The Green Blade Riseth
Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain;
Love lives again, that with the dead hath been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
In the grave they laid Him, Love whom Hate had slain,
Thinking that never He would wake again,
Laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
Forth He came at Easter, like the risen grain,
He that for three days in the grave had lain,
Quick from the dead my risen Lord is seen:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,
Thy touch can call us back to life again,
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
Words: John MacCleod Crum
Music: Noel Nouvelet, a medieval French carol
London, England: Easter 1968
Robert Hogan relaxed in the hot water of his bath. God love the British; they know how to make a bathtub--long enough for a tall man to stretch out in, deep enough to swim in. He felt the tension melt from his muscles, and even his aching right hip quieted. Capping a useless week at Langley, the flight from Washington, DC had been delayed on the ground for three hours and then had been a roller coaster ride over the Atlantic. He'd never been so grateful to see Gatwick in his life. The drivethrough London had been torture; the good, clear weather had brought out every driver. Upon reaching his Georgian townhouse, Hogan had made a beeline for the quiet sanctuary of the bathtub. He closed his eyes in contentment.
45 minutes later, feeling very mellow, Hogan, in sapphire silk dressing gown, pale yellow pyjamas, and leather slippers, yawned enormously as he entered his kitchen. As the lights came on, GDP, the African Gray in the floor to ceiling cage squawked. Not even glancing over his shoulder, Hogan muttered, "Sorry to leave you in the dark, bird." The parrot hopped from one perch to another higher up. Ignoring the bird, he put the kettle on the boil. Mint tisane would go very well right now, and help take care of my scratchy throat. It's also going to put me right over the edge. He left the tisane to steep in a small earthenware teapot for a few minutes, crossed over to the study, turned on the radio. While Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3, in restrained majesty, filled the study, Hogan pulled out a novel and tossed it on the table by his reading chair. With everything carefully arranged for a comfortable evening of solitude, Hogan headed for the kitchen to retrieve his tisane.
He was just returning with his steaming cup when the front door flew open, and 20 year-old Patrick Hogan, 6'2" and rail-thin, burst through. He heaved an English saddle to the foot of the staircase and swore virulently, "Bugger all!" He'd have been a splendid sight in his riding attire--if he hadn't been heavily splashed with mud. Patrick slammed the door shut; the townhouse shook.
"What the hell is going on, Patrick?!" A heavy, cold feeling settled in Hogan's stomach; he knew his quiet evening had been shot down even before it'd really begun.
The younger Hogan's dark eyes flew to his father, and he cursed. "Bollocks!" He heaved a deep and aggrieved breath. "I lost my seat, Dad, at the hunt. Landed right in the biggest mud puddle in the whole blasted field. And all because Lucinda doesn't know which end of a horse is which. Be the last time I go out with that dizzy bird!"
'You were thrown?"
"Technically, yes. We were barely at a walk when Lucinda reached over to me. It frightened Bedievere who reared up. I basically slid off his back into the mud." Patrick tried brushing the offending wet earth off his red jacket. Instead, he spread it around.
"Who the hell taught you how to ride?" The cold steel in Hogan's voice brought his son up short. He pointed to the muddy saddle. "Do you want to explain this? You have always known that I never wanted you on the back of a horse. Ever. How long have you been defying me on this? Going behind my back?" Deep hurt laced the anger.
"Mummy taught me. I think I was 4 when I first sat astride a horse. Mummy was with me, of course."
"Of course," Hogan hissed in quiet rage. Though he was mpressed at one level at his son's calm response under pressure, he knew the boy wanted a hole to magically appear at his feet. "Go on."
"After Mummy died, I took lessons with Penny."
"Robbie aided and abetted you."
"In all fairness, you should know I threatened him. I told him that if he didn't let me take lessons with Penny, I'd work for my lessons as a stable boy." Patrick watched his father's face. "And Uncle Robbie knew I'd do it, too. So he gave in on the lessons so I could be thoroughly supervised. His comment at the time was, I think, 'Dammit! You are so like your mother.'"
Damn you, Miri! "Indeed," Hogan breathed. Well, Robbie, I guess you made the best of a bad situation. "All right. You've exonerated Robbie. That still doesn't explain why you've defied me all these years, why you've snuck around behind me?"
"That's pretty simple, Dad. You're bloody irrational on the subject of horses."
"Watch your language!" Hogan snapped automatically—and wished he hadn't. Patrick's patience evaporated, and the dark eyes, too like his mother's, narrowed in anger. His son's lips thinned.
"Then there's the small matter of it being a connection to Mummy. She loved horses, loved riding. How could you deny her that? Why do you try to deny me that? What's your explanation, Father? When you care to tell me that, maybe then I'll apologize for defying you! Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go get cleaned up!" Patrick deftly picking up the saddle and stormed up the stairs, taking two at a time. From the top, he bellowed, "By the way, you should know I'm going out for the British equestrian team, and I steeplechase, though I'm hardly good enough for the Grand National." He clomped into his bedroom and slammed the door.
Hogan dropped his tea cup, slumped against the wall. The cup smashed on the floor, and hot, mint tisane created a greenish puddle at his feet. After a few moments, Hogan, with considerable effort, struggled into his study. What a glorious conclusion to a miserable day! He dropped into his chair, leaning to one side, chin resting on the heel of his palm. He couldn't believe that Miri had taught their son to ride; he'd repeatedly refused to allow it. Miri'd known why, too. Feeling betrayed, he closed his eyes. But he couldn't blame Patrick for loving something he'd been brought to by his mother.
"Dad?" came a contrite voice.
Hogan didn't look up immediately. When he finally did, he saw Patrick all cleaned up and freshly scrubbed, with his wet hair plastered against his head. Relief filled the boy's pale face, and he gripped Hogan's silk-covered arm. "Dad, I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to wound you so, and I'm sorry you feel betrayed…."
"Hush, Patrick. You haven't done anything more than be your mother's son. And asking to know why I am like this about horses isn't out of line." He took a couple of deep breaths, looked his son right in the face. "I had to learn to ride at West Point, and I managed it well enough to graduate. I admit it. I was a lousy rider, and I haven't been on a horse since I graduated. I took a bad fall and broke a couple of ribs and my collarbone."
"That happens to us all, Dad. Those are the breaks." He was oblivious to the pun. "You're supposed to get back on the horse when you're able."
"I did. What makes me insane about this is the fact I lost a serious girlfriend to a hunting accident. The horse stopped dead, and Barbara went head first over the horse." Hogan saw Patrick flinch. "She broke her neck."
"Dad, I'm a good horseman. I don't ride animals too large for me or beyond my ability to handle."
"No, you don't understand. Dammit! Barbara was a good horsewoman, and still, she died. That could be you, Patrick." It would kill me, kid, to bury you.
"Was Barbara riding sidesaddle? Like Mummy usually did?" When his father didn't answer, he added, "You know, with only half your bum on the horse and your right leg curled around a pommel? Looks great, but a damned dangerous way to ride."
With asperity, Hogan retorted, "I'm not stupid, Patrick. I know what sidesaddle is. And yes, Barbara was riding that way when she died."
"Please remember that I ride astride, and not sidesaddle. That gives me considerably more control over the horse."
Hogan abruptly stood up, ignoring his hip's protestations. "I'm going to bed. You're going to ride no matter what I say. I suppose I'll have to get used to your hunting, but do you have to steeplechase?" I want to see how well you deal with this when YOUR children pull mindless stunts like this! It gives new meaning to parental anxiety.
"No, I don't. And if it will make you feel any better, I'll give it up." As his father limped lightly out of the study, Patrick murmured, "It's not like I'm any ruddy good at it anyway."
*****
After seeing Patrick off to Cambridge for Trinity term, Hogan made it to his office in an unassuming, uninspired piece of late 40s architecture. Tossing his battered fedora onto his secretary's desk, Hogan smirked at Mary Kaiser who raised a wicked eyebrow at him. "So, love, what's on the agenda?"
She flipped pages on the desk calendar. "Meetings all afternoon, Boss, and then on the plane tonight for Brussels. NATO chemical weapons conference the rest of the week."
Hogan groaned as he helped himself to the only decent coffee in London. "If I had an exec, I'd send his butt to Brussels. Has Washington made up its feeble mind yet about who's coming in to replace the Friendly Ghost?" Kaspar Goldman, 10 years Hogan's junior, had had to be medically retired and sent home.
"You should know more about that. You were just in Washington."
Hogan snorted derisively. "Complete waste of my time. I am so glad that Johnson is not running for re-election. It will be such a treat NOT to have to listen to all the theorizing of McNamara. He's so well named."
"Strange, huh?" She disregarded his low moan at the play on the defense secretary's middle name. "Did you see the President, Boss?"
"Never. If I'm a really good boy, I'll actually get to see the Director." Hogan seethed at the memory of having to cool his heels for over three hours in the Director's office. He started to take a slug of coffee, but stopped mid-motion. Hogan noticed Mary's outfit for the first time--a black leather, one piece coverall. What the hell is it? Whatever it is, it fits like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Mary, do you really think your attire is appropriate for the office?"
"Boss, it's a cat suit. A la Mrs. Peel."
"Who?" He shook his head.
"The Avengers, Boss. You dress like John Steed, Boss, right down to the cane, so the least I can do is look like Emma Peel. Is that cane a swordstick?"
"What?"
"You know, television?"
"Don't own one."
"Believe that." Mary sighed. "There is no accounting for you, Boss: no familiarity with TV, but you can whistle any one of the Beatles' hits. That great galumphing weed Patrick. . . ."
Bernard Mays walked in, files in hand, cutting short the debate on pop culture. "Morning all." He eyed Mary appreciatively. "Great outfit, babe. Suits you." She gave him a radiant smile; they'd been engaged for years in a running pun contest. He turned to the chief, whose foot tapped the floor. Bernie held out his hand. "The reports on Czechoslovakia you wanted. Dubček's hangin' in there."
"We'll see how long that lasts. Any ideas on when Kosygin's going to go see him? Or are they just going to send in the tanks?"
Bernie pushed graying blond hair out of his face. "They'll probably do both."
"You're 41, Bernie. I shouldn't have tell you what I tell my son: get a haircut." Hogan took the files and headed for his office.
"Well, since you are as OLD as my father, I guess you can talk to me like that." He exhaled sharply, changed subjects. "Oh, by the way, GCHQ passed this little bombshell on this morning: heavy new KGB activity in London. Seems in direct response to our little bust up of one of their front organizations. I suggest we watch our backs."
Hogan's voice issued from his office. "Great, just great. What is this? Pick on the boss morning?"
As Bernie sauntered toward the office, Mary hollered back, "Why should this morning be different from any other morning?"
*****
"Robert Hogan is to be terminated."
Marya Sergeievna Butnitskaya warily eyed the platinum blonde with Tatar eyes and coloring who stood in front of her desk. You really should get your hair done in London, dahling; Moscow hairdressers butcher everything. Nonchalantly, the KGB station chief responded, "He is? Says who?"
"The decision has been taken at the highest level. Moscow is tired of being embarrassed by him."
The criticism in the younger woman's voice was clear, but with deliberate disdain, Marya swiveled her high-backed chair around to face the window. London's morning rush hour was in high gear. Blowing cigarette smoke high into the air, she asked casually, "And what do we gain by his death?"
Raisa Andreievna Ivanova blinked twice. "I don't understand you, Comrade Bunitskaya."
You understand me very well, you silly cow. Lenin love the British; they really know how to excoriate stupidity. With sudden, feline ferocity, Marya whirled around. "You're an idiot, Ivanova. Would you like to know why?"
"I'm sure you'll enlighten me."
Smiling brilliantly with frosty eyes, Marya held up her hand, one finger raised. "If we succeed in killing him, he'll be replaced by someone we know less well. This is a distinct disadvantage." Second finger. "If we succeed in killing him, the CIA will retaliate in kind. They're very good at tit for tat." And they will start with me, Ivanova, and I can't help wondering if this little plot is more about stepping over my dead body into this position than killing Robert Hogan. If you're hoping for a two for one, forget it. A third finger. "Whether we succeed or not, you have forgotten our British adversaries, MI5. And they have made our life increasingly difficult without your silly little plot ruining all our operations in this country." Security Service has made London so tight, so confining that it is almost impossible to work here, dahling, and if anybody needs assassination, in my less than humble opinion, it's the head of MI5. A fourth finger. "And then there's the last: if we don't kill him--and I doubt seriously you can manage that, particularly given his cleverness, deviousness, and unpredictability--we, meaning I, will have to deal with a very angry Hogan who is extraordinarily well tied in with MI6. Those two agencies work together. Do we need our allies in Africa and the Middle East overthrown? No, Hogan's death is not worth the trouble it would cause."
Ivanova's fingernails bit deeply into her palm as she listened to the lecture. "You're letting your personal feelings get in the way, Comrade." Ivanova held her steady voice.
Marya flipped her long, russet hair back from her recently lifted face. "Hardly. If it were necessary, I would kill Hogan. I would do it myself, make it look like an ordinary murder during theft, and not attract the attention of at least two governments." Tucking her chin in, raising her shoulders, she spread her hands, palms out as if to say, See how easy it could be?
"Comrade Brezhnev doesn't see it that way."
"I'm sure he doesn't." Dropping her hands, Marya shrugged extravagantly. "My advice, Ivanova? Stay out of the internal machinations of the Politburo. I make it my business to never know theirs. Officially at least." If Premier Kosygin does not deal effectively with wayward Czechoslovakia, he will undoubtedly be ousted. And I think that would be a pity.
Ivanova cracked a slight smile. "Your advice is duly logged and noted." She buttoned her chocolate brown wool suit jacket. "You will co-operate."
Marya rolled her eyes. Who does this numbskull think she's talking to? "Of course, dahling. I always do what I'm ordered. How do you think I've survived all these years?"
"Good." Ivanova turned on her heel and strode from the office.
She makes me think of a badly dressed shark! Marya shuddered involuntarily as she turned back to the window. The London skyscape generally relaxed her. Not now. Ah, Hogan dahling, your death would solve several annoying problems, but it would also make the game boring for me. It would be like losing an old and treasured lover. Leaning back in her chair, putting her feet up on the window sill, Marya puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. I would really like it if MI5 got to you, Ivanova. General principle, dahling.
*****
The long baroque gallery with the high ceiling was filled with people bustling to various subcommittee meetings. Hogan was jostled and bumped practically by everyone. He stopped as he found the person he sought. Leaning cavalierly on his silver-headed hawthorn cane, he casually said, ""You look enormously perturbed this morning, Steve."
Prince Etienne de Poulenac, French deputy foreign minister, looked down his prominent aquiline nose at Hogan who grinned insolently back at him. With an aggrieved aristocratic sigh, de Poulenac glared, under hooded eyes, at the American. A tall, spare man, the prince reminded everyone of a falcon at rest.
"And what do you want this morning, Bobby?"
To Hogan's ears, the French accent made the diminutive almost sound like Booby. He tried to stifle a yawn and failed. "I'd like to be back in London, but I have to be here, at this silly conference which seems to me to be nothing more than pure Gaullist cantankerousness."
"You must be tired, Bobby. You don't usually start off by insulting the French government."
"No, I usually don't, but frankly, all we're going to do here is talk, talk, talk about stuff we don't admit we have and can't use anyway. There are other things more important than this." Like Czechoslovakia, like the leak from the American Embassy in Bonn, like the growing agitation among the French student population, like…Oh, the list is endless. I don't have time for this. "So, you'll have to forgive me if I'm a trifle impatient this morning." He pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache began to settle between his eyes.
De Poulenac gave a small Gallic shrug and started to say something when his attention was diverted by a middle-aged blonde woman in a dark green Chanel suit with gold silk blouse. "Merde!" he swore.. "Quelle femme!"
Hogan swiftly glanced at the prince before following his gaze. He'd never heard Steve swear like that before. Upon seeing the woman, Hogan's heart lurched. "My God! Suzanne Lechay!" he breathed. He hadn't seen her since her days at Stalag 13. "What's she doing here?"
The raptor's eyes narrowed. "And how do you know that woman, Bobby?"
Real malice underlay his tone, and mentally, Hogan took a step back. Insults over de Gaulle's policy of La France Seule were easy banter; this was something deadly personal. He responded truthfully. "I met her during the war. She was in the Resistance. Very brave lady, though at the time, I thought she was downright suicidal." He gave the prince a bemused glance. "She had this habit of pulling rank on me. So what's with your vitriolic reaction?"
"Madame Lechay is a Socialist. One of François Mitterand's nasty band. More to the point, she is here to protest the French stance on chemical weapons. Her position at the Sorbonne gives her some advantage--something I would very much like to take care of."
Hogan chuckled softly. "Sounds like she's been pushing you around. I'm glad to know that some things haven't changed." He ignored De Poulenac's black expression. "What's the matter? Has she called you on violation of the Geneva Convention?'' The quick, sharp intact of breath answered his question. "Well, I'll tell you what, Steve. I'll deal with the lady for you. See if I can distract her." His saucy smile merely raised the prince's eyebrow; he slowly moved away, cane tapping evenly on the marble floor.
*****
After having passed from one useless meeting to another, Hogan thought his head was going to explode. His headache had reached an unbearable level, stoked by frustration. Even the gossip in the hallways had been uninformative or complete passé for his purposes. Oh, there had been plenty of indiscretion, but nothing he didn't already know. And he'd been utterly unable to catch up with Suzanne Lechay. She'd closeted herself away with a known environmental radical; that had pricked his professional and personal interest, but it could wait until tomorrow. A courier from London waited at his hotel, bringing him reports and communiqués.
From habit, Hogan walked down the busy street for several blocks. The walk usually worked the kinks out of his body and cleared his mind. It also allowed him to find out who was following him. And tonight, he had a shadow. Okay. That means a new hotel for this evening and meeting the courier at the secondary drop. That alone will tip off the office, and two agents from Consular Ops will sweep the room tonight and keep it--and me--under surveillance. Remembering Bernie's warning, Hogan wondered what the KGB was up to and knew instinctively that it wasn't good. He grabbed a cab and headed in the opposite direction of his hotel.
Hours later, Hogan sat in the bar of his new hotel nursing a beer. It didn't relieve either his headache or his anxiety. He hadn't caught sight of his shadow, but that didn't mean the guy wasn't still there. The courier had met him right on schedule, not that she'd brought anything earth shattering. He drained his beer and got up. He turned to go upstairs and go to bed, but a chicly dressed woman of medium height collided with him, nearly knocking him over.
"Hey, watch where you're going, lady. I'm not that steady on my pins anymore!" He righted himself, but his hip hadn't appreciated the jolt.
Without really looking at him, the woman muttered, "I'm terribly sorry, monsieur." She tried to hurry past, but Hogan blocked her way. "What is wrong, now?" This time, she did look at him and dark eyes locked. One set glinted with amusement while the other filled with acute embarrassment. "Parbleu! It is you, mon colonel."
"You weren't content just to push or shove me around during the war, now you've got to mow me down. After that, the least you can do is have a drink with me." His hand guided her to an empty table.
After their drinks arrived, Suzanne gripped his wrist. The touch almost overrode her words. "I had wondered about you so often after I'd gotten away. I had long worried that you and your men had not survived. And after the war, I had wanted to see you again but could not find you."
Her eyes swept him. He knew what she saw: the silver hair, the laugh and worry lines, the faint age spots, the cane and limp. "The years have not been kind to you."
With his thumb, he spun his wedding ring around his finger. He answered her more harshly and bitterly than he'd intended. "No, they haven't."
"And you aren't just talking about advancing age, are you, mon colonel?"
Her voice was soft and warm, the vocal equivalent of cashmere.
Ducking the question--what the hell possessed me anyway?--he said, "Oh, please, I haven't been Colonel Hogan in 22 years. Try Rob or Robert." He deliberately used a light tone.
"Very well. You do remember that it is Suzanne, Robert?" She pronounced his name in French.
"I remember it well. Just as well as your presence at Stalag 13." He'd never forgotten the reckless Dr. Lechay whose foolhardy plan had miraculously succeeded. Closing his eyes momentarily, he savored the memory. "We were there till December 1944 when we had to get out. We all made it to England--just barely." That boat ride could still give him nightmares if he thought about it in any detail.
"I am so glad." She looked expectantly at him, a subtle, flirtatious smile on her lips. "Robert, you've not answered my question."
Hogan sighed softly. "You've changed some in 25 years." He wasn't about to mention the fine lines around the eyes or the ribbon of white edging each side of the bouffant pageboy, "But one thing is still there: you can't be deflected." He shook his head, taking time to steady himself. "To answer your question, no. The worst thing that happened was I lost my wife. She was murdered." After almost 12 years, he could say it without his voice quavering.
Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so terribly sorry, Robert." She choked back a sob.
"Suzanne…." Hogan deftly wiped a couple of her tears away.
"Your loss brings it back to me that my husband, Honoré, died in one of the FLN's attacks on Algiers." She stopped, took several deep breaths to maintain her composure. Algeria had ripped French society apart, had collapsed the Fourth Republic. "That was in 1960. There is something about sudden, violent loss that never leaves you."
His hands took hers. "I know, Suzanne. I'm so sorry. It's not something I would wish on my worst enemy--and I've got a couple of those." Her hands shook in his; Hogan gave them a gentle squeeze. "As hard as it was, I did have the consolation of children." Patrick and later Renate had made sure than he hadn't curled up and died. Now, he could add his grandsons Nigel and Miles.
"Honoré and I had no children." At his stricken face, she added quickly, "By design, Robert. We were both research chemists with active careers. We both knew that our own lives would be shortened by our profession. We could not in conscience risk any unborn child. And there were things we could have carried home from the lab. No, we could not do it."
Not to mention your career would have been completely ended, Suzanne. Even I'm not blind to that one. He whispered, "Gutsy decision. Not one I could have made." In a deliberately playful mode, decisively changing the tone and direction of the conversation, he whipped out his wallet. "Of course, now, you have to suffer through the pictures of the grandchildren." Suzanne laughed throatily and willingly bent to the proud grandfather's demands.
They spent the rest of the evening in companionable reminiscence, leaving only when they were thrown out of the bar at closing time. As Hogan climbed into bed at almost 4am, he realized how attracted he was to her, how completely delighted with and comfortable he was in her company. I'm a 60 year old grandfather. I'm a CIA station chief with a KGB shadow. This cannot be happening to me. I cannot be falling in love. Punching the pillow into shape, he lay down with a disgusted sigh. I'm too old for this nonsense.
*****
A stocky man in rumpled flannel trousers and nondescript wool sweater sat on the park bench feeding the pigeons as Robert Hogan sauntered into his hotel late Friday evening. The man nodded with satisfaction. Several hours later, close on to midnight, one of the hotel rooms burst into white hot flame. The intense fire didn't spread, but it did send the occupants of the hotel rushing into the cold in their nightclothes. The man, who hadn't moved in hours, watched the chaos carefully. Robert Hogan wasn't among the milling crowd. Giving the world a broad, toothy grin, the man walked down the street to a public telephone. If anyone had overheard him, he would have thought him odd. "Checkmate."
*****
Saturday morning dawned clear and peaceful. It would be a beautiful day, if somewhat chilly. Mid-April in northern Europe was not known for warmth. Suzanne Lechay pulled her black and silver kimono tightly around her and closed the heavy drapes. Looking back to the bed, she watched Robert Hogan sleep: his face, relaxed and peaceful, pressed into the pillow clutched in his arms. She gave a slight, gentle smile. Despite all his protestations to her about his age and being out of practice, he'd been a tender and considerate lover. And their lovemaking had reminded her of all she'd shut out in 8 years. Sighing softly, she'd decided, that since the NATO conference was over that she was going to luxuriate in bed, in the warm intimacy of his presence. Dropping the kimono, she slipped under the covers without disturbing him. With a butterfly's caress, she stroked his head, his back; tiny moans of contentment issued forth as he rolled onto his side, still asleep. Suzanne tucked herself tightly against him and closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift back to sleep. She barely felt his arm snake around her, just under her breasts.