Jack's Widow Read Online Free
abilities were exceptional.
Maybe he would be able to find something for her to do. That night she wrote a short letter enclosing her change-of-address card.
It went, by diplomatic pouch, straight to Moscow.
CHAPTER Three
R ed Square has never looked more beautiful, he thought.
Guy nudged the black turtleneck sweater higher up toward his chin with long, capable fingers embedded in fur-lined gloves. As ever, the glimpse of the Kremlin’s skyline lifted his spirits. Even the icy wind left a tinny taste on his lips that he savored.
Do I like it here because it is the most interesting place I have ever lived or is it the work that excites me? he wondered.
It was quiet in the Russian capital this Saturday morning; the few babushkas on the street walked silently, the limp sun had the consistency of a thrice-used tea bag, and even the snow was falling softly.
Remembering his military training, he drew himself up, threw back his shoulders, and breathed in deeply. Although he was accustomed to wearing clothes that would blend in with the Moscow street, everything in Soviet-style drab colors of possum and raccoon, he was already freezing despite the warm interlinings that had been sewn into his coat.
His plans had enabled him to get out of the house without anargument. His wife suspected that since their five-year-old had begun piano lessons on Saturday mornings there was little to keep him at home. He explained that work called and he could not disappoint his oldest contact.
Sergei always asked him in his fractured English, “Please, Guy, the weekends are zo, zo much easier for me. I don’t have to go into my office or to any news conferences. Free press,” he would say, “no news allowed to happen on Saturday or Sunday! We can meet at my zister’s place, I go there for lunch every weekend. Don’t vorry, it is my usual pattern,” he had said, time and time again.
It was the only part of spycraft that the younger man had managed to teach the fifty-six-year-old.
Within minutes Guy’s long strides had taken him to the office. He would have just enough time to read the overnight memos.
After half an hour he had more or less finished. There was nothing special.
About to leave for his rendezvous, he was given an urgent message to go upstairs to collect a special delivery. His heart raced. Anything that was delivered to the office must be serious, must mean trouble.
The message was intriguing, one that he would share with his boss when he came to work on Monday morning.
He thought about the first time he had met her. It was on a day as cold as this, in the decaying grandeur of Prague in 1957.
It was Jackie’s first official foreign visit. She was accompanying her husband, Jack, then a senator for Massachusetts, who for the first time had been included in the bipartisan delegation attending the conference of the nuclear club. Four years before, despite deep distrust between the Americans and the British on one side and the Soviets on the other, the three nations had realized that they did have one thing in common: ownership of the atomic bomb. Their shared problem was stopping the spread of nuclear weapons across the world.
In 1953, U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower had received a standing ovation at the United Nations when he suggested that some of the stockpiles of these weapons should be given to the world’s scientists to discover a dual use for the technology. At a time when the Iron Curtain was callously billowing across Europe, the delegates were amazed to see that even the Russians were applauding. Thus the Atoms for Peace nonproliferation program was born—but it got off to a faltering start. During the first few years the only achievement in the search for ways to harness nuclear energy for peaceful purposes was the decision to hold a small, low-key meeting every year that would include politicians, the world’s top scientists, and other experts.
Geneva was chosen as the first
Maybe he would be able to find something for her to do. That night she wrote a short letter enclosing her change-of-address card.
It went, by diplomatic pouch, straight to Moscow.
CHAPTER Three
R ed Square has never looked more beautiful, he thought.
Guy nudged the black turtleneck sweater higher up toward his chin with long, capable fingers embedded in fur-lined gloves. As ever, the glimpse of the Kremlin’s skyline lifted his spirits. Even the icy wind left a tinny taste on his lips that he savored.
Do I like it here because it is the most interesting place I have ever lived or is it the work that excites me? he wondered.
It was quiet in the Russian capital this Saturday morning; the few babushkas on the street walked silently, the limp sun had the consistency of a thrice-used tea bag, and even the snow was falling softly.
Remembering his military training, he drew himself up, threw back his shoulders, and breathed in deeply. Although he was accustomed to wearing clothes that would blend in with the Moscow street, everything in Soviet-style drab colors of possum and raccoon, he was already freezing despite the warm interlinings that had been sewn into his coat.
His plans had enabled him to get out of the house without anargument. His wife suspected that since their five-year-old had begun piano lessons on Saturday mornings there was little to keep him at home. He explained that work called and he could not disappoint his oldest contact.
Sergei always asked him in his fractured English, “Please, Guy, the weekends are zo, zo much easier for me. I don’t have to go into my office or to any news conferences. Free press,” he would say, “no news allowed to happen on Saturday or Sunday! We can meet at my zister’s place, I go there for lunch every weekend. Don’t vorry, it is my usual pattern,” he had said, time and time again.
It was the only part of spycraft that the younger man had managed to teach the fifty-six-year-old.
Within minutes Guy’s long strides had taken him to the office. He would have just enough time to read the overnight memos.
After half an hour he had more or less finished. There was nothing special.
About to leave for his rendezvous, he was given an urgent message to go upstairs to collect a special delivery. His heart raced. Anything that was delivered to the office must be serious, must mean trouble.
The message was intriguing, one that he would share with his boss when he came to work on Monday morning.
He thought about the first time he had met her. It was on a day as cold as this, in the decaying grandeur of Prague in 1957.
It was Jackie’s first official foreign visit. She was accompanying her husband, Jack, then a senator for Massachusetts, who for the first time had been included in the bipartisan delegation attending the conference of the nuclear club. Four years before, despite deep distrust between the Americans and the British on one side and the Soviets on the other, the three nations had realized that they did have one thing in common: ownership of the atomic bomb. Their shared problem was stopping the spread of nuclear weapons across the world.
In 1953, U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower had received a standing ovation at the United Nations when he suggested that some of the stockpiles of these weapons should be given to the world’s scientists to discover a dual use for the technology. At a time when the Iron Curtain was callously billowing across Europe, the delegates were amazed to see that even the Russians were applauding. Thus the Atoms for Peace nonproliferation program was born—but it got off to a faltering start. During the first few years the only achievement in the search for ways to harness nuclear energy for peaceful purposes was the decision to hold a small, low-key meeting every year that would include politicians, the world’s top scientists, and other experts.
Geneva was chosen as the first
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