Summit by Richard Bowker Page A

there again, on the ice (the ice that never cooled his sweat), bodies sprawling on top of him, the world exploding around him. And he couldn't breathe, the weight was too heavy, the fear and the shame were choking him, he was going to die, and he wanted more than anything not to die....
    But he didn't die. He awoke. The sheet was wet. The clock ticked. Two-thirty. He had to go to the bathroom.
    This is not working,, he thought as he stood over the toilet. This is as bad as it can be.
    But he didn't know how to make it better.
    * * *
    Lawrence Hill drove up the long, secluded driveway, parked his gray Toyota by the front door, and got out. He heard music coming from inside the house, gorgeous sounds floating out through the darkness like half-remembered dreams. He listened for a moment, half-remembering, and then went to do his job. He rang the front doorbell, and its harsh dissonance dispersed the dreams. There was silence, then footsteps, and then he felt an eye peering out at him through the peephole. The door opened.
    "Hello, Mr. Fulton. I wonder if I might have a word with you. It won't take long."
    Fulton took a step back and let him enter.
    "I couldn't help hearing you playing from outside, Mr. Fulton. It sounded wonderful."
    "It sucked," Fulton said. He was wearing jeans and a white undershirt. As before, he hadn't shaved. Hill supposed he could see why women found Fulton sexy. There was a curious mixture of vulnerability and arrogance in his features that they must have found irresistible. Women did not find Lawrence Hill irresistible, but that was certainly beside the point.
    Hill followed Fulton inside. He was still surprised at how modest Fulton's house was. It was in a posh neighborhood, to be sure, the kind that was filled with high-priced executives who wanted to be a comfortable train ride away from Manhattan. But he had expected something more palatial as the residence of someone as famous as Daniel Fulton. It occurred to him, looking once again at the squalor of the room with the piano in it, that Fulton wasn't especially interested in his surroundings. The room was large, but it was so filled with books and music that it felt cramped, womblike. Maybe Fulton just wanted to be left alone in this womb. Unfortunately, that was no longer going to happen.
    "Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hill?" Fulton asked with a smile when they were seated.
    "I just wanted to remind you that you shouldn't speak of your upcoming adventure in Moscow with anyone."
    "Of course. I haven't."
    "Well, that's not exactly true," Hill responded mildly.
    Fulton shrugged and kept smiling. "I had to tell Hershohn something," he said. "Otherwise, he wasn't going to let me accept the offer."
    Hill nodded his understanding. "If you have that kind of problem again, let us know, and we'll help you come up with a suitable story. As we said before, we can't stop you from telling people the truth, but of course we wish you'd keep it a secret. It puts a very important operation at risk—not to mention the people who will be involved in the operation."
    Fulton kicked at an empty orange-juice carton. Was it the same one that had been there the other day? "Sorry," he said. He looked up at Hill. "You're one of the people, right? Is it going to be dangerous for you?"
    Hill smiled reassuringly. "It shouldn't be dangerous for anyone, if we're all reasonably careful."
    "I understand."
    Fulton's house wasn't the only thing that surprised Hill. Fulton himself was far different from what he had expected.
    Hill had told Fulton he had been certain he'd agree to their plan, but that wasn't exactly true. In fact, Hill, along with everyone else, had been sure that Fulton would not go for it without a good deal of persuasion of one sort or another. Too eccentric, too arrogant, too suspicious of the CIA. Some people had been against the operation, afraid that Fulton would blow the whistle on it as soon as the approach was made. But they had finally decided to give it