The next two days went by in a blur. He drove to the Bank of America on Gardena Boulevard and then to the Sumitomo Bank on Redondo Beach Boulevard, moving the money he’d got from the Summa Corporation out of his older personal account and into the one Anna and he shared now. And he took his father his W-2’s, his wife’s, and the 1099s from his writing.

“Figure out where we are with this stuff, please,” he said. “If we owe money, let Anna know so she can write a check. I bet she can forge my signature on the return, too.”

His dad laughed. “That happens with a lot of the couples I do taxes for. As long as there’s no hanky-panky in the numbers, you don’t need to worry.”

“Pretty much what I thought,” Jerry said. “Oh—charge us whatever you would for anybody else with the same return.”

His father shook his head. “Blood is thicker than money, even if not everybody thinks so. And, thank God, I don’t need it that bad. On the house.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Jerry set a hand on his father’s shoulder for a moment. “You’re a mensch, you know?”

“I try. I don’t always make it, but I try. You aren’t doing too bad yourself, kid.”

Jerry had his suitcase packed and dinner almost ready when Anna got home Wednesday evening. He left the dishes in the sink after they finished eating. She’d wash them, or else she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be around to get upset if she didn’t.

They headed for the airport. She stopped in front of the terminal Hawaiian Air flew out of. He kissed her. “I love you, babe,” he said.

“Love you, too. Wake up one of those weird aliens for me.”

“Ha! I wish!” Jerry took the suitcase out of the trunk and walked into the terminal. Sure enough, his boarding pass waited at the counter. He checked his luggage and went to gate 51, where the plane would leave.

There were the Russians! Those dozen or so men sitting together couldn’t be anyone else. They were paler than Californians, and wearing sports clothes straight from 1959. Most of them were smoking. Nervously, Jerry walked over to them. “Dobry den, tovarishchi,” he said.

XVIII

When the plane landed in Honolulu in the wee small hours, Jerry felt sorry for the Soviet scientists. All they’d see of Hawaii was the airport. He was glad they all spoke English, some quite a bit better than he spoke Russian. That made sense; they’d need to work with their American counterparts. But Ambassador Dobrynin and Major Bronstein had been right—the Russian he did know, and his willingness to try with it, helped ease his way with his new colleagues.