his neck or whatever else Delta soldiers were taught to do, it would have been different. But he didn’t. He was cruel instead. Inhuman. My father couldn’t even roll to his rifle, because they had stolen his rifle.’

I said nothing.

She said, ‘You want a man like that in your Senate?’

‘As opposed to what?’

‘Will you give me Susan’s confirmation?’

‘No point,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you wouldn’t get anywhere near John Sansom. If any of what you say actually happened, then it’s a secret, and it’s going to stay a secret for a very long time. And secrets are protected, especially now. There are already two federal agencies at work on this. You just had three guys asking questions. At best, you’ll be deported. Your feet won’t touch the ground, all the way back to the airport. They’ll put you on the plane in handcuffs. In coach. The Brits will pull you off the plane at the other end and you’ll spend the rest of your life under surveillance.’

Svetlana Hoth stared into space.

I said, ‘And at worst, you’ll just disappear. Right here. One minute you’ll be on the street, and then you won’t be. You’ll be rotting in Guantanamo, or you’ll be on your way to Syria or Egypt so they can kill you there.’