“Fine.”

He studied me. “You don’t look important,” he said.

I eyed the gold braid, the white hair, the erect military bearing. “You do,” I said.

“Eh?” He frowned, puzzled. “You undercover types,” he said. “Don’t pretend to understand you.”

“We’re just ordinary fellows.”

“Uh.” He sighed. “Well, you might as well make yourself comfortable. I usually have a little Scotch about now. Care to join me?”

“I’d like that.”

He poured Scotch for each of us. I finished mine first, and he poured me another.

“Tanner? You know, there are two CIA men outside who want to talk with you.”

“What did Washington say?”

“That CIA wasn’t to be allowed to see you.”

“Well,” I said, “then that’s the answer.”

He whistled softly. He was becoming more and more deeply convinced of my importance by the minute. I, on the other hand, did not feel very important at all. I hadn’t done anything, really. I just kept being in the wrong place at the wrong time and I kept accumulating more things and people and now I’d brought them all along with me. I could appreciate the fact that all of this would have been quite brilliant had I planned it. But I hadn’t and I didn’t feel brilliant. Just exhausted. And thirsty – I freshened my drink.

“You must be tired, Tanner. Incidentally, what am I supposed to call you? Just plain Tanner? Nobody said anything about rank, and I don’t suppose you people carry military ranks, or maybe you do, I’m not really at all familiar with your type of show…”

His voice trailed off quietly. If I was all that important, he seemed to be saying, there ought to be something more to call me than just my last name.

“Tanner is fine,” I assured him. “That way I’ll always know who you mean.”

“Uh. Well, fine, Tanner, fine. Listen, you must be dead on your feet. That plane won’t get here for a few hours yet. Want to grab a little shut-eye?”

“Thanks just the same, but no.”

“A few hours sleep never hurt anyone.”

“Not just now.”

“Keyed up, eh?” He grinned. “You’re a cool bunch, you people, but I guess you’re as human as the rest of us. I’ll get out of your way, Tanner. And” – he abruptly thrust out his hand, and I, after a moment’s stupidity, took it and shook it – “just let me say I’m proud to know you, Tanner. You’re all right. And what you did was, well-”

I got rid of him as quickly as I could. The plane would arrive in a couple of hours, and I had things to do. I had to tell the girls how much of their story to give out with and I had to explain to Milan that he had not yet written that book of his. If they knew it existed in manuscript form, they would want to have script approval rights. It would be far better to greet them with a fait accompli.

I also had to get those Chinese documents from Milan. We went to the lavatory together and we untaped the packets and added them to the load I was carrying. I didn’t want those Chinese documents getting into the wrong hands, not until I could find out what the hell they were.

“Tell them as little as possible,” I told Milan. “Don’t mention the Polish microfilm or Minna or the Chinese garbage or anything. Pretend you don’t understand the questions. Just keep insisting that you want to get to New York and work on your book in peace. Tell them-”

“You do not have to explain, Evan.” He smiled brightly. “I will tell them just what I would tell any government. I will tell them nothing.”

“And call me in New York.”

“How can I reach you?”

“I’m in the Manhattan phone book.”

“Very good.”

Then I collected Minna, and we waited for the plane.

We didn’t have to wait very long. After an hour or two someone in a uniform came along and told us that our plane had arrived. Minna was sleeping soundly. I carried her to the plane. There were two men on board, neither of whom I recognized. One of them said, “Tanner?” I nodded, and he told me to climb aboard. I carried Minna inside and put her in a seat and belted her in. I sat down next to her.

“No one said anything about a kid,” the man said.

“So?”

“Nothing,” he said, and we took off.

I don’t know where we flew, how high or how far or how fast or even what direction. The windows of the plane were entirely blacked out except for the cockpit, and the door to the cockpit was closed. After a while Minna woke up and wanted to know where we were. I told her we were on another plane but that we were in America now, still. If we were in America, she said reasonably, then why did I not speak to her in English?

“Because you do not understand English,” I said.

“Can you not teach me?”

The plane ride, with no possible view through the blacked-out windows and no notion of where we were going or when we would get there, was exceedingly monotonous. The monotony was considerably lightened by the game of teaching a difficult language to an eager pupil. English syntax varies considerably from Lithuanian and Lettish, but a child’s mind is nicely equipped to bridge gaps of that sort.

“Hand,” I said, touching her hand.

“Hand,” she repeated dutifully.

“Minna’s hand.”

“Minna’s hand.”

“Minna’s face.”

“Minna’s face.”

“Minna’s arm.”

“Minna’s arm.”

“Minna’s foot.”

“Minna’s foot.”

“Evan’s foot.”

And so on. By the time the plane landed, she had a working knowledge of the parts of the body and the articles of clothing, plus an understanding of the way possessives are formed in English, plus a surface acquaintance with the present tense of the verb to be. Most important, she spoke a clean English, with no discernible European accent. Because she was a child and a natural mimic, she duplicated my speech exactly rather than coloring her words with a Baltic accent. She had learned Lettish in a few hours: it would not take her more than a few weeks to learn English.

Well. The plane landed, and the door to the cockpit opened, and one of the men motioned for me to follow him. “Minna’s foot,” said Minna, and placed it upon the floor of the plane.

“Evan’s arms,” I said, lifting her in them and carrying her off the plane. I set her down upon the ground.

“Minna’s foots,” she said. Then, correcting herself, “Minna’s feet,” and began walking with them.

“Minna’s hand,” I said, holding out mine. She took it, and we followed our man down a tree-lined path toward a small concrete block building.

We were somewhere in the country, somewhere in deep woods adjacent to a private flying strip. That was as much as I could tell. Our man rang a bell, and another man opened a door. This man was one I had seen before, in Washington. His name was Joe Klausner, and he had liberated me from a jail cell in the basement of the CIA offices.

“Tanner,” he said, and gave me a smile. “Hello,” he said, and smiled at Minna. “Go right inside,” he said. “The Chief’s waiting for you.” He took the arm of the man from the plane, and the two of them walked away.

We went inside. There was a fireplace with logs burning furiously within it, and there were four massive leather chairs, and there was a rough oak table with a bottle and two glasses on it.

And in one of the chairs, filling the glasses from the bottle, was the Chief.

I had never seen any man look happier.

“A favor for a friend,” he said. “Just an errand for a friend. I knew you were onto something big, Evan, but Lord knows I never dreamed it was this big.” He began to chuckle. “Good they called those SAC planes back in time. I’m afraid you gave some of those military types a scare. Serves them right, I’d say. Can’t hurt to test our automatic recall system now and then. But it would have been a bit much” – another involuntary chuckle – “if you’d had us bombing Moscow. Not quite what peaceful coexistence is all about, eh?”

We were on our second round of drinks. During the first I had tucked Minna into one of the leather chairs and suggested in Lettish that she take a little nap. When she said she wasn’t sleepy, I advised her to pretend to take a nap, and she thought that was a fine idea. Either she was an excellent actress or the pretending had turned into reality.