Rockets' Red Glare

Chapter Thirty-seven

Weeks had passed since a cold, harsh rain blasted over the Urals from Siberia, and scrubbed the grime from Moscow streets, heralding an early spring.

Aleksei Deschin was sitting in his study in the once grand building on Proyzed Serova Street in his robe and pajamas, angrily reading KGB reports on the day’s events in Rome, when the door buzzer rang.

It was 10:17 P.M.

He peered through the security peephole, then opened the door, letting a young woman into the apartment.

Neither spoke.

He led the way to the bedroom. Then he sat on the carved walnut bed, watching her undress.

She was young, maybe twenty, twenty-two, Deschin calculated, with a taut robustness, white flesh, and pink up-turned nipples that aroused him. She was state-supplied. And like the countless others who had been dispatched into the night whenever he made the call, he’d never seen her before and would never see her again.

When she was naked, she bounded across the room, climbed onto the bed, and, kneeling between his legs, put her face close to his and tried to kiss him.

He leaned away, and, gently pushing her head down into his lap, said, “My needs are simple, and I prefer them quickly satisfied.”

She hid her disappointment. She’d expected to spend the night. It was her profession, and proud of her specialties, she was anxious to perform fully for a member of the Politburo who might recommend her.

But this was all Deschin ever wanted from any of them. Sex had long ceased to be more than a mechanical release. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been an active participant, or made love to a woman, or been with one in a way that might resemble a procreative act.

The rhythm of the blond head bobbing between his knees quickened. There was a dressing mirror opposite the bed; but with each of these young women, Deschin couldn’t help thinking, She’s somebody’s daughter, and he never watched. The surge was rising now. He began arching his back against the headboard, and as she brought him to the moment, he grabbed two handfuls of her hair, keeping her head just where he wanted it. His body was sagging back against the pillows when he thought he heard the phone ring, and when she looked up at him to ascertain if she had pleased him, it rang again. He closed his robe, and nodded wearily, and she understood and handed him the phone.

It was the Premier’s aide, Vasily. The call Deschin long dreaded had come.

Twenty minutes later he was fully dressed and hurrying in the darkness to a waiting sedan. The cultural minister rarely went out at such a late hour. When Uzykin saw Deschin’s grave expression he knew his destination was the Kremlin.

The black Chaika crossed Dzerzhinsky Square, accelerating beneath a latticework of cottonwoods into Karl Marx Prospekt, and headed west in the center lane reserved for vehicles of government officials.

The mature one-hundred-foot trees, planted by Stalin at Franklin D. Roosevelt’s suggestion, were already budding. Moscow’s streets would soon be dusted with snowy pookh, the tufts of silky fiber released by the female cottonwood.

Deschin sat glumly in the Chaika, wishing the problem he’d be facing could be eliminated as easily as the flammable pookh which, as every Moscow schoolchild knows, ignites at the touch of a match, and vanishes instantly in a brilliant flash.

The Chaika came out of Karl Marx Prospekt, crossed Gorkovo, and approached the Kremlin.

The bureaucratic citadel is a sixteenth-century walled fortress. Dark red brick, twenty feet thick in some places, stretches almost eight hundred meters between corners of an inverted trapezoid. Golden onion-shaped domes of four cathedrals swell above the crenellated walls, and countless towers spike skyward, the five tallest thrusting illuminated red stars aloft — into a heavy mist that diffused them.

The Chaika drove the length of the wall to the southwest corner, and entered the Kremlin through a gate at the base of the Borovitsky Tower. It continued up the steep hill, past the Great Kremlin Palace, and beneath the arch of the Council of Ministers Building, stopping inside the triangular courtyard.

Deschin entered via an ornate bronze door, walked beneath the gilded dome, and hurried down a long corridor to Premier Dmitri Kaparov’s apartment.

The Premier’s wife; aide, Vasily; and personal physician, along with Anatoly Chagin, head of GRU; and KGB Chief Sergei Tvardovskiy were gathered in the bedroom where the Soviet Premier lay near death.

A tangle of tubes and wires snaked from beneath the bedding to vital signs’ monitors and life-support systems. The ping of the EKG monitor alternated with the asthmatic hiss of the dialysis machine.

“When?” Deschin asked softly as he entered, his nostrils filling with the suffocating smell of illness.

The doctor turned from the equipment and shrugged.

“Morning, midday at the latest, Comrade Minister,” she said.

“Poor Dmitri,” his wife whispered sadly, adding almost apologetically, “he thought he had more time.”

“We all did,” Chagin said, his lips barely moving.

“Yes, you said three months,” Tvardovskiy growled, challenging the doctor.

“I know,” she replied. “I’m afraid the recent stress accelerated his deterioration.”

Deschin stepped to the bed and studied Kaparov’s ashen face, knowing his friend would not live to see SLOW BURN realized. He took the Premier’s hand and squeezed it gently. He was about to let go when Kaparov squeezed back — hard, as if he knew who it was. Deschin’s lips tightened in a thin smile. He turned to the Premier’s wife and hugged her. Then he crossed the room and led Vasily, Chagin, and Tvardovskiy down the corridor to the Premier’s office.

Vasily entered the ornate chamber last, closing the door. As the Premier’s longtime aide, matters of protocol, such as the arrangements for a state funeral, were his responsibility. “How shall I proceed?” he asked, careful not to direct the question to one man over the others.

“The procedures are clearly outlined in Article Twenty-seven, comrade,” Tvardovskiy snapped. “I suggest you follow them.”

“No,” said Deschin decisively. His title was minister of culture; but when it came to SLOW BURN, his power was second only to the Premier’s. “Things are going too well in Geneva. We can’t appear to be without leadership, now. We can’t lose our momentum.”

“I agree,” Tvardovskiy said. “But the Americans know of the Premier’s condition. They—”

“How? How do they know?” Deschin interrupted rhetorically. “Not by what they see.”

“Of course not,” Tvardovskiy replied impatiently. “The opposite has always been their only gauge.”

“Exactly,” Deschin said. “When they don’t see the Soviet Premier, they conclude he’s ill. But they have no way of determining degree. Tomorrow, he will have recovered sufficiently to leave the Kremlin. Find a military pensioner, preferably a senile one. Dress him in the Premier’s greatcoat and hat. Put the old fellow in his limousine and get it out in the streets — where their press people can see it.”

“Fine, Aleksei,” Tvardovskiy said. “But how long do you think we can—”

“—A day, two, ten,” Deschin snapped. “Every hour we give Pykonen before making the announcement brings the unchallenged nuclear superiority Comrade Dmitrievitch wanted for his people that much closer.”

“I’ll do it,” Chagin said. He turned and left before either of them could reply.

Tvardovskiy started after him.

“Sergei?” Deschin said sharply, waiting until he had paused and turned to face him before continuing. “You spoke to Zeitzev?”

Tvardovskiy winced, revealing the gold edges atop his incisors. He’d been hoping the subject wouldn’t come up.

“Giancarlo Borsa is an old friend. And heavily involved in Geneva,” Deschin went on tautly. He paused, then, with quiet outrage, asked, “How? How the hell did that happen?”

Tvardovskiy stared at him for a long moment while he brought his temper under control.

“It will be taken care of,” he said gravely. He was about to warn Deschin not to use that tone when it occurred to him, he might just be addressing the next Soviet Premier.

Aeroflot INT-237 from Rome had flown a northeasterly course across the Adriatic, Yugoslavia, Hungary, the eastern tip of Czechoslovakia into western Russia, and was on final approach to Sheremetyvo International Airport, in the desolate flatlands twenty-six miles northwest of Moscow.

“By the way,” Andrew said, taking Melanie’s hand, “in case you’ve heard those stories about Russian air traffic controllers looking at their screens through glasses of vodka—”

“I was just wondering about that,” she replied, amused rather than alarmed.

“No problem,” he concluded. “The ATC system here was manufactured by Churchco Electronics. It’s the best in the world.”

“Churchco—” she said, connecting his name to the conglomerate. “You’re—”

“Theodor Churcher’s my father,” he said, nodding. “As they say, I made my money the old-fashioned way—” he cut off the sentence, leaving the joke unfinished. It was the first time he had actually thought about inheriting the billion-dollar empire.

Sheremetyvo was a modern, efficiently run airport, and in minutes they had landed, deplaned, and cued for passport control. A young inspector with a sullen face and brown uniform processed Andrew’s travel documents, then began digging through his bag. He unzipped one of the pouches, removed an electric razor, and held it up.

“Is for what?”

“Shaving?” Andrew replied, making the motion over his face with his hand.

The inspector eyed him suspiciously, then shifted his eyes to the shaver, looking for a way to open it; finally he took a penknife from a pocket.

“Hold it,” Andrew said, concerned he would damage it. “I’ll do it, okay?” He took the shaver and popped off the rotary heads.

The inspector shook his head no, unsatisfied. “Where is cord?” he challenged.

Andrew understood, now. The shaver was a battery-operated model, and had multicolor indicator lights, nine shaving modes with calibrated selector, and sleek packaging. To the inspector it looked suspiciously high tech and electronic, as its designers intended.

Andrew turned it on and ran it across his face, trying not to appear smug about it.

The inspector eyed him coldly, and shoved his bag aside, dismissing him. Melanie was next. He swept his steely eyes over her. “Papers please.”

He’s probably going to take it out on me, she thought, as she handed them to him.

The inspector examined and stamped her passport, then brusquely unfolded her visa. His eyes widened, his expression softened, and he handed it back, waving her on without checking her bags.

“Mr. Warmth must have a thing for older women,” Melanie said as they walked off.

“Does your visa have a small green crest stamped across the signature?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, it does—”

“It’s a special clearance. My father’s visa had one. It took him years to get it.”

“Now we know what Gorodin meant when he said it was within his power.”

Andrew nodded, reflecting on his suspicions.

“So much for middle-age charm,” Melanie concluded.

The Tupolev 134 had taken three hours and twenty minutes to cover the fifteen hundred miles between Rome and Moscow. With the two-hour loss of time, it was well after midnight when they arrived at the Hotel Berlin on Zhadanova Street in the theater district.

The Berlin’s lobby was deserted and quiet.

They were both too exhausted to appreciate the plush Victorian decor as they trudged to the check-in desk. The clerk was off to one side doing paperwork, and didn’t notice them. Andrew lightly tapped the bell.

“Dobriy vyecher,” the clerk said as he looked up and approached them. “Mozhna pamagat?”

“We’d like to check in, please,” Andrew replied. “Mr. Churcher, Miss Winslow.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Churcher,” the clerk said.

He took their passports, slipped a card from a file box, and gave it to Andrew to fill out. Then he prepared a propoosk—a hotel pass that contains one’s name, length of stay, and room number — and pushed it across the mahogany counter to Andrew.

“Give this to the hall attendant on your floor,” he said. “She’ll give you your key. Reverse the procedure when you leave. The propoosk must be given to the doorman to be allowed to leave the hotel.”

“Yes, thanks, I know,” Andrew replied.

“I’ll have someone bring your bags,” the clerk said. He smiled, and returned to his work, assuming Andrew and Melanie were together.

Melanie saw Andrew was about to say something, and touched his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t,” she said warmly.

Andrew studied her for a moment, then smiled wistfully and turned back to the desk.

“Excuse me, but the lady’s checking in as well.”

The clerk reddened, apologized profusely, and went through the check-in procedure with Melanie. In a few minutes, she and Andrew, propoosks in hand, were walking a long empty corridor to the elevator.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said.

“You didn’t. I was just being cautious.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They tapped my phone in Rome.”

“Why?”

“That’s how they do business,” Andrew said with a shrug, not mentioning that he suspected his father’s collaboration with the Russians was the cause. “The guidebooks say, ‘Hotel Berlin, cozy, Victorian elegance, favorite of businessmen,’ ” he went on. “The truth is, they favor it because they have no choice. The government wanted me here, and that’s where Intourist put me. And why does the government want me here?”

“To watch you—”

“That’s right.”

“But we would just be lovers.”

“I know,” he said softly, letting his eyes catch hers before adding, “And I’d like that—”

Melanie returned his look and smiled.

““—but they’re always looking for an edge. For something they can use against you.”

“Well,” she said, teasing, “I wouldn’t want them to destroy your reputation by revealing you’re sleeping with an older woman.”

“That’s how they work,” Andrew said with a grin. “Seriously,” he went on, “they’re experts at using the most innocent situation to make trouble.”

“The KGB?” she whispered.

Andrew nodded, and said, “Don’t whisper, it attracts attention.” His remark started him thinking about Raina Maiskaya, and he saw her blank eyes staring at him, staring right through him as the car whisked her away on that bleak night in Rome, and wondered if she’d been tortured and imprisoned, or if she was even still alive. The elevator door opened and snapped him out of it. He leaned his head closer to Melanie’s as he followed her inside.

“Don’t ever forget where you are,” he warned.

Melanie nodded.

The door rumbled closed, and he kissed her.

Chapter Thirty-eight

The USS Finback, a Sturgeon-class hunter/killer submarine, cut through South Atlantic waters at a depth of seven hundred and fifty feet.

The Finback’s captain, Commander Burton C. Armus, was an unpolished bear of a man, ill-suited in size for submarine duty. But he had the devious, calculating mind it takes to hunt in the dark. The Finback was as far from the South Bronx as he could get, and he loved it.

Armus was in the process of “tickling” a Soviet Alpha-class sub-marine off Puerto Rico. The titanium-hulled alpha is the swiftest and deepest diving sub yet built. Armus had spent weeks sparring with his Russian counterpart to learn about its capabilities, and he had learned a lot. He was hunched over a chart in the Finback’s control room, plotting the alpha’s course and planning a countermove, when the communications officer handed him a teletype from ASW Pensacola which read:

Babysit a fucking tanker? Armus wondered.

As a security precaution, the orders were sent without a mission overview. And Armus’ reaction, if not eloquent was understandable. He had the alpha going in circles — an “underwater mind-fuck,” as he called it — and it killed him to let the Soviet submarine off the hook.

At about the same time, the Kira was slipping from her berth at the Soviet naval base in Cienfuegos. VLCC means “Very Large Crude Carrier,” and measuring longer than four football fields, the Kira was properly classified. Her hold was empty of cargo, and she rode high in the water with ungainly majesty as the harbor pilot guided her through the channel. It was 4:07 P.M. when Captain Rublyov took over the helm.

Ostensibly, Fedor Rublyov was the civilian captain of an oil tanker. But he was actually a commander first rank in the Soviet Navy, one of their finest — which was why the Kira had been entrusted to his command.

He brought the huge vessel to starboard, and headed west into the orange fireball that sat on the horizon.

The Finback was waiting for her just outside Cuban territorial waters. The sub’s BQQ-6 bow-mounted sonar picked up the rumble of the Kira’s power plant and her twin screw cavitation the moment her engines went all-ahead-full, and she headed out to open sea.

The Finback tracked the Kira in a looping arc below Cuba’s southern shore to its western-most tip. Crawling at a speed of eighteen knots, it took the tanker almost fifteen hours to reach the Yucatan Channel, where she swung north into the Mexican Gulf.

The Kira was still 750 miles from its offshore oil field destination when Armus brought the Finback to periscope antenna depth. Per the ASW directive, he contacted Pensacola — via SSIX, the geosynchronous satellite dedicated to U.S. submarine communications — and reported the Kira’s destination as the Gulf of Mexico, and position as 86W 22N. Almost immediately, the Finback’s printer came to life with a reply.

“Something weird’s cooking,” Armus said, handing the directive to the deck officer.

“We’re guiding an S-3A to a rendezvous?”

Armus shrugged. Both were reacting to the flip-flop in procedure — a Viking S-3A can detect submerged submarines, locating a surface vessel the size of the Kira would be child’s play. Neither knew the Viking had been gutted of all electronic tracking gear.

In Pensacola, Lowell and Arnsbarger were on twenty-four-hour alert when the Finback confirmed the Kira’s destination. Within minutes, they had their Viking S-3A in the air on a southeast, heading over the Mexican Gulf. Lowell was in the copilot’s seat instead of the TACCO bay behind. It was 7:05 A.M. EST.

They had been training for two days when Cissy remarked that Arnsbarger’s schedule had changed.

“We’re running tests on some new sub-tracking gear,” he had replied offhandedly.

“Oh,” she had said, letting it go. She was a military brat, and knew how to read between the lines.

The night before, Lowell had called his folks in Santa Barbara. He’d been planning on checking in; the high-risk nature of the mission prompted him to do it now. He had a long chat with his parents and younger sister, but nothing was said about the upcoming flight.

The Viking had been in the air a little over two hours when Arnsbarger locked the radio onto the SSIX band and flicked on his pipestem.

“This is ASW Viking, Alpha Charlie nine-four-zero, to USS Finback, over.”

“This is Finback. We read you, Viking.”

“Request data update on target, over.”

“Location 86.25W 22.37N. Heading three-one-zero.

“Roger.”

“What’s your ETA, Viking?”

“Estimate visual contact, eight minutes.”

The Finback’s radar man had been tracking the Viking on the BPS-15 surface search scope.

“Thirty-five miles and closing,” he reported.

Armus had his big face pressed to the eyepiece of the periscope. “Viking sighted,” he announced about five minutes later. “Let’s talk to Pensacola.”

While Armus was reporting that the Viking/Kira rendezvous was imminent, Lowell and Arnsbarger had gotten a visual fix on the Kira.

Arnsbarger reset the radio to the international emergency band. “Let her rip,” he said.

Lowell pulled a remote control unit onto his lap. It resembled a minicomputer with a special keyboard, and had a procedure control list affixed inside the cover. The PCL enumerated three sequential event codes.

Arnsbarger looked back at the wing expectantly as Lowell keyed in the first code, and hit the SEND key.

There was a loud bang as an explosion blew a section of the cowling off the port side jet engine.

“Holy shit!” Arnsbarger exclaimed, in case anyone was listening. “We got us a fire in number one!”

“Must’ve blown a fuel line!” Lowell said.

Flames were licking at the exposed turbine, and smoke was streaming from the exhaust end of the nacelle, leaving a long trail in the sky.

In the Finback, Armus was staring wide-eyed through the periscope, and reining in his impulse to surface and take rescue action. The communications officer came running into the control room with an ASW directive, the meat of which read:

Armus’ brows went up. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly, and turned back to the periscope.

In the Viking, Arnsbarger and Lowell were watching the Kira coming closer and closer far below.

“About time we got rescued,” Lowell said, grinning.

Arnsbarger nodded, and flicked on his pipestem again. “Mayday!” he said. “This is USN Viking Alpha Charlie nine-four-zero. We’re on fire! Mayday! Mayday!”

On the Kira’s bridge, the first officer had spotted the crippled Viking’s smoke trail and notified Captain Rublyov. He was leaning into his binoculars when the Kira’s radio officer joined them.

“We have received a Mayday, Comrade Captain,” he said in Russian. “The pilot has identified as a U.S. Navy Viking.”

“A Viking — first we’ve seen this voyage,” the captain said, adding facetiously, “The Americans always make certain we aren’t torpedoed by Soviet submarines.”

“Do we respond, Comrade Captain?” the officer asked.

“Of course,” Rublyov replied. “We are the vessel nearest the May- day, and will act accordingly. To do otherwise would create suspicion, and invite an inquiry. Put the bridge on the Viking’s frequency.”

The communications officer hurried off.

A smile broke across Rublyov’s pocked Slavik face. “Prepare to rescue crew and salvage craft,” he ordered the first officer. He knew the Viking S-3A carried top secret surveillance gear — and the Kira had a crane capable of hoisting the plane aboard, and acres of deck space to store her. “And have the CMO report to the bridge,” he added, scooping up the phone.

“Viking? Viking, this is VLCC Kira,” he said in heavily accented English. “We read your Mayday, and have you sighted. Do you read? Over.”

“Affirmative! Affirmative, Kira,” Arnsbarger replied. “We’re on fire. We’re going in. Over.”

“Suggest you ditch off our port bow, and remain with your craft if possible.”

“Affirmative. Port bow. We have visual fix. We’ll pancake her in.”

Lowell questioned Arnsbarger with a look. What the Russian captain had suggested was standard rescue procedure — but it wasn’t part of the scenario.

Arnsbarger winked. He suspected what the Russian captain was planning, and was playing a game with him.

Rublyov was still smiling when the chief missile officer reported to the bridge. The diminutive fellow wore blue clean-room coveralls and looked more like he’d come from surgery than the bowels of an oil tanker.

“Yes, Comrade Captain?”

“Secure your area, comrade,” Rublyov ordered. “The crew of that Viking will soon be aboard, and with any luck, so will their craft.”

“A Viking—” the CMO said, eyes brightening. He headed a team of missile electronics technicians who Rublyov knew were more than qualified to evaluate the Viking’s surveillance gear.

“You’ll have to tarp her, and work at night, but you’ll have sufficient time to pick her clean,” Rublyov went on. “If we can get her aboard, and if we can—”

A loud boom from the Viking interrupted Rublyov. He and the CMO looked up to see a hole blown through the fuselage, black smoke rushing out of it.

Seconds earlier, Lowell had keyed another sequence into the remote control unit, setting off an explosive charge in the fuselage just aft of the flaming wing.

“Geezus! We’re losing the hydraulics,” Arnsbarger exclaimed. The explosion had no such effect. Nor did the damaged fuselage compromise the Viking’s ability to maneuver. The puncture and blown fuel line had been meticulously engineered — for effect only. The Viking was totally airworthy as Arnsbarger put it on an erratic flight path, making it appear out of control.

“Kira? Kira, this is Viking. Negative on that ditch,” Arnsbarger said, resuming the scenario. “We just lost our hydraulics. I can’t control her.”

Rublyov and the CMO exchanged pained looks.

“Read you Viking. You’re positive you can’t set down on the sea?” Rublyov prodded.

“Negative,” Arnsbarger said sharply. “I have no controls. We’re bailing out.”

“Shit—” Rublyov said under his breath.

Arnsbarger clicked off and started to chuckle, picturing the look on the Russian captain’s face.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind skipping this part.”

“Ditto. Let’s set it up and get out of here.”

Lowell nodded crisply. There would be no more talk. They had practiced this dozens of times. Now both moved with precision and speed. While Arnsbarger put the Viking on autopilot, Lowell keyed another sequence into the remote unit, and hit the TIME DELAY key. Then, he placed the unit on the floor and nodded to Arnsbarger. The pilot’s gut tightened as he reached for the bright yellow ejection seat lever and pulled it.

The tinted canopy blew off before Arnsbarger’s hand had released the lever. An instant later, the side by side ejection seats exploded upward from the Viking’s flight deck at slightly divergent angles. In a matter of seconds, they both had reached the apex of their trajectories and began plunging toward the sea.

Lowell was falling like a rock, when the chute blew out of his backpack, unfurled behind him, and mushroomed with a loud whoosh, bringing his free-fall to a sudden stop. The jolt jerked the harness hard up into his groin, then the pressure eased and he began floating toward the sea. He looked up to see Arnsbarger’s chute mushroom, then glanced to the Viking. It was diving toward the sea, like a spent rocket-casing, when the remote unit sent the delayed signal. Two hundred pounds of plastic explosives packed into cavities in the plane’s airframe erupted. The Viking disintegrated in midair, and showered the sea with debris.

Rublyov winced, then barked to the first officer, “Get the launch over the side.”

Lowell splashed down, and popped his harness. He was floating in his Mae West amidst an ever-widening slick of shark repellent. A life-raft was in the water behind him and had already started inflating. A long tether ran from it to Lowell’s wrist. He reeled it in, pulled himself over the side, and broke out a paddle.

Arnsbarger was still high above the sea; he saw the bright yellow shape below, and began working the control lines of his chute angling toward it.

The Kira’s engines were at full stop now. Her launch hit the water with the first officer and three crew members aboard. The diesel roared to life, and the launch pulled away from the huge vessel, cutting through the swells toward the bobbing raft about a thousand yards away.

Arnsbarger splashed down closer to the raft than he ever thought he could, shed his chute harness, and started swimming. Lowell paddled toward him, and in no time, Arnsbarger was crawling into the raft.

“You okay?” Lowell inquired intensely, as he helped him over the side.

“Yeah,” Arnsbarger grunted, flopping next to him like a boated tuna.

“Nice jumping.”

“Thanks. I spotted a welcoming committee coming this way just before I went in.”

“Great,” Lowell replied. “This thing’s going like clockwork.”

“That was the easy part,” Arnsbarger said. “Wait and see what kind of welcome we get if they catch us looking for those damned missiles.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

The fifth floor hall attendant in the Hotel Berlin was a pudgy middle-aged woman who had learned a bit of English from the hotel’s business clientele. It was mid-morning when she glanced down the corridor and saw Melanie approaching in her springy splayfooted walk.

The prior evening Melanie and Andrew whetted their appetites and promised to satisfy them soon. She laid awake thinking about that — about how long it had been since she felt a rush at the thought of being with someone, since she allowed herself such a feeling. She enjoyed it, but she didn’t trust it. Events of extreme intensity had brought them together, and she thought perhaps they were the reason. The feeling gave way to an uneasy awareness of where she was and why, and she fell asleep thinking about the need to become acclimated and to plan a course of action.

On waking, she did just that, and as always, the first step was the phone book. But she couldn’t find one in her room, so she went to the hall attendant, who not only keeps the keys but also takes messages, calls taxis, and serves as general advisor to her charges.

“Dobraeoota,” Melanie said hesitantly, trying out one of the four Russian words she had memorized that morning as part of her plan.

“Good morning,” the attendant said. She pointed to Melanie’s feet, their turned-out position confirming what her walk suggested, and added, “You’re a dancer.”

“Yes, yes I am,” Melanie said.

“I love ballet. But it’s so expensive, and—” The hall attendant heard the elevator opening, and before seeing who exited, she cut off the sentence, and got back to business. “May I help you, now?” she asked.

“Oh sure,” Melanie said, seeing her uneasiness but not understanding it. “I’m looking for a phone book.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” the attendant said blankly, ignoring a nod from a maid who had gotten out of the elevator.

“Tye-lye-fon-niy spra-vach-neek?” Melanie said, resorting to the words she had memorized.

“Tyelyefoniy spravachneek?” the attendant said, still without comprehension.

“It’s okay. I’ll ask downstairs,” Melanie said, trying to exit gracefully. She gave the attendant her room key in exchange for her hotel pass, and exhausting her Russian vocabulary, said, “Spaseeba.” Then she smiled and headed down the corridor.

As soon as Melanie stepped into the elevator, the hall attendant took a small journal from the drawer of her key desk, and made a notation.

Earlier that morning, Andrew departed for Tersk from Vnukovo, the domestic terminal south of Moscow. Two hours later, Aeroflot SU-1209 landed in Mineral’nye Vody, a resort area below the foothills of the Caucasus. An Intourist car and driver were waiting for him.

The battered Moskvich station wagon headed south on a narrow concrete ribbon that climbed gradually toward the towering mountain range in the distance.

Yosef, the driver, spoke no English and smiled at everything Andrew said. His pulpy jowls shimmied along with the Moskvich, which rattled despite the smooth road. He was flabby, simpleminded, and wholly un-threatening. Too much so, Andrew thought, deciding Yosef had to be KGB — which he was.

After about fifty miles, the road forked west into the Olkhovka Valley. Here, the flat terrain gave way to Tersk’s gently rolling pastures and bubbling springs that provide the nutritious bluegrass and rich mineral water on which Soviet Arabians are raised.

Nikolai Dovzhenko, Tersk stud manager, greeted Andrew with a hug and heartfelt sympathy. Theodor Churcher had been literally his first international client, and the depth of Nikolai’s sorrow was testimony to their long friendship. The burly Russian directed Andrew to a pavilion — crowded with buyers — that overlooked a lush paddock and rows of barns beyond. The sounds, the smells, the long wait for the auctioneer to call the first Arabian to the block while attendants primed the buyers with caviar and chilled vodka, were all as Andrew remembered.

More than three hours and countless vodkas later, twenty-five horses had been sold — eight to Churchco Equestrian. A murmur went through the group as the stableman led another Arabian into the paddock.

“Perkha,” Dovzhenko said, announcing the name of the magnificently conformed stallion.

The purebred’s rippling muscles gave its alabaster coat the look of undulating stone. Its hooves lifted the instant they touched the soil, barely leaving an imprint. The stableman stopped walking. The Arabian did the same — without command and without allowing the tether to slacken — and stood unmoving like a breathing Michelangelo.

The auctioneer opened the bidding at 250,000 dollars, setting 25,000 as the minimum increase.

Andrew knew that Perkha was the franchise maker he sought, and bid 300,000 right off. The price quickly escalated to 600,000. Andrew had just made it 625 when someone called out, “I challenge that!”

Andrew whirled in his seat. He was stunned, not by the remark, but by the voice.

Raina Maiskaya strode forward commandingly. She had arrived after the auction had begun, and remained silent and unseen at the rear of the pavilion.

“Challenge it?” Dovzhenko asked, perturbed.

“Indeed,” Raina snapped, fixing Andrew with an angry stare. “Mr. Churcher is acting as a broker here. And I for one would like assurances that those he represents have authorized such extravagant bids, and have deposited currency to cover them in one of our banks as prescribed by law.”

“This is most unusual, Madame Maiskaya,” Dovzhenko replied. “For years Theodor Churcher was one of our—”

“We’re no longer dealing with Theodor Churcher,” Raina interrupted. “How do we know he is worthy of the trust and respect earned by his father?”

“You’re unjustly impugning this man’s integrity,” Dovzhenko said, referring to Andrew.

Andrew was puzzled by Raina’s attack. It tempered his delight at seeing her alive and whole, and made him wonder if her abductors had turned her. Had she been brainwashed into working for them? Or was that what she’d been doing all along? Regardless, he decided he had no choice but to respond to her challenge. “Thank you, Nikolai. I agree,” he said, and, glaring at Raina, added, “But, as my father would say, I have the cards, and I’d like to play them.”

“If that means you have the documentation,” Raina said sharply, “I’d very much like to see it.”

“You shall,” Andrew said.

“Good.” Then shifting her look to Dovzhenko, she prompted, “I’m sure there’s an office we can use to settle this matter privately.”

“Of course,” Dovzhenko replied. “We’ll suspend bidding for a short time.” He gestured the attendants pour vodka for the other buyers, then led Andrew and Raina from the pavilion. They crossed the grounds — passing the graveled parking area — and approached a dacha that served as an administration building. Nikolai opened the door, directed them inside, and started walking back toward the pavilion.

The moment he was out of sight, Yosef got out the Moskvich and hurried toward the dacha.

“A phone book?” the desk clerk in the Hotel Berlin said somewhat incredulously.

“That’s correct,” Melanie replied. “I’d like to see a telephone directory.”

The clerk shook his head no. “Nowhere in Moscow is there such a book.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, this is not kidding.”

“All right,” Melanie said, perplexed. “Is there a number I can call for information?”

“The Intourist Service Bureau can give you information about museums, restaurants, ballets, tours.”

“No, no, telephone information. I mean, suppose I knew your name and wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number. What number do I call to get it?”

“You mean enquiries,” he said. “Not in Moscow. Only in Leningrad is there such a number.”

“I don’t understand. How do you get a person’s phone number or address if you don’t have it?”

“From the person you want to call. If I want you to have my number or address, I’ll give them to you, won’t I?” he said slyly.

Melanie studied him for a moment thinking that in any western city a hotel desk clerk would have been flirting with her by now, suggesting it was really his phone number and address that she wanted.

“Look, suppose, just suppose,” she pressed on, “you didn’t know I wanted to call you, but you would really want me to, if you knew I did. Then what?”

“Well, there are the spravkas—the kiosks you see in the street. Some will sell you phone numbers, but private ones are very difficult.” He splayed his hands. “You’re familiar with baseball?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little impatiently.

“I think you just made strike three.”

“I get the point,” she said, opening her bag and removing her mother’s letter and the WWII photograph. “You have a copying machine here I can use?”

He recoiled as if she had said something vulgar. “No copying machine,” he said coldly.

“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Melanie said. “I’m asking you because there aren’t any phone books. If there were, I’d look under copying and there’d be a list of shops, and I’d find one close to the hotel and go there. Maybe you could tell me where the nearest one is?”

“We don’t have such places. All duplicating equipment is under State control. It’s against the law for private citizens to have it.”

“A crime to have a copying machine—” She said it flatly, with disbelief.

“Shussh,” he said, and whispering, explained, “Only those involved in samizdat—underground literature — have them, but they will be arrested.”

“Oh—” Melanie said, almost to herself. “Well, thank you for explaining it to me.” She turned from the desk and began walking across the lobby, trying to comprehend the idea that there were no phone books and no copying services in Moscow.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice called out.

Melanie turned to see a three-piece suit, wing tips, attaché, and Burberry coming toward her—an American businessman, she thought. The rumpled fellow had been standing at the far end of the desk, hurriedly going through papers in his attaché. “I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, in a soft Southern drawl, “but I couldn’t help overhearing some of that. Have you tried our Embassy? They might be able to help you.”

“No, I haven’t, but I will. Thanks.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, starting to move off. “I’m running late. I never get used to the time change. Hang in there. Nothing here is easy.”

The Embassy — it had never occurred to her. It had been less than a day since she learned who Aleksei Deschin was and where to find him. And her departure for Moscow had been sudden and traumatic. She wasn’t prepared. Despite her planning that morning, she hadn’t really stopped to think. She decided the lapse was due to what she called “the curse of creative people,” who, by nature, invent new ways to do things even when perfectly serviceable ones exist.

She crossed back toward the desk.

“Hi—”

The clerk eyed her apprehensively.

“Got an easy one for you.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the United States Embassy?” she asked, quickly adding, “And don’t tell me there isn’t one.”

She figured her luck had changed when he smiled.

Yosef, the flabby KGB man, moved down the main corridor of the dacha with surprising quickness and stealth. The first office was open and empty. He heard the snap-snap-snap of a typewriter coming from another across the corridor. The upper half of the wall was windowed. The blinds were lowered; the slats open slightly. Yosef peeked through them and glimpsed a woman’s hands moving over the keyboard. He assumed it was a secretary at work, and continued down the corridor listening for Raina and Andrew’s voices.

But the hands Yosef saw were Raina’s. She was typing—“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country”—in Russian, typing it repeatedly to keep up the noise and the deception. She’d just finished explaining to Andrew that her challenge had been a cover, a way to buy them some time alone; and though still a little uneasy, he had decided to follow her lead.

“My driver,” he whispered, indicating the rotund shadow moving across the blinds. “I thought he was KGB. Now, I’m positive.”

“I’ve no doubt of it.”

“This whole thing feels like a setup.”

“It’s possible. You want to forget it?”

Andrew shook his head no. “We’ll just have to be careful. I mean, why else would they let you go?”

“Because they had no proof. I stuck to my story, and told them nothing. Besides,” she sighed forlornly, “they can arrest me whenever they want, now. They’ve taken my passport. I can’t leave the country.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, pacing nervously to the other side of the desk. “Raina, I have to find that man in Leningrad,” he went on. “How do I—”

“Pardon me?” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, you must stay on this side, my right ear has not come back.”

“Bastards,” he said, moving around her. “The refusenik you told me about. How do I find him?”

“His name is Mordechai Stvinov,” Raina replied. “He lives on Vasil’yevskiy Island. The shipyards are there. Number Thirty-Seven Denyeka Street.”

Andrew took a pad and pencil from the desk.

“No, it’s all here,” she said, indicating she was typing the information amidst the other sentences. “When will you go to Leningrad?”

“As soon as I can. But I have to get there without a watchdog. They’ll know if I fly or take the train. And if I hire a car, they’ll stick me with another KGB driver.”

“Then drive yourself,” Raina suggested. “There are checkpoints along the way, but no schedule. In between, you could take hours or days. They have no way of knowing. They lose track of you, then.”

Andrew shook no emphatically. “Intourist is the only place I can rent a car. They’ll notify the KGB. They probably are the KGB.”

“Most of them,” she replied. “You’ll take my car.”

“Your car — can I do that? What happens at the checkpoints?”

“You have an international driver’s license?”

“Of course. You know Elspeth. She doesn’t miss a trick.”

“Good,” Raina said. “You could get one here if you didn’t, but that would alert them.” She stopped typing, rolled the page from the typewriter, and handed it to Andrew. “Give that to Mordechai, and he’ll know I sent you. Leave the rest to me.”

Andrew broke into a smile.

Yosef had searched the dacha and, not finding them, had gone out the back door to look over the grounds. He was coming back down the corridor when an office door opened.

“I hope you’re satisfied, now,” Andrew said to Raina sharply as he came through it.

“I apologize for any inconvenience that I—”

“Apology not accepted,” Andrew interrupted. He stalked off, leaving Raina standing in the doorway, and blew right past Yosef without acknowledging him.

“Americans,” Raina said to Yosef in Russian. “Their business acumen is exceeded only by their arrogance.”

“No, by ours,” Yosef said slyly, holding her eyes with his.

The desk clerk at the Berlin suggested Melanie take the Metro to the U.S. Embassy. But her New York paranoia surfaced, and she balked until he explained it was a clean, efficient, and safe mode of transport.

She left the hotel, giving her pass to the doorman, and headed for the Metro stop on Karl Marx Prospekt.

A man with a peaked cap exited after her and walked in the same direction. He had no pass, yet went unchallenged by the doorman. Pedestrians knew he wasn’t a hotel worker because employees must use a monitored security entrance which discourages pilfering of food and supplies. Indeed, Muscovites know those who leave hotels via the main entrance without surrendering a propoosk to the doorman are secret police.

Melanie took the Metro to Tchaikovsky Street, one of the boulevards that make up the Sadovaya Bulvar, the outermost ring of Moscow’s spiderweb. The United States Embassy at numbers 19/23 was a few blocks north. Her pace quickened the instant she saw the stars and stripes flying above the neoclassic, nine-story building.

The Marine guard checked Melanie’s passport, then unlocked the access gate and directed her to the Citizen Services Section of the Embassy, which deals with Americans traveling or living abroad.

Lucinda Bartlett was the officer on duty. She listened intently as Melanie told her story with emotional fervor, and asked for assistance in contacting the Soviet minister of culture.

“It’s all so lovely, so romantic,” Lucinda said when she finished. The young woman spoke with a slight sibilance that made her esses whistle, and reminded Melanie of the well-groomed girls who attended Bennington College about twenty miles from where she grew up. “But I’m afraid, the Embassy can’t get involved in this,” Lucinda concluded.

“Why not?” Melanie asked, baffled. She could see Lucinda was moved by her tale, and thought she had finally found someone who would help her.

“Well, first, yours is a personal matter. The Embassy’s role is primarily — bureaucratic. Citizen Services deals with the practical needs of American tourists and businessmen. Second, try to put yourself in the Embassy’s position for a moment. Someone claims the Soviet minister of culture is her long lost father, presents an old photograph and letter, which she says was written to him forty years ago — a letter and envelope without an addressee, which could have been sent to anyone — and asks for help in contacting a high government official. You see?” she asked, implying it would make perfect sense even to a child. “You have no proof whatsoever of what you say. The Embassy can’t take action without it.”

“Do I strike the Embassy as someone who would make this up?” Melanie replied indignantly. The American presence had revived her hope, and this was the last thing she’d expected. “I didn’t come all the way to Moscow to play a game. I’m spending time, money, and energy to find my father. You have no idea what I’ve been through to get this far.”

“Oh, I can imagine. And I didn’t mean to suggest you were making it up. I’d like to help you, but you must realize what your story implies. If I may make an analogy, you’re asking the Embassy to approach a member of the President’s Cabinet with something that could very well turn out to be — rather embarrassing. The Embassy can’t afford to get involved unless—”

“The Embassy won’t help me contact Minister Deschin?” Melanie interrupted.

“Not without substantial proof of what you say. And even then, it won’t be as simple as you seem to think. Chances are the Ambassador himself would have to be consulted. As I said, it’s a highly sensitive matter. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

Melanie nodded grudgingly, and let out a long breath while she regrouped. “Would it be possible to have copies of those made here?” she asked, indicating the photo and letter.

“Certainly,” Lucinda said a little too brightly. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and, turning in her chair to stand, added, “The Embassy can take care of that right away.”

“Good. I’d appreciate it if you could give me the address of the Cultural Ministry, too,” Melanie added.

Lucinda paused thoughtfully, and swiveled back to Melanie. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Miss Winslow; but I advise you to avoid rash or aggressive action. Government buildings and personnel are off-limits, and American citizens abroad are subject to the laws and judicial procedures of their host country. If you should be arrested here for some reason, the Embassy could do little to help you.”

“I understand,” Melanie replied. “I’m going to send Minister Deschina letter, and ask him to contact me. There’s no law against that, is there?”

“Not that we know of,” Lucinda replied, pointedly.

The man with the peaked cap was feeding pigeons in a park across the street when Melanie left the Embassy. She returned to the hotel, purchased some stationery at the tourist concession, then hurried to the elevator. The man waited until the floor indicator started moving before taking a seat on the far side of the lobby.

Melanie’s room was a tiny space crammed with an eclectic mixture of worn European furniture. She sat on the bed and wrote a letter to Aleksei Deschin. She wrote many of them — in a frustrating effort to explain the situation, and who she was, and what she felt. None satisfied her. She just couldn’t get it right. It was late afternoon when she wrote:

She attached the note, and a passport photo of herself to the copies of Sarah’s letter and WWII photograph, and addressed the envelope to:

A few minutes later, the man in the peaked cap saw her come from the elevator, and watched as she crossed the lobby and queued for the postal service window. Then he went to the hotel manager’s office to use the phone.

That afternoon, Valery Gorodin had flown from Rome to Moscow, and went directly to the eight-story brick monolith at No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, expecting to meet with Tvardovskiy. But the KGB chief wasn’t there.

Here, as in Rome, the scope of Gorodin’s task, and the authority of his sanction, gave him highly coveted “hyphenate” status. This meant he had on-demand access to KGB personnel, facilities, and pertinent documents. He knew Tvardovskiy hated having GRU personnel loose in his domain, and purposely walked the corridors to maximize the number of sightings. En route, he observed the place was buzzing with rumors that something big was happening in the Kremlin, but no one knew what.

Gorodin settled into an unused office with some briefing memos. One informed him of Andrew Churcher’s departure for Tersk, the other of the Kira’s rescue of Arnsbarger and Lowell. He was reading the latter when the phone rang.

The man with the peaked cap quickly briefed Gorodin on Melanie’s movements, and latest action.

“Good work,” Gorodin replied. “On my way.”

The postal queue moved slowly, and it took almost a half hour for Melanie to advance to the window. The ruddy-faced worker dropped the envelope onto an old scale, flicking the counterweight along the balance arm with a forefinger. “Ten kopeks,” he said.

Melanie paid, and thanked him. A hopeful feeling came over her as she crossed the lobby. Not only did she have her father’s name and address, and was in the city where he lived, but at long last she had taken action to bring them together — action that she expected would provide knowledge of what her father was like and deepen her understanding of herself. It was within reach now, and perhaps soon, she thought, the pain from her failed marriages would be dulled and the fear of meaningful relationships, along with the loneliness and unhappiness it had brought, would be over. Indeed, at the age when most women were coping with college age children, a ding in the Mercedes, and a workaholic husband, she was without parents, siblings, husband, or children of her own. The thought of getting to know her father, and the sense of belonging it promised, had comfort and appeal and, most importantly, might get her life back on a happier course.

The postal worker had affixed the stamps to Melanie’s envelope, and was methodically rubbing his coarse thumb over them when the door behind him opened.

“Two men entered the small room.

“You’re not allowed in here,” the postal worker said sternly.

The man with the peaked cap closed the door and stood against it, insuring no one else could enter.

Valery Gorodin took the postal worker aside, presented his GRU identification, and confiscated Melanie’s letter.

Chapter Forty

It was an almost balmy morning in Washington, D.C. The reflecting pool on the mall was glass smooth, and the District’s notorious humidity was coaxing the cherry trees to blossom.

President Hilliard was at a breakfast meeting in the situation room in the White House basement, with his national security advisor and secretary of state, when informed the Viking S-3A was airborne. He joined DCI Boulton in the Oval Office, where a secure line had been tied in to the laser printer the President used with his word processor. The two men anxiously monitored the exchange of communiqués between ASW Pensacola and the USS Finback. Finally, the message they’d been waiting for printed out:

The moment was jubiliant, but signaled the start of another vigil — Lowell and Arnsbarger’s search of the Kira. Some pressure had been eased by suspension of the disarmament talks through the upcoming weekend due to the attack on Italy’s defense minister. This meant Keating wouldn’t have to stall the fast-moving Russians while waiting for word.

He had flown in from Geneva late that afternoon. Now, he and the President were watching the evening network news broadcasts. All three reported that Minister Borsa’s condition had improved and he was expected to survive; Italian police still did not know who was responsible for the deaths of the two terrorists; the American woman believed taken hostage with Minister Borsa had not been located.

CBS’s Rather paused to take a slip of paper from an aide, then said, “This just in — the man found shot to death with terrorist Dominica Maresca in Piazza dei Siena is now believed to have been a Soviet KGB agent.”

Hilliard bolted upright. “Geezus,” he said. He scooped up his phone and buzzed Cathleen. “I need the DCI — Good — Yes, immediately.” He hung up, raised his brows curiously, and said, “Already on his way.”

A file photo of a Viking S-3A on the ABC monitor got the President’s attention. He used the remote to mute Rather and Brokaw, and listened to Jennings.

The President had an affinity for the ABC anchor. Years ago, Jennings had been given the job prematurely, then axed, but worked hard as a foreign correspondent, and made it back to the top. Hilliard liked that. He liked people with resilience, and he liked Jennings’ thoughtful, urbane handling of international events.

“A U.S. Navy Viking S-3A on a routine flight over the Gulf of Mexico burst into flames and exploded early today,” Jennings reported. “Two of the four-man crew were able to bail out prior to the blast. Lt. Commander Keith Arnsbarger and First Lieutenant Jon Lowell were rescued from Gulf waters by an oil tanker that picked up their Mayday. The names of the other two crewmen are being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”

“Tough to lose two men,” Keating said solemnly.

The President smiled. “We didn’t,” he said, softly. “We considered concocting a story about a special training mission with a reduced crew, but we wanted it to appear totally routine, and decided against it.”

“Jake’s people are providing cover?”

Hilliard nodded. “They’ve put together backgrounds, service records, photos of the ‘deceased’ fliers, and even a distraught relative or two if we need them. You know, Company people who we’ve—” He paused at the knock that preceded Boulton’s entrance.

“Mr. President, Phil—”

“Jake,” Hilliard said. “Been watching the news?”

“Yes, sir, en route.”

“And—”

“Confirmed. KGB agent killed in Rome.”

“What is Moscow saying?”

“Standard denial,” the DCI replied, and anticipating, added, “Company source is irrefutable.”

“What’s the import of that with regard to Geneva?”

“Salient factors suggest purposeful disruption.”

“That’s hard to believe, Jake. You know as well as I do, Kaparov wants this before he kicks the bucket.”

“Premier was seen this day — in transit,” Boulton said pointedly.

The President’s head snapped around. “Kaparov’s recovered? We know that for a fact?”

“Negative sir. Passenger obscured. Positive identification of vehicle only.”

Hilliard mused for a moment, smoothing his auburn beard. “Phil, you think the Kremlin called the shots on this thing in Italy?”

“No, sir. If they did, Pykonen deserves an Oscar for his performance. He was visibly stunned when he was told. I’m sure he knew nothing about it.”

“Prosecution rests,” Boulton said slyly.

“Jake’s got a point. We have an entire Cabinet, the Secretary of the Navy included, who believe one of our Vikings went down in the Gulf with a faulty engine, killing two men. You know, it seems to me all of this is neither here nor there until we get feedback from our men on the Kira. What’s your ETA, Jake?”

“Carrier-based chopper will rendezvous with Kira at o-seven-thirty. DCI will contact Oval Office immediately upon return to carrier — mid-morning.”

“You intend to be aboard?”

“Affirmative. Debriefing of rescued personnel will take place en route to carrier. FYI — the Kira’s captain suggested immediate rendezvous, since he isn’t making mainland port. But—” Boulton smiled cagily, “—ASW declined night landing on deck of unfamiliar vessel, insuring our personnel ample recon time frame.”

“Sounds like the captain wanted to get rid of them,” Keating said. “Like maybe he’s got something to hide.”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” the President said.

After confiscating Melanie’s letter, Gorodin and the man with the peaked cap — whom he called Pasha, a respectful and affectionate form of the surname Pashkov — dined at Lastochka, where twenty-five years before Pasha had recruited him for GRU. It had since become Gorodin’s favorite restaurant in Moscow. At the time, Pasha had taken special interest in the young language expert and a father-son type of relationship had developed. Pasha was semiretired now, and worked primarily as a domestic GRU courier.

Yesterday, when Gorodin called from Rome and said he needed a favor, Pasha asked no questions of his former protégé. Indeed, his surveillance of Melanie Winslow was carried out unofficially, and, along with the confiscated letter, would remain between them.

After dinner, Gorodin declined the lift Pasha offered. Instead, he set his fedora at a jaunty angle and walked along the Moskva. He hadn’t worn a hat in years, but resumed the habit, unthinkingly, on returning to Moscow. He strolled the length of the Kremlin wall, across the lumpy cobbles of Red Square, down Twenty-fifth Oktabraya that leads directly to Dzerzhinsky Square and the statue of its namesake, and returned to his office. He was talking with Yosef, who called from Tersk to report on Andrew’s activities, when a driver arrived with orders to take Gorodin to the Kremlin.

The chimes in the Spassky Tower were ringing, and the rococo hands of the big clock were moving onto 11 P.M. when Gorodin walked the corridor to the Premier’s office, knocked, and entered. Deschin, Tvar-dovskiy, Pykonen, Chagin, and Admiral Pavel Zharkov, Naval Chief of Staff, were seated around the leather-topped table.

“Ah, Valery!” Deschin said, embracing him. “Too much pasta,” he joked, holding his arms in a big circle. Then, turning to the others, he added, “We have Comrade Gorodin to thank for keeping the Kira drawings out of American hands. And now, it’s up to us, all of us, to see that SLOW BURN is brought to fruition.”

“Unfortunately, we’ve already made mistakes which endanger it,” Tvardovskiy said. “First off, Andrew Churcher should have never been allowed into the country.”

“He’s here for good reason,” Deschin snapped.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Tvardovskiy said impatiently. “But the plan is unsound. It could backfire!”

“I must respectfully disagree, comrade,” Gorodin said. “Your man in Tersk reports Churcher is behaving as anticipated. I assure you the source of the Kira documents will soon be exposed, and their threat finally eliminated.”

“We’ll see,” Tvardovskiy said. “In the meantime, what about the Americans aboard the Kira? They should have been left to drown like rats!”

“They will be gone by first light!” Zharkov said angrily. “Rublyov made the right decision. You would have caused controversy. Furthermore, the Americans are being watched. And, I have ordered that anyone caught searching the Kira is not to leave her alive.”

“He’s right, Sergei,” Deschin said. “Though I must admit my initial reaction was similar to yours. But now that the decisions have been made, what purpose can possibly be served by rehashing them?”

“Obfuscation,” Chagin said, eyeing Tvardovskiy accusingly.

“Yes,” Pykonen chimed in. “You decry the mistakes of others, Sergei, but forget your own. Everything was going smoothly until this mess in Italy.”

“Then you should have taken action to prevent the talks from being suspended,” Tvardovskiy retorted.

“Dammit Tvardovskiy!” Pykonen erupted. He was a gentleman, not given to outbursts, and startled them. “Your people erred gravely in this matter! They handed the Americans the very thing we had denied them — time to think, and consult, and question and — agghhh!” He threw up his hands in disgust, then shifted his look to Deschin and, lowering his voice, added, “I did what I could, comrade. But the momentum is gone.”

Deschin nodded glumly and flicked a solicitous glare at Tvardovskiy.

“My apologies, comrades,” Tvardovskiy said, concealing that the slowdown in the talks more than pleased him. “Point well-taken.”

He had no trouble prioritizing. Despite the KGB’s global agitprop and intelligence gathering operations, internal activities take clear precedence. The Service knows its power is centered in the need to keep the 270 million Soviet citizens — spread across nine million square miles in fifteen republics and eleven time zones — suppressed. And suppressing dissatisfaction with the quality of life long sacrificed to cold war militarism is the major task. Tvardovskiy knew nuclear superiority might tempt a new Premier to loosen the economic reins, thereby diminishing the KGB’s power; and the educated, worldly Deschin would be more prone than others to do so. He also knew that Deschin’s swift stewardship of SLOW BURN would enhance his candidacy in the eyes of the Politburo, and that delays would weaken it.

“Just to be the devil’s advocate,” Tvardovskiy went on, “perhaps we should back off in Geneva until the situations I noted are rectified.”

“I’ve often pictured you as his advocate, Sergei,” Deschin replied slyly, “But never advocating retreat.” Deschin hadn’t thought of the premiership often. But faced with Kaparov’s death, he had become acutely aware of his strong position, and knew the game Tvardovskiy was playing. “No, we must think aggressively now,” he went on. “We must find a way to regain that momentum.”

“Easier said than done, comrade,” Zhakrov replied.

“Yes, but Comrade Deschin is right,” Gorodin said. This was the first he’d heard of the Premier’s poor health. He was quite certain the biographic leverage he held — the recently confiscated proof tucked in his pocket — assured his long sought membership in the elite nomenklatura. And his ascendency could only be enhanced by De-schin’s. “We must push forward,” he went on. “This is no time to embrace defensive strategy.”

“Well put,” Deschin said. “As our beloved Dmitrievitch would say, ‘We must turn adversity to advantage.’ And he is the key to it.”

The group questioned him with looks, as he expected they would.

“The poor man is but a corpse,” Pykonen said compassionately.

“Precisely,” Deschin replied. “We’d been keeping him alive to preserve our momentum. Now we will let him die to recapture it. Yes, in memory of our deceased Premier, for whom disarmament was all, we will announce to the world that Dmitri Kaparov’s dying words were a plea that the talks be resumed immediately, and that they proceed with renewed vigor and dedication until mankind is at long last free of the threat of nuclear annihilation.” He paused, assessing the idea, then nodded with conviction. “Comrades—”

He left the office and slowly walked the long corridor to the Premier’s apartment.

Mrs. Kaparov was sitting next to the bed, holding her husband’s hand, when Deschin entered. She turned slightly as he leaned, putting his head next to hers, whispering something. The tiny woman nodded sadly, her eyes filled with tears. Deschin straightened, glanced thoughtfully to Kaparov’s inert form, then tightened his lips and nodded to the doctor decisively.

She stepped to the cluster of medical equipment.

The sounds of artificial life stopped. The peaks and valleys of vital signs were two straight lines now, the synchronized beep a continuous, mournful tone.

Chapter Forty-one

After being plucked from the sea and brought aboard the Kira, Lowell and Arnsbarger had taken steaming hot showers, and exchanged drenched flight gear for denims, sweaters, and sneakers from the ship’s stores. Then they joined Captain Rublyov in the communications room, and contacted ASW Pensacola. They reported their rescue, the midair explosion of the Viking S-3A, and the “tragic loss” of two crewmen. After which, Rublyov made his suggestion of immediate pickup; and ASW replied it would be dark before a U.S. Navy search-and-rescue chopper could rendezvous, and postponed it until morning for reasons of safety.

“You’re both very lucky,” Rublyov said as they came from the communications room and climbed the companion way that led to the bridge.

“Yeah, I know,” Arnsbarger replied morosely, feigning sadness over the loss of his fellow crewmen. “Somehow, I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

When the three reached the landing at the top of the companionway Lowell put one foot up on the railing, the other far out behind him, and began stretching out the muscles in his legs.

“How long is this tub anyway, Captain?” he asked, casting a conspiratorial glance toward Arnsbarger.

“Four hundred forty-five meters is this tub.”

“Let’s see,” Lowell said calculating, “that’s about two laps to the mile. Any objections to me wearing a groove in your deck?”

“A groove?” asked Rublyov, not understanding.

“He’s a runner,” Arnsbarger chimed in.

“Ten-ks, marathons,” Lowell added, continuing the pre-run stretching ritual.

“Ah,” Rublyov said, catching on, “Not a good idea. The deck is a maze of pumping equipment and hoses. I’d be concerned for your safety.”

“Piece of cake compared to my usual route,” Lowell replied. “No cars, no attack dogs, no kids with garden hoses.” He turned and ran down the steps into the passageway, and kept going.

Arnsbarger shook his head in dismay. “Like somebody once said, every time I get an urge to exercise, I lie down till it goes away.”

Rublyov broke into an amused smile. He had no reason to suspect that Lowell’s request was part of a plan to search the Kira. He’d rather Lowell stayed off the deck, but couldn’t object strongly without tipping he had something to hide.

In developing the plan, DCI Boulton and analysts at CIA Headquarters in Langley had deduced that if a Soviet Heron missile was concealed aboard the Kira, causing the thousand-ton discrepancy they’d detected, it couldn’t be housed astern beneath the bridge and living quarters because the tanker’s engine room and fuel tanks were located there. Nor for reasons of safety, when taking on and pumping off crude, would it be amidships surrounded by the five cargo compartments that held 25,000 tons of oil each. If one of those had been modified, creating the discrepancy, it would be the forward-most compartment in the bow — far from where they knew Lowell and Arnsbarger would be quartered. Hence, the need for subterfuge to get onto the deck with far-ranging mobility.

Now, Captain Rublyov stood on the bridge, his binoculars trained on the tiny figure almost a quarter of a mile away on the Kira’s bow.

Lowell was running laps around the perimeter, between the pipe-and-cable railings and the massive hose fittings used to fill and empty the Kira’s compartments of crude. He had worked up a sweat and removed the sweater, tying it around his waist. His long, easy stride, and the fact that he was breathing as easily now as when he started running, confirmed he was a long-distance runner as he’d claimed.

Arnsbarger came up the companionway onto the bridge with a fresh cup of coffee, joining the captain and first officer. “Still at it, huh?”

“Yes, he’s most determined,” Rublyov replied.

“Compulsive type. Most TACCOS are.”

“Taccos?” Rublyov wondered, taking the bait and lowering the binoculars.

Arnsbarger made the remark to disrupt Rublyov’s scrutiny of Lowell. While Arnsbarger discoursed on the personality dynamics of those who can sit at a console and maintain their concentration hour after hour, Lowell was concentrating on the Kira’s deck.

Both men had been schooled intensively in the design, layout, and construction details of the tanker. And lap after lap, Lowell methodically swept his eyes across the companionways, bulwarks, hatches, and pumping equipment, searching for something that didn’t belong, particularly in the bow area.

Dusk was falling as Lowell finished the last lap. He returned to the bridge and signaled Arnsbarger with a look that he had spotted something. But it was after dinner before they could return to their compartment and talk without being overheard.

Arnsbarger turned on a small fan that was affixed to the bulkhead above his bunk. Then, in case their quarters had been bugged, he bent the housing until the tip of the spinning blade chattered noisily against it.

“Find us some nukes?” Arnsbarger whispered as he settled across from Lowell on the opposite bunk, their faces no more than a foot apart.

“Maybe. I found a hatch up on the starboard side, and a companion-way that goes below decks next to it,” Lowell replied in equally hushed tones.

“We talking a launching hatch?”

“Dunno. But the deck was cut away to put them in.”

“A modification.”

“Yeah, the rivets are smaller, and the welds are different than on the rest of the ship. And the pipe railing on the companion way isn’t the same either.”

“Up in the bow, right?”

Lowell nodded grimly.

“That’s a long way from home,” Arnsbarger went on. “Even in the dark it’ll be hard to get back there without being spotted.”

“I know. There’s only one way to get on deck from our cabin, and it’s right below a lookout station.”

“And you can bet Rublyov’s got one sharp-eyed Ruskie posted just for us.” Arnsbarger thought a moment, then broke into a cagey smile. “Be a shame for that lookout to sit out there in the cold all night with nobody to talk to.”

They decided to wait until captain and crew were quartered for the night, and make their move after the 2400 watch change. That meant they’d have four hours to search before two crewmen would be on deck again.

“This sure is different,” Lowell said. “I mean, I’d give anything to be up there hunting subs right now, instead of down here hiding.”

“Decided we’re a coupl’a wing nuts, huh?”

“Seriously, you thought about what we’re doing?”

“Seriously?” Arnsbarger leveled a thoughtful look at Lowell and nodded. “It scares the hell out of me.”

“Good.”

“That’s what Cissy’d say. She’s always telling me its okay to let my feelings show.”

“She’s right. What’s going on with you two, anyway? You going to make an honest woman out of her?”

“Been thinking about it a lot, but—”

“Come on, come on,” Lowell said, knowing what was coming and drawing it out of him. “But it—”

“Scares the hell out of me,” Arnsbarger said with a boyish smile. Lowell joined in on the last few words, and they were both still laughing as Arnsbarger reached up and turned off the chattering fan.

Hours later, the air temperature had dropped and a stiff breeze had come up. The seaman on lookout didn’t hear Arnsbarger purposely slam the hatch on the landing below and noisily bound down the steps of the companion way. By the time the Russian had spotted him, Arnsbarger was already on deck and moving astern.

Lowell was in the passageway behind the hatch, listening for the lookout and wondering why he hadn’t gone after Arnsbarger. Why hadn’t he taken the bait? Lowell had just opened the hatch a crack in an effort to ascertain why the diversion wasn’t working, when the seaman suddenly came down from the lookout and hurried after Arnsbarger. Lowell waited until the Russian was out of sight; then quickly, stealthily, he slipped through the hatch, and went down the companionway.

Clouds covered a crescent moon, and the Kira was cutting through the Gulf in total darkness as Lowell hurried along the immense main deck. He had never felt so alone. It was eerie and desolate, he thought, like being on a floating steel desert. A cold wind stung his face, and blew his slicker flat against his body as he worked his way between the huge hatches and pumping equipment toward the bow.

Arnsbarger was leaning against the rail near the stern, looking out into the blackness, when the Russian seaman caught up with him.

“Can’t sleep?” the lookout asked amiably. He’d been instructed not to challenge the Americans unless they threatened the Kira’s security. To do so might raise suspicions that the tanker was something other than her appearance suggested.

“Yeah, I guess I’m still a little uptight,” Arnsbarger replied.

“Ah,” the Russian said. “I have a bottle of slivovitz. You know slivovitz?”

“Nope. Can’t say I ever met her.”

“Is plum brandy. A few shots and out like a bulb of light.” Why stand outside in the cold watching for them, the fellow thought, when he could be inside drinking with them. “The bottle’s in my cabin.”

“Okay, you got it,” Arnsbarger replied.

A steady spray was coming over the forecastle when Lowell reached the bow. He leaned into the salty drizzle and soon located the hatch and companionway he’d found earlier; then glancing around uneasily, he started down.

The staircase led below decks to a passageway that went off in two directions. Neither had prominence. Lowell made a quick decision and was just moving off when the sound of boots on steel echoed up ahead. There were no doors, no hiding places in the smooth-walled passageway. He reversed direction and hurried back toward the companion-way.

A guard carrying an AK-47 turned a corner. He strode down the passageway at a slow cadence, and paused at the base of the companionway.

Lowell had taken cover in the deeply shadowed well behind it. He was watching the guard through the spaces between the treads, and nervously eyeing the deck where his wet sneakers had left prints.

The stairwell was open to the sky. The guard glanced up longingly, then climbed a half dozen steps stopping inches from Lowell who could reach between the treads and touch him. The guard filled his lungs with the sea air, came back down, and continued his rounds.

The instant he was out of sight, Lowell came out from his hiding place and hurried off in the opposite direction. He soon came to a hatch in the dimly lit passageway, opened it cautiously, and heard the hiss of high-volume filtration used in air locks. An intense glow came from the far end of the L-shaped interface. He crept along the wall to the corner, and peered round it. A window overlooked a brilliantly illuminated clean room beyond.

A Soviet SS-16A Heron missile was suspended in the cavernous space like an immense torpedo.

Lowell was staring right at the business end of the sleek weapon; and despite mission objectives, the discovery startled him. The bulbous graphite nose had been removed, revealing the pointed black cones of the missile’s seven warheads. It was like looking into a cup filled with gigantic just-sharpened pencils — each capable of unleashing nuclear destruction.

Banks of lights encircled the rocket’s finned titanium skin. The blinding halogens were focused on open access hatches, where components of the guidance and propulsion systems were visible.

Most of the technicians had long retired. But a few, in pale blue coveralls, were still monitoring test equipment. Lowell watched as one of them went along a catwalk to a landing and entered an elevator. The late hour and the fact that many vessels used bow space for crew quarters led Lowell to assume the technician was headed for his cabin — but Lowell was wrong. Missile group quarters were adjacent to, not below, the clean room. Lowell had only seen half the picture.

A numerical keypad on the wall next to the hatch — ostensibly requiring an access code — prevented him from entering the clean room. And he decided to leave before the guard returned.

Arnsbarger was with the Russian in his cabin. The seaman pulled the bottle of slivovitz from a hiding place beneath his bunk, held it aloft triumphantly, and headed out the door.

“Hey, where you going?” Arnsbarger asked.

“What about your friend?”

“Sound asleep,” Arnsbarger said, hiding the surge of adrenalin that hit him. “All that jogging knocked the shit out of him. Come on, let’s drink that here.”

“Maybe he woke up,” the Russian insisted, heading down the passageway. Arnsbarger was right behind him.

In the bow, Lowell had eluded the guard, scurried up the companion-way, and started the long walk back on the main deck.

Arnsbarger and the Russian had come from crew quarters in the stern, crossed the deck, and climbed the companionway to the guest compartments.

The Russian opened the door and entered, then looked back at Arnsbarger.

“He’s not here,” he said suspiciously. “I thought you said he was asleep?”

“Guess he must’ve gone to the head,” Arnsbarger bluffed. The bedding was appropriately mussed, but he could see the Russian wondering what, if anything, was going on. “You going to crack that open or hug it?” he asked, trying to keep him from going to look for Lowell. He flipped up the foldaway table and set two cups on it. “There we go,” he said, taking the bottle. He pulled the cork, filled the cups with the clear, thin brandy, and offered one to the Russian who shook no warily. He was about to leave the compartment to search for Lowell when the lanky Californian entered from the companionway.

“Here he is,” Arnsbarger said, concealing his relief and, using his eyes to warn Lowell, added, “My friend, here, brought us a little nightcap.”

“Great,” Lowell said as he took off his slicker and dropped it on a hook.

“Does he always wear his slicker to the head?” the Russian asked facetiously.

Arnsbarger forced a chuckle.

“I went for a walk on deck,” Lowell replied nonchalantly. He fell on a bunk flicking a nervous look to Arnsbarger, who returned it confirming the Russian was suspicious.

“You have to try some of this,” Arnsbarger said, fetching a cup for Lowell.

“Yeah, maybe it’ll help me crash.”

“Crash?” the Russian wondered.

“Sleep, I haven’t been able to get to sleep.”

The Russian’s eyes widened in alarm. He shifted his look to Arnsbarger. Lowell didn’t understand the reaction, but Arnsbarger did. Not fifteen minutes earlier he’d said Lowell was sound asleep. Now, he knew the Russian was thinking about that — thinking that Arnsbarger had lied.

“What do you call this stuff, again?” Arnsbarger asked, trying to bluff past it. “Kivowitz?”

The Russian didn’t answer. He had stepped to Lowell’s slicker and was running a fingertip through the drops of seawater which told him Lowell had been to the bow — which confirmed his suspicion Arnsbarger’s lie was a cover — which meant the Americans were up to no good. He looked at them accusingly, and for a brief instant, all three froze in anticipation. Then the Russian bolted from the cabin and ran down the passageway.

“Shit!” Arnsbarger said. A look of terror flicked between him and Lowell — neither would leave the Kira alive if the Russian revealed what he knew.

Arnsbarger grabbed the bottle of slivovitz and shoved it at Lowell. “Hang on to this!” he said as he ran past him into the passageway after the Russian, and, calling back, added, “And go barf on the deck!”

He was thinking, he’d catch the Russian and throw him into the sea. They’d empty the slivovitz, plant the bottle in the lookout station, and return to the cabin. At watch change, the Russian would be reported missing and the bottle and the vomit would be found, leading the captain to assume that he’d been drinking on duty, stumbled to the side to vomit, and fell overboard.

The Russian ran down the companionway onto the main deck. Arnsbarger came out the hatch onto the landing and jumped over the railing onto his back. They both went sprawling across the deck. Arnsbarger got to his feet. The Russian charged into his midsection, driving him backwards into the railing — and over it.

Arnsbarger caught one of the pipe rail posts in the crook of an elbow as he went over. He was dangling high above the sea, clawing at the deck with his other hand to get back up. The Russian slammed a foot into his wrist. Arnsbarger lunged, wrapped an arm around his legs, and tried to yank him into the sea.

The Russian went sliding feet first beneath the steel cable that ran between the pipe rail posts. Both hands grasped it as he went under. He came to an abrupt stop hanging over the side, his arms fully extended, his back against the hull.

The abrupt action had torn Arnsbarger’s arm loose from the post. His fingers hooked the edge of the deck, stopping his fall. For an instant, the two hung there side by side, their faces inches apart, glaring at each other. The Russian was just starting to pull himself up when Arnsbarger lost his grip and clawed at him frantically, trying to get a handhold as he fell. His fingers shredded the Russian’s shirt and hooked behind his belt. The shock of the sudden stop and the added weight caused the cable to begin cutting into the Russian’s hands. He started kicking at Arnsbarger to knock him loose.

Lowell was coming down the companionway with the bottle of liquor when the two went over the side. He ran to the railing, flattened himself on the deck, and reached down past the Russian, groping for Arnsbarger.

Arnsbarger tightened his grasp on the Russian’s belt and pulled himself upward. Then, holding his position with one hand, he released the other and reached for Lowell’s. Their fingertips inched closer and closer together, finally touching, their hands now tantalizingly close to grasping.

Lowell was about to make a lunge for Arnsbarger’s wrist when a few crewmen who had heard the noise arrived next to him.

Arnsbarger’s eyes widened when he saw them. There was only one way to prevent the Russian from being rescued or shouting out what he had heard.

Lowell saw Arnsbarger’s reaction, and was thinking, No! Dammit, no! when Arnsbarger withdrew his hand and making a fist smashed it into the Russian’s groin. The seaman bellowed, and let go of the cable.

Lowell watched helplessly as the two men dropped out of sight into the darkness, and into the sea.

Chapter Forty-two

The morning after Melanie mailed the letter to Deschin, she took a map from the Intourist desk in the Berlin’s lobby and told herself she was going sight-seeing. Most tourists head directly for Red Square. Melanie made a beeline for Number 10 Kuybysheva Street, but the numeral was nowhere to be found. The street was lined with mundane government buildings. Each had a sign, and indeed, one read Ministry of Culture. But which one? Like all signs in Moscow, they were written in Cyrillic, which bears little resemblance to the Roman alphabet. The few characters that do are unrelated in sound: B is pronounced as “V,” E as “Y,” H as “N,” P as “R,” X as “K,” which made communicating next to impossible.

Melanie passed the building a half dozen times before a passerby finally identified it for her. She stared at the severe monolith thinking Deschin was in there somewhere and wondering if her letter had been delivered yet. Chauffeured black Chaikas and Volgas arrived and departed through gates patrolled by Red Army guards, giving rise to hopes that she might glimpse him. But to Melanie’s dismay the passengers were always tucked in the corner of the backseat, shrunken into turned-up collars, faces obscured by borsalinos and newspapers, as if hiding from someone, or something, she thought. Her hopes swiftly faded.

Aeroflot SU-1247 from Tersk arrived at Vnukovo at 12:56 A.M. The flight was nearly empty, and at that hour, the taxi stand in front of the terminal was deserted. Andrew approached with shoulder bag and carry on. A black Volga sedan — engine running, lights on — was parked a short distance down the arrivals loop. The driver had no trouble recognizing the rangy young American. He drove forward and pulled to a stop next to him. Andrew saw the large letter T set against a checkered background on the door that identified it as a taxi, tossed his bag into the backseat, and got in.

“Hotel Berlin, please,” he said.

The driver grunted and pulled away, heading for the M2 highway. The taxicab’s radio was set to MAYAK, Moscow’s state radio station. Shostakovich’s fiery Symphony No. 7, written in 1941 during the German siege of Leningrad, overwhelmed the tiny speaker.

Andrew had spent four days in Tersk. They were extremely successful ones for Churchco Equestrian. He had filled all his clients’ orders — acquiring the franchise-maker for $825,000—and purchased breeding stock for his own stable as well. The stud farm threw a post-auction bash to celebrate forty million dollars in sales; then Yosef drove Andrew back to Mineral’nye Vody, where he caught the last flight to Moscow.

The cab was turning off the M2 into the Sadovaya outer ring road when the symphony suddenly faded. A long silence was followed by a somber Chopin dirge.

The Chopin better suited Andrew’s mood. Despite his success in Tersk, he was unable to relax and savor it. Raina had left for Moscow immediately after their “altercation” to make arrangements for his trip to Leningrad. And he was preoccupied with the upcoming drive, and how he would go about making contact with refusenik Mordechai Stvinov.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi had ringed the city, and was driving south on Zhadanova, approaching the Hotel Berlin, when the Chopin segued to the score from Boris Godunov, Mussorgsky’s sorrowful opera.

“Ah,” the cabdriver said, nodding as if something he had been wondering about had just been confirmed. “Y’hero myortviy oonyevo.”

“Pardon me?” Andrew asked.

“Groosvniy, groosvniy,” the driver said, drawing out the vowels mournfully. He pointed to the radio to indicate he was referring to the sad tone of the music. “Kermanska Dmitrievitch Kaparov myortviy.”

“Your Premier has died?” Andrew asked.

“Da, da, died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrew said, realizing there had been no Russian spoken on the radio, no news report. The sudden change in the nature of music was clearly the message. Odd, he thought, in this brusque blue-collar nation, that the government announced the death of the Premier to its workers so gently, in such subtle highbrow fashion. He decided it went hand in hand with a self-proclaimed godless society living in cities packed with cathedrals and churches — over 150 in Moscow alone.

The cab arrived at the Hotel Berlin. Andrew paid the driver and got out. The cab pulled away. Andrew was putting the change into his wallet when he noticed the slip of paper amongst the rubles the driver had given him. He picked up his propoosk from the doorman and hurried into the hotel. The hall attendant was in a chatty mood, and was slow to exchange it for his room key. Once inside, he locked the door, sorted through the currency, and found a note — it outlined when and where Raina would meet him with her car, how to get there, and exactly how to proceed on arriving.

The next morning, Melanie stood in her bathtub in the Hotel Berlin — the plastic flowered curtain pulled around her in a little circle — taking a shower. The water was lukewarm, and came in a limp rain from the old shower head. But she hardly noticed. She was just feeling good — a little anxious perhaps, but very optimistic. She closed her eyes, the water running over her lithe body, and thought about Andrew. He was due back, and she was anxious to tell him about the letter she’d sent to her father. The fact that she wanted to share things with Andrew, and hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind the last four days, caused her to start trusting her feelings.

The shower suddenly got hotter. Melanie arched her torso, letting the water wash the soap from her long hair. When finished, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in one of the huge bath towels. She was thinking Russian girth must have dictated their size, when she heard the knock. The hall attendant with a message from her father? Could it be him? Whoever it was knocked again as she hurried, barefoot, across the worn runner to the door.

“Yes?”

“Melanie? It’s Andrew.”

Her apprehension turned to elation, as she unlocked the door and opened it.

Andrew stood there for a moment and stared at Melanie, almost as if seeing her for the first time. They had spent barely twelve hours together; tense, hectic ones. And he’d never really just stopped and looked at her. The fresh scrubbed rawness he saw made her all the more appealing to him.

“Good morning,” he said with a little smile.

“I agree,” she said as he entered and closed the door. He reached to embrace her, and she opened the towel and pressed her naked body against him, enfolding them both in the yards of coarse terry cloth.

Andrew buried his hands in her wet hair, his head filling with the clean scent that made him desire her all the more, and kissed her passionately.

They fell back onto the bed, their hunger for each other surging undeniably now; and soon, his lean body was naked and sliding against hers. She shuddered and arched her tiny frame, her breaths quickening as his tongue gently circled her breast, spiraling toward its center while his fingers, tracing down across the smooth planes of her torso, found the slick wetness they sought. Melanie moaned softly at their touch and dissolved into a sultry liquid haze, surrendering to the overwhelming rush. She felt no compulsion to be in control, no need to suppress her emotions; he was consuming her, and she was pleasureably surprised to learn that she could allow it, indeed enjoy it. He kissed her deeply, then slipped between her thighs, setting off a chorus of blissful sighs. Soon, he had found the slow, rolling rhythm that brought her, achingly, closer and closer. And then, as if suspended in time, they were adrift in the romantic ether until, deliriously inflamed, they were overcome by wave after wave of blinding passion, and lay embracing in the afterglow.

“Hello—” Melanie finally purred, her face radiant. “You free for breakfast?”

“I wish,” Andrew whispered in a tone that left no doubt he wasn’t.

“Why not?”

He shook his head no mysteriously, and put his finger to her lips. “Let’s take a walk,” he said softly.

She nodded, and, lingering in his arms for a few moments, told him about the mystifying lack of phone books and copying services, and sending the letter to Deschin. “I thought it was my father at the door when you knocked,” she concluded.

“Now I know why you were so disappointed when you saw it was me.”

Melanie laughed. “All I could think of was, I’m wearing a towel, and look like a drowned rat.”

“A middle-aged drowned rat,” Andrew teased, covering the strangeness he felt talking about Deschin. He wanted to confide in her, but decided it wasn’t necessary; and even if it was, this wasn’t the time.

The city was awash with colorless northern light as they came from the hotel and crossed Karl Marx Prospekt to the little park that connects the Moskva and Metropole hotels.

“I’m leaving again,” he said.

“For where?”

“Leningrad.”

“Business?”

“In a manner of speaking. Better if I don’t tell you. You understand?”

“No, but it’s okay. When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” He paused briefly, thinking if things went well in Leningrad and he got the package of drawings, he’d be on the next flight to Helsinki, and added, “I may not be returning to Moscow.”

Melanie’s eyes fell in disappointment. They continued walking in silence beneath the cottonwoods. “When do you go?” she finally asked.

He stopped and looked at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes. “We’ll see each other again,” he said. “Here or back home. We will.”

She stared at him vulnerably, and nodded. He kissed her; then backed away and hurried across the grass sprinkled with snowy pookh that fell from the trees.

A park attendant had raked some into a little pile. He tossed a match into it as Andrew passed, and with a whoosh, the white mound flashed brightly and vanished into wispy smoke.

The beverage vendor at the north end of the park sold fruit juices, various mineral waters, and kvass. A group of men were gathered around the stand, chatting. Pasha was sipping a large glass of pulpy apricot juice. Gorodin was savoring his first mug of the malty kvass since his return. He turned his back and tilted his head to be certain the fedora concealed him as Andrew hurried past on the far side of the beverage stand. Pasha flicked him a look, and went for a walk in the park where Melanie lingered. Gorodin drained the last drops of kvass, and followed Andrew.

Raina Maiskaya’s apartment was in a subdivided eighteenth-century mansion overlooking the Moskva River in southwestern Moscow — a charming quarter that had once been the enclave of the nobility. She pulled her black Zhiguli sedan out of the garage and headed east along the river on Kropotinskya Street.

Raina had purchased a Zhiguli because of its reputation for starting reliably in subzero weather. And it did. The “Zhig” had only one problem as far as Raina was concerned — it was black, and had a funereal quality; every speck of dirt showed, and she hated it. But today black would have its uses.

Raina drove with one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. She worked her way across Kalinin Prospect and into central Moscow’s streets that were always crowded with vehicles at this hour, mostly black ones. And she knew the congestion of fast-moving Volgas, Moskviches, and Zhigulis would make hers inconspicuous and difficult to follow.

But Raina couldn’t see the gray panel truck that had been parked around the corner, nor the KGB driver, expert in such matters, who waited until the Zhiguli was well underway before following.

As Raina had outlined, Andrew left the park, walked through the Alex-androv Gardens that parallel the west Kremlin wall, and past Trinity Gate to the main Metro station next to the Lenin Library on the corner of Frunze. The platforms beneath the barrel-vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers were crowded with early morning commuters — one of whom was Gorodin.

Andrew deciphered the color-coded legend, found the Kirov-Frunze line, and took it four stops to Komosomol Square. The immense plaza northeast of the outer ring is bordered by three major railway stations, the Leningrad Hotel, international post office, and acres of parking lots. Andrew rode the escalator from the Metro platform to street level. It was Saturday, and the square was a frenzied bustle of vehicles and pedestrians. Gorodin tailed him to the parking lot east of the Kazan Station, and watched from a distance as Andrew made his way between the tightly spaced cars, counting the aisles as he walked.

Raina’s Zhiguli was parked in one of the spots in aisle seven of the crowded lot. She was sitting behind the wheel, and watched Andrew approach and walk past. She waited briefly to see if anyone was following him before pulling out. Andrew heard the car approaching from behind, but kept walking until it came to a fast stop next to him. Raina popped the driver’s door, and slid across to the passenger seat. Andrew quickly slipped behind the wheel and pulled the door closed.

“Hi. Where do I — go?” Andrew asked, a little taken aback when he saw her. The European high fashion had given way to plain, almost mannish, clothing, and for an instant he wasn’t even sure it was her.

“Circle the lot and make a right into the square,” Raina replied, and, seeing his expression, explained, “I thought it best to play down the change of drivers — just in case.” She opened the glove box and removed some documents. “I need your driver’s license.”

“In my wallet,” he replied, indicating his shoulder bag on the seat between them.

Raina found Andrew’s international license and affixed an official Russian insert. “Now you are a legal driver,” she said; then referring to the other documents, added, “Vehicle registration, ownership papers, route map, and your Intourist itinerary.”

“Where’d you get it?” he asked as he swung the Zhiguli into the busy square.

“Intourist, where else?” She replied smugly.

“What happens if the police check it out?”

“Nothing,” she replied suddenly serious.

“You really got it from Intourist, didn’t you?” he said, realizing she meant it.

She nodded, her face coming alive with delight. “Bureaucracies,” she said. “Somehow the copy to be filed with KGB has been — misplaced.”

“I won’t ask,” he said grinning.

The Zhiguli exited the parking lot, passing within twenty feet of Gorodin who was now watching from inside the gray panel truck that had parked across the street.

Raina pointed to the Yaroslavl Railway Station on the left side of Komosomol Square. “Pull in there,” she said. “You’re a friend dropping me at the train.”

Andrew angled toward the center lane, and pulled into a designated passenger unloading zone.

“Good luck,” Raina said. “Say hello to Mordechai for me.” She smiled, then got out and walked off in her long, confident stride.

Andrew watched her until she had disappeared into the crowds pouring into the station, then drove off.

The gray panel truck waited until the Zhiguli was moving into traffic, then followed.

Melanie was sitting at a table in a little café in the Moskva Hotel, just off the park. Andrew’s departure had left her feeling blue. The cafeteria was crowded and lively, and being around people bolstered her. The Turkish coffee was strong and bracing; the bleenis with honey and sugar were vaguely reminiscent of crepes, but much heavier, and she didn’t finish them.

Pasha had another glass of juice.

Melanie headed back through the park, thinking about how she would spend the day, and made her way alongside the Historical Museum into Red Square.

The domes atop the patterned turrets of St. Basil’s Cathedral sent pointed shadows across the cobblestones toward her. A solemn queue of Muscovites started at Lenin’s Tomb and snaked the length of the Square to the east corner of the Kremlin Wall. The two uniformed sentries posted at the entrance had been joined by a contingent of Red Guard soldiers. The flinty-eyed, pale-skinned young men were stationed at intervals along barricades that paralleled the queue.

One of the stocky babushkas sweeping the cobblestones saw Melanie taking it all in. “Tourist?” she asked in a heavy accent.

“Yes, I’m an American,” Melanie said, not knowing what to expect.

“Ah, I saw you looking,” she said. “It is always a sad day when a Premier dies.”

“Oh — I didn’t know,” Melanie replied. “What’s going on over there?” She pointed to a cluster of VIP Chaikas next to the mausoleum that were ringed by a second contingent of Red Army sentries.

“Those are the Politburo’s cars,” the old woman said proudly. “They are paying their respects today.”

“The Politburo is in there right now?” Melanie asked, suddenly coming alive.

The woman found Melanie’s enthusiasm amusing, and broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Politburo, yes.”

“All the ministers are in there?”

“Yes. It is traditional. They comfort the Premier’s family from the noon hour to three.”

“So, if I got in line I could see them.”

“Yes. That’s what they’re all doing,” she said. “We mourn our beloved Dmitrievitch, but we queue to see the Politburo. On May Day they are but specks high above Lenin’s Tomb. Today they’ll be as close as he.” She inclined her head toward one of the Red Army guards who was standing nearby.

“Thanks,” Melanie replied brightly. She hurried off past the line of mourners, turned the corner, and stopped suddenly. The queue extended along the Kremlin Wall as far as she could see.

The Moscow-Leningrad Highway is a two-lane blacktop that stretches 391 miles between Russia’s major cities. Andrew drove the Zhiguli onto the flat plains north of Moscow that fell into rolling valleys, then across the stilted causeway that spans the Volga, past endless miles of stunted flax, and through the dozens of drab towns that dotted the route — all beneath the vigilant eyes of the state police, whose intimidating observation posts cropped up at precise thirty-mile intervals.

Andrew had made swift progress through the gamut of checkpoints where his passport and the documents Raina had provided received routine inspection. It was mid-afternoon when the Zhiguli left the low stucco buildings of Novogorod behind. Leningrad was seventy-five easy miles north. Andrew was thinking he’d be there before dark when he saw State Police Headquarters looming atop a rise up ahead. Dozens of garish yellow cars slashed with broad blue stripes were lined up outside the sprawling complex.

Andrew slowed as he approached a line of concrete-block-and-glass kiosks that paraded across the highway.

One of the jackbooted policemen manning the checkpoint waved his billy club, gesturing he pull over.

Andrew parked in the designated inspection lane, where other policemen leaned to the windows of vehicles, questioning the drivers.

The policeman’s dark blue greatcoat flowed behind him like a cape as he strutted toward the Zhiguli. He glowered at Andrew through the window, prompting him to lower it faster.

“Gdye vi vadeet mashinoo?”

“I’m going to Leningrad,” Andrew replied, realizing this was perhaps the tenth time he’d been stopped, and the tenth time a policeman asked exactly that question in exactly that tone, without a hello, or greeting of any kind. They were robots, he thought, knowing the next question would be in English, and would be—

“Why?”

“I’m a tourist.”

“Passport, driver’s license, and Intourist travel plan,” the policeman said. He noticed Andrew had the documents ready, and snatched them from his hand. He examined each methodically, more than did previous inspectors, Andrew noted. Then retaining them, the policeman circled the Zhiguli, sweeping his eyes over it, pausing briefly to study the license plate.

“This isn’t an Intourist car,” he said in an incriminating tone as he returned to Andrew.

“Yes, I know,” Andrew replied, trying to conceal his nervousness. “A friend loaned it to me. I have the ownership papers here.”

The policeman gave them a cursory inspection, and nodded, satisfied. “Do you know how far Leningrad is from Moscow?” he asked.

“Yes, about four hundred miles.”

“Six hundred and twenty-four kilometers.”

“Okay,” Andrew said, mollifying him.

“It is illegal for a tourist to drive more than five hundred kilometers in a single day,” the policeman noted pointedly.

“It is?” Andrew replied surprised, his mind quickly calculating. He’d already exceeded the limit — not by very much — but he had exceeded it.

“You’re not aware of this law?”

“No, no, I’m not, really.”

“Intourist Travel Service didn’t inform you of it when you picked up your itinerary?”

“No, they didn’t,” he said, concerned he would say something that would reveal he’d never been there.

“Here, as in your country, ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it. Get out of the car, please.”

Andrew was tempted to argue, but did as ordered.

The gray panel truck was approaching in the distance as the policeman led him inside the main building. He ushered Andrew to a win-dowless room — ten feet square, unpainted concrete block, a single chair, small table, and mirror — and left him there.

A few moments later, a large woman wearing a red arm band entered. She had short-cropped hair, a pig-eyed countenance, and stocky, hard-packed torso that strained the belts that girdled her black uniform.

Andrew took note of her abundant facial hair. I’m going to the mat with an Olympic shot-putter, he thought.

“Do you have any drugs?” she asked suddenly, in a Kissinger-like rumble.

“No,” Andrew replied, annoyed with himself that she’d caught him off guard, and he sounded defensive.

“A gun?”

“Of course not.”

She studied him for a moment, then dumped the contents of his shoulder bag onto the table, and sifted through them. She picked up his wallet and began peeking into the various pockets.

Andrew’s heart raced as she removed an assortment of receipts. The typed page that contained Stvinov’s name and address was concealed among them — just another piece of paper among many, he had reasoned. Now, it was literally in the hands of the enemy.

The policewoman paused, scrutinizing some of the receipts, but to Andrew’s relief she shuffled past the folded page, and returned the receipts to his wallet. “So, no gun,” she said with a disarming smile as she scooped everything back into the bag. “Don’t you believe your government’s stories about the evil Soviet empire? Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, sounding as if she didn’t believe them either.

“No,” he replied, thinking her self-deprecating tone meant he was off the hook, and started to relax. “I find people here are very helpful and friendly.”

“Good. Remove your clothes,” she ordered.

He almost gulped out loud. “Pardon me?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I mean is that really—”

“Take them off,” she interrupted. She folded her arms and watched, like a stolid Buddha, until Andrew was standing in front of her barefoot, in his shorts.

She gestured brusquely that he was to remove them.

Andrew winced, stepped out of the shorts gingerly, and stood with his hands folded in front of him, feeling degraded and vulnerable as she intended.

“Turn, and spread your legs,” she said sharply.

Andrew shuffled his feet on the cold floor and separated them apprehensively. He was looking directly into the mirror now, and the humiliated face that stared back confirmed what he was feeling.

“More,” she said, slapping the inside of his legs until Andrew responded. Then she bent, and reached up between his thighs and grabbed his scrotum, handling it roughly as if looking for something concealed inside.

“Bend over.”

Andrew flinched at the squeek and snap of surgical rubber behind him, and hesitated. His heart pounded in his chest. “Look, I don’t know what you think I—”

“Bend!” she shouted. She grabbed the back of his neck and forced him to bend at the waist, then crouched behind him. She grasped his buttocks with her thick fingers, and spread them wide, hard, hurting him.

“You have drugs?”

“No. I told you before that I—” he yelped as she stabbed a gloved forefinger up inside him.

In the adjacent room, Gorodin turned away from the one-way mirror. “You think he’s convinced?” he asked the policeman who had flagged Andrew down.

“I can’t imagine he’ll think he’s having too easy a time of it after that,” the policeman snickered.

“If he does,” Gorodin said slyly, “I’m sure the notion will be dispelled by morning.” He glanced back to the one-way mirror.

Andrew was dressing — in record time. When he finished, the pig-eyed policewoman grasped his arm tightly, led him from the room, and down a corridor lined with detention cells.

He wanted to protest that his rights were being violated, and demand to talk to someone at the U.S. Embassy; but he knew that would end his mission.

She opened one of the solid steel doors and shoved him through it. He stumbled forward into the cell, kept his balance, and turned to the door as it clanged shut, shouting, “Hey?! Hey, how long am I going to be in this—” He let the sentence trail off when he saw the other prisoner — a slight young man with matted hair, and pale, gaunt face — huddled in a corner, trying to keep warm.

His forehead and right cheek were badly bruised; he had a cut across the bridge of his prominent nose; and one of his eyeglass lenses had been shattered.

Andrew saw the fear in his eyes — then he felt his own.

Chapter Forty-three

Lieutenant Jon Lowell stood at the Kira’s rail with the bottle of slivovitz, staring blankly into the dark sea, envisioning Arnsbarger drowning. The incident had traumatized Lowell, and he was frozen to the spot. The crewmen who had joined him on deck were shouting “Men overboard! Men overboard!” in Russian, and were dashing to life preservers and searchlights.

Rublyov arrived on the run, joining the group at the rail. “What has happened here?” he demanded.

Lowell stared at him blankly for a long moment, then held up the half-empty bottle, and blurted, “One of your men brought this to our cabin — wanted to share it. He and Arnsbarger got into it pretty good — got into politics — into an argument — I tried to stop them — shoved me aside — went outside to settle it. They went over just as I got here. I tried, I—” He groaned, and threw up his hands in frustration.

Though the story was a fabrication, the emotions were real, and Lowell knew they gave it veracity.

Rublyov nodded pensively, examining the bottle. He knew seamen kept their private stock concealed, which meant the only way Lowell could have acquired it was as he said. He glanced to the others solicitously.

“He was trying to help them back up when we got here,” one replied in Russian.

“They fell before we could do anything,” said another. The rest nodded in silent confirmation.

Lowell had no idea what they were saying. His eyes flicked between them apprehensively. He concealed his relief when Rublyov said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. These things happen.”

The Kira circled the area for more than an hour, her crew sweeping the powerful searchlights over the choppy waters.

Finally, Rublyov ordered, “Abandon search, resume course.”

“What do you mean?” Lowell replied. “They’ve got to be out there somewhere.” He protested because he thought it was expected. But all along he knew they wouldn’t be found. He knew Arnsbarger would never let that Russian seaman get to the surface to be rescued.

Thirty-six hours had passed since the Finback contacted ASW Pensacola, and confirmed the Kira’s destination as the Gulf of Mexico. At the time, the USS Carl Vinson, a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, was in the Caribbean off the coast of Nicaragua, 530 miles southwest of the sub’s position in the Yucatan Channel. Under ASW direction, the carrier changed course and steamed north toward the Gulf at thirty knots — more than ten knots faster than the Kira’s top speed — and was now 175 miles off the supertanker’s stern.

The Kira had maintained its heading for Gulf oil fields, and was 615 miles southwest of Pensacola, as expected — well out of range for land-based helicopter rendezvous, hence the need for carrier interface.

One of the Vinson’s radar operators was tracking the Kira on the SPS-10/surface system. The other had the long-range SPS-48/air locked on to a U.S. Navy F-14A Tomcat. The Grumman swing wing fighter had taken off from Pensacola forty-seven minutes earlier, at exactly 5:00 A.M., and now was eighty miles starboard of the carrier, streaking through the darkness at 910 mph.

“Five-thirty to touchdown,” the flight officer announced.

DCI Jake Boulton throttled back the Tomcat’s twin turbofans. The computerized flight control system automatically adjusted the wing sweep to cruise mode. Boulton radioed the Vinson, and got an immediate CTL from Primary Flight Control. He lowered the F-14A’s flaps, and minutes later he had the “meatball” in the center lens, and the nose on the line of blue chasers strobing in the darkness far below, and the Tomcat was in the groove. The screaming fighter came over the fantail at a steep angle, lights flaring in the mist, and slammed into the carrier’s deck at 140 mph. The tail hook caught the second arrester cable, and the Tomcat jerked to a dead stop, 1.3 seconds after her wheels first ticked the rubber-streaked armor.

The air boss nodded, impressed. “Whoever’s on that stick knows his stuff.”

Only three people aboard the Vinson knew the pilot’s identity, and why the carrier had been redeployed: the captain; the communications officer, who received the ASW directive with Langley’s cryptonym KUBARK; and, as the directive specified, the “best chopper pilot aboard.”

The time was 6:07 A.M. when Boulton popped the Tomcat’s canopy.

“Nice flying, sir,” the flight officer said.

“Thanks. Like to keep my hand in,” Boulton replied, snapping off a salute. He climbed down the ladder that the green-sweatered handling crew had just hooked onto the cockpit, and sprinted across the flight deck to a waiting helicopter.

The rotors of the Navy Sikorsky SH-3H Sea King were already whirling as Boulton went up the steps. A crewman pulled the door closed after him. The whomp accelerated to a crisp whisk. The twenty-thousand-pound chopper lifted her tail, then rose at a sideways angle into the first rays of daylight.

An hour and seventeen minutes later, the sun had crept over the horizon, and the Sea King was starboard of the Kira, and closing fast.

“Target dead ahead, sir,” the pilot reported.

“Captain said you were his top gun,” Boulton said.

“Captain never lies, sir,” the pilot said, smiling.

“Let’s find out.”

The pilot put the Sea King into a sweeping turn and came astern of the tanker, making his approach from behind and above the broad superstructure. This put the expanse of deck, and one-hundred-eighty degrees of unencumbered sky in front of the chopper should an abort be necessary. Then, hovering forward of the bridge, the pilot picked a spot on the cluttered deck and started the precarious descent.

One of the Kira’s crewmen ran toward the area. He guided the pilot between the hose booms that cantilevered above the deck, and made certain the landing gear avoided the array of pumps and fittings below.

Rublyov and Lowell stood below the bridge, watching. The latter had returned the borrowed clothing and was wearing his Navy flight suit now. The instant the Sea King touched down, Lowell shook Rublyov’s hand, shouted a farewell over the whomp of the rotors, and dashed in a crouch toward the chopper, carrying a duffel bag that contained Arnsbarger’s flight gear.

Rublyov winced as he watched Lowell go. He’d been up half the night searching for a way to keep the American from leaving the Kira. The first officer suggested they simply throw him overboard; but the US Navy had already been notified that two men had been safely plucked from Gulf waters. Arnsbarger’s death would be a delicate enough matter to handle. Rublyov also considered charging Lowell with the murder of the Russian seaman, locking him in the Kira’s brig, and refusing to release him to American personnel when they arrived. But such action would firmly focus global attention on the Kira, threatening her mission, and if that happened, Rublyov faced the possibility of disgrace and disciplinary action. He decided letting Lowell go was the lesser of all evils, and took it.

Boulton swung a baffled look to Lowell as he climbed aboard. “Scenario indicated two men,” he said.

Lowell shook his head from side to side, grimly.

Boulton stared at him for a long moment, nodded to the pilot, and the chopper lifted off.

When airborne, Lowell briefed the DCI in detail on his discovery of the Heron missile and clean room in the Kira’s bow, the events that led to Arnsbarger’s death, and the tense, uncertain moments that followed. “I still can’t believe it, sir,” Lowell concluded. “We were home free. I should’ve ditched that damn slicker. Amsbarger’d be alive if I had. I blew it.”

“And he’d confirm that?” Boulton asked flatly already knowing the answer.

Lowell let out a long breath. “Probably not.”

Boulton put a compassionate hand on Lowell’s shoulder, and the two of them sat listening to the whomp of the chopper’s rotors for a long moment.

“Man’s a hero,” Boulton said finally.

“Yes, sir.”

“Candidate for a CMH—” Boulton went on, letting Lowell nod, before adding “—save for covert scenario.”

Lowell sensed Boulton’s thrust, now. “What will go on his record, sir?” he asked.

“What you and Captain Rublyov report.”

Lowell nodded thoughtfully. “The Captain’s already written his, sir. Did it all by the book. Covered his ass right away.” Lowell took a folded, pale green form out of a pocket in his flight suit. “International Maritime Certificate of Death at Sea — Next of Kin Copy,” he said. He caught Boulton’s eye, and added, “It says Captain Arnsbarger died in a drunken brawl with a Russian seaman.”

The DCI nodded crisply.

Lowell’s eyes widened in protest.

“Your report must coincide, Lieutenant,” Boulton said pointedly. “Must. You understand?”

Lowell tightened his lips and nodded glumly.

President Hilliard stood next to the window in the oval office reading a letter that was typed on Kremlin stationery and bore the chairman’s seal. It had been delivered to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow following the official announcement of Kaparov’s death, and forwarded immediately by diplomatic courier to the White House.

The President finished reading, and handed it to Keating who was sitting on the edge of the desk. “You’re not going to like it,” he said.

The intercom buzzed.

Hilliard scooped up the phone. It was Boulton calling from the carrier in the Gulf.

“Jake?” he said, dropping into his desk chair.

“Morning sir.”

“Morning,” the President echoed. “I don’t believe I heard the modifier I was hoping for—”

“Not applicable, sir,” Boulton replied grimly. He and Lowell were in a secure compartment adjacent to the Vinson’s main communication’s room. “Reconnaissance confirms Heron missile aboard Kira,” the DCI went on.

“Damn—” Hilliard replied, taking a few seconds to digest it. “One?”

“One.”

“Deployed for launch?”

“Negative. Missile in assembly, not launch, mode.

“Conclusion?”

“Destination Nicaragua.”

“There’s a Soviet missile base there and we missed it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Affirmative. Potential exists.”

“How? They take up baseball?!” Hilliard exploded.

“I don’t know sir.”

“Do they know that we know?”

“Negative. Cover was threatened but maintained.”

“Good. Now we need verification. Something solid that Phil can present in Geneva. And I don’t care what it takes to get it, Ferrets, SR-71s, clandestine recon, bribery, torture. Just get it fast.”

“Flash priority, sir.”

“Faster than that, Jake,” the President said sharply. “The Kremlin’s just turned up the heat.” He swiveled to Keating and held out a hand.

Keating put Deschin’s letter in it and made an expression to let the President know it concerned him.

“Give me a rundown on their minister of culture,” the President asked, turning back to the phone.

“Aleksei Deschin — Politburo member since 1973, very close to Ka-parpov, wields unusual power for non-strategic minister due to said relationship, war hero, educated in the West, shrewd, cunning, sharp as they come,” Boulton recited, adding, “Evaluation is first hand. Subject served as DCI’s key OSS/partisan contact in European Theater WWII.”

“You think he’s in line for the top job?”

“Negative. Per our evaluation, candidates are: Tikhonov, Dobrynin, and Yeletsev, who’s a long shot.”

“Front runners?”

“Tikhonov, now. Yeletsev later.”

“Then why the hell is Deschin the one sending me cables urging that in memory of dear departed Dmitri, and out of respect for our mutual goal of disarmament, we accelerate the pace of the talks?!”

“Don’t know, sir. His involvement creates heightened suspicion of duplicity.”

“Great. This is very frustrating, Jake. The guy is pushing for an immediate blanket endorsement of the Pykonen Proposal. He’s giving me exactly what I want and I can’t take it because we don’t have a fix on this damned Heron. We can’t tread water forever, Jake.”

“Agreed. Experience suggests Kremlin will media-leak Deschin’s letter to create pressure.”

“The question is, how do I stall without appearing to be placing obstacles in the way of disarmament? Without losing what I want?! They’ve got us on the ‘qui vive,’ when it should be the other way around! I mean—” He noticed Keating signaling him and paused. “Hold on a sec? Phil’s waving at me like a matador.” He covered the phone and glanced to Keating. “Shoot.”

“I have an idea that’ll buy us some time.”

“Can’t entrap another spy, Phil,” the President warned. “We used that excuse last time. And we sure as hell can’t clean house at the U.N. again.”

Keating shook no. “None of the above, but I know it’ll work.”

“Hang onto it,” Hilliard replied brightening, and turned back to the phone. “Jake? We’ll carry the ball in Geneva. Nicaragua’s all yours. Oh — please convey my admiration and thanks to those two brave men.”

“To one, sir. Second was lost at sea. I’m sorry.”

The President sagged. “So am I, Jake,” he said solemnly. “Thanks.” He hung up, stood and looked out the window taking a moment to collect himself, then turned to Keating.

“I hope you have a brainstorm for me, Phil.”

“What am I bid for ‘the potential stumbling block to the smooth progression of the talks’?”

Hilliard brightened, sensing where he was headed. “The one with a slight German accent?”

Keating nodded and grinned.

Chapter Forty-four

The queue for Lenin’s Tomb moved — as Muscovites say—“slower than the frozen Moskva.”

Melanie had been inching forward for well over two hours, concerned that the Politburo members would be gone by the time she got inside. Finally, she walked between the two Red Army guards flanking the bronze doors at Sentry Post Number 1 and entered the vestibule. The line turned left and down a flight of granite steps that led to the feldspar-walled viewing chamber.

The queue entered the severe space from behind the catafalque, which was centered on a black marble platform where the official mourners were seated. The Premier’s angular coffin lay open and tilted slightly to afford a better view of its occupant. The line circled six deep along a marble railing that ringed the platform.

At first, Melanie’s view of the official group was obscured by the blankets of flowers that covered the base of the catafalque. Gradually her sight line moved around it, and one by one, the weighted faces came into view: Gromyko, impassive with button eyes; Tikhonov, austere and openly presumptuous; Dobrinyn, a kindly grandfather’s countenance; Yeletsev, affable, with a trace of impatience; Tvardovskiy, bellicose and clearly bored; Mrs. Kaparov; and then — Deschin.

Melanie’s heart rate soared at the sight of him. The resemblance was strong, she thought; and he still had the pride and quiet intelligence she had seen in her mother’s photograph. The line seemed to be moving much too fast now. Melanie kept hanging back, fighting to hold her place along the marble railing. Others in the line bumped and shoved her as they passed, their eyes riveted on the Politburo’s hardened faces rather than the waxen countenance of their deceased Premier.

Pasha, who was a short distance behind, became concerned and left the queue.

Melanie was trying to catch Deschin’s eye when she felt a hard poke atop her shoulder. She turned to see one of the Red Army guards towering above her.

“Move along, madam” he hissed in Russian, using several sharp jerks of his head for emphasis.

Melanie nodded that she’d comply, and stole a last glance at the official mourners. The guard’s arrival had attracted some attention. Deschin was looking right at her. She locked her eyes onto his, and broke into a hopeful smile. It had been four days since she mailed the letter. Certainly, he’d received it, and would recognize her from the picture she included. She stood her ground against the guard’s presence, waiting for Deschin to acknowledge her — a smile, a nod, a signal of some kind that would indicate he was reaching out — but it never came. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of acceptance in his eyes, only contempt for the disturbance she had caused.

The guard’s fist tightened around her arm. He directed her out of the line forcefully, and ushered her aside to an alcove where Pasha was waiting.

“Why didn’t you keep moving?” Pasha demanded as the guard moved off. He wore a black raincoat and the peaked cap; and his eyes were veiled by green-tinted prescription lenses. He spoke in Russian at low volume but with an intensity that frightened her.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie said. “I don’t understand.”

“Passport,” he said in English, condescendingly.

Melanie took it from her bag and handed it to him.

Pasha’s eyes flicked from her face to the photo. Then he removed a black leather notebook from his coat.

“Oh, and my visa,” she said, assuming he was KGB, and would relent on seeing the green seal.

“Your name and passport number are sufficient,” Pasha replied, copying the information in bold strokes.

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Berlin.”

Pasha noted it. “We don’t tolerate public disturbances,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I had—”

“Do you understand?” he interrupted.

“Yes, I do.”

He nodded crisply and returned her passport. “You’re not a Soviet citizen, so I won’t detain you, now. But this will be reported,” Pasha threatened. “My superiors will decide if you should be arrested and charged with hooliganism. I suggest you avoid such behavior in the meantime.” He directed her to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured she leave.

Melanie hurried into the narrow alley that was shrouded in late afternoon darkness. She followed it back to Red Square, frightened by Pasha’s threat, and depressed over what had happened with Deschin. Maybe he wanted to acknowledge her, she thought, but couldn’t, under the circumstances. Then again, maybe he hadn’t gotten the letter, and assumed she was a troublesome Muscovite. Either way, he was her father, and his disdainful glare made her feel small and rejected.

Spring hadn’t come yet to the barren plains three hundred miles north of Moscow. The temperature in the concrete cell had plunged along with the sun.

Andrew’s fear had given way to a preoccupation with keeping warm. “When do they turn on the heat in this place?” he asked his bruised cellmate, who had introduced himself in English as Viktor, explaining he once taught languages in an elementary school.

“Wait,” Viktor replied with a knowing smile, “we still have warmth from the lights. They’re turned off exactly ten minutes after dinner, and then—” He was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.

It was the pig-eyed guard. She threw two mattresses and two blankets into the cell, and slammed the door.

Viktor kicked the bedding across the cell in disgust. “They did this because you’re here,” he said. “They don’t want you to go back to your country and tell of our barbaric jails.”

“Incredible,” Andrew muttered, amazed that they thought he’d consider the threadbare blankets and thin, lumpy mattresses a humanitarian gesture.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Viktor wondered as they arranged the bedding on the floor. “I thought Americans vacationed in Disneyland and Las Vegas.”

“Business,” Andrew replied with an amused smile. “I decided to stay and visit Leningrad. I hear it’s really beautiful.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Viktor said wistfully. “How did you end up in here?”

“They got me on a driving technicality. What about you?” he asked, stealing a glance at Viktor’s bruises.

“I’m what they call a dissident.”

“You mean you don’t agree with the way the government’s running things.”

“No, no,” Viktor replied, amused at the thought. “The entire population would be branded dissidents if that were the case. No, Andrew, the difference is, I want to do something about it. And that is where they draw the line. They can’t allow organized opposition. You see,” he went on, lowering his voice, “we have a network — we duplicate and distribute literature; we hide political criminals; we help people who want to leave.” He removed his shattered glasses and rubbed the cut on his nose. “They wanted me to name refuseniks who are in our group — Jews who wish to emigrate and have been turned down,” he added in explanation.

“Yes, I know — about them,” Andrew said, catching himself in mid-sentence. He empathized with Viktor and was inclined to confide in him. He almost said “Yes, I know a refusenik in Leningrad.” But he remembered his warning to Melanie, and it gave him pause. “For what it’s worth,” he went on, “your cause has a lot of support in the West.”

“So I’ve heard,” Viktor said in a subdued tone. He glanced at Andrew obliquely, deciding something. “I know I have no right to ask this, Andrew,” he said uncomfortably, “but my family is in Leningrad, and my wife doesn’t know I’ve been arrested. Perhaps you could get a message to her for me when you arrive?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Andrew replied, taken by surprise. “I’m in enough hot water as it is.”

“Just a phone call,” Viktor pleaded. “I’ll give you the location of a safe public box. You say, Viktor is in Novogorod Prison, and hang up. That’s all. My Lidiya’s English is much better than mine,” he added with husbandly pride.

Andrew thought about it for a moment. He heard the desperation in Viktor’s voice, and felt guilty for hesitating. “Okay — If I ever get out of here.”

“Don’t worry,” Viktor said. “Traffic violations aren’t that serious. You will soon be—” He was interrupted by a metallic clunk as a guard slid back the hatch that covered the slot in the steel door.

Viktor leaped up and took the two bowls the guard pushed through. The soup was lukewarm at best; but the air was so cold that wisps of steam rose from the oily surface. Two chunks of bread came through the slot and bounced on the floor.

Andrew picked them up.

Viktor gave a bowl to Andrew, grabbed a piece of bread, and settled on the mattress scooping the soup into his eager mouth.

Andrew plopped opposite him, and stared at his bowl glumly, sickened at the odor of boiled cabbage. Of the few foods he disliked, boiled cabbage was the one he detested. It literally made him gag.

“Eat,” Viktor said, gesturing to the lights to remind him. “It’s hard to eat soup in the dark.”

Andrew tried a spoonful and made a face.

Viktor chuckled. “Now you are in hot water.”

Andrew avoided the bits of chopped cabbage, and sipped the broth slowly. Each spoonful made him shudder, and left grit on his teeth. Mercifully, he thought, the lights went out well before he could finish.

They sat in the darkness and talked into the night, finally falling asleep on the lumpy mattresses.

Andrew tossed and turned fitfully. It seemed as if he’d just dozed off when the lights went on and he heard the clang of the steel door.

The pig-eyed woman and another guard entered. They grabbed Viktor beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet. He had been sound asleep, and was startled and confused and resisted them. They slapped him awake, and dragged him out of the cell.

The door slammed loudly.

Andrew flinched at the sound. He sat on the mattress, stunned, and huddled against the cold, watching his breath rising in front of his face.

Valery Gorodin was in an office down the corridor. He stood at a window that overlooked a barren field.

“I’m wasting my time,” Viktor announced as he entered. His voice had an edge that Andrew never heard. The vulnerability was gone from his face, and he stood tall with military bearing.

The pig-eyed guard was right behind him. She helped him into his police greatcoat to warm him, and handed him a mug of steaming coffee.

“You’re sure?” Gorodin asked.

“Positive. I tried every angle,” Viktor replied disgusted. “He’s very cautious. He danced around any reference to dissidents, or refuseniks, no matter how I came at him.”

“Then, we were right,” Gorodin said thoughtfully. He had assumed Andrew’s contact would most likely be someone on the dissatisfied fringes of Soviet society. It was always that way in such cases.

“Definitely,” Viktor said. “But he’ll never divulge who. I see no reason for me to spend another second in that meat locker with him.”

“Nor do I,” Gorodin replied. “You think he’ll make the call?”

“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “He hesitated when I asked, and felt quite guilty about it.”

“Good,” Gorodin said. “Then we’ll simply resume our original plan.” He looked to the pig-eyed guard, and said, “Release him.”

The hard-packed woman left the office and took Andrew from his cell to the interrogation room. He had no idea why, until she returned his shoulder bag, and said, “Pay your fine, and you’re free to go.”

“Fine?”

“It covers the cost of food and lodging. One hundred dollars, American.”

Andrew winced, and gave her the cash.

She pocketed it — in a way which told him she would keep it — and led him outside to the Zhiguli.

“This is a new day,” she said. “Remember, no more than five hundred kilometers.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Andrew replied. “You made the point painfully clear.”

He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and roared off, thinking about Mordechai Stvinov and the package of drawings, and getting the hell out of Russia as soon as possible.

But he drove cautiously, glancing often at the rearview mirror, and scrupulously observing the 60 km speed limit. The whomp of a helicopter rose above the sounds of the Zhiguli. Andrew had been driving over an hour, and thought he’d heard it several times before. A coincidence? Were they following him? Where was it headed? Unable to spot it, he rolled down the window, grasped the side-view mirror, and, tilting it at various angles, finally found the chopper directly overhead. He decided he would ditch the car when he got to Leningrad and travel by Metro as a precaution. The city had just appeared on the horizon when it started raining.

The slick road slowed the Zhiguli’s progress, but soon it was moving north on Moskovskiy, the showcase boulevard of Peter the Great’s grand dream; and in the misty rain, Andrew thought Leningrad resembled one.

He turned off Moskovskiy well before reaching the heart of the city. The rain had intensified by the time he found a place to park on Dobrisky, a crooked street behind the Mir Hotel. He put on a slicker, left the car, and walked the glistening streets to the phone box Viktor had designated on the corner of Ligovskiy.

The green kiosk was unoccupied.

Andrew glanced about cautiously before entering, then lifted the receiver, pushed two kopeks into the slot, and dialed.

“Allo, kto eta?” a woman’s soft voice said.

“Viktor is in Novogorod Prison,” Andrew said slowly, envisioning a young, vulnerable woman relieved to know her husband was at least alive. “He’s doing okay.” He hung up, wondering how families like Viktor’s don’t lose hope. He had no idea Viktor was KGB, and the number was an extension at local headquarters. Nor, despite his precaution, did Andrew see the two men in black raincoats and fedoras who had staked out the phone box, and followed him through Victory Park to the Metro station on Moskovskiy.

Andrew took the Red Line to the Nevskiy Prospekt station, transferring to the Blue for Vasil’yevskiy Island, the large delta at the mouth of the Neva which flows around it to the Gulf of Finland. It was late afternoon when the train came through the tunnel beneath the river and stopped at the station on Sredniy Prospekt. Andrew climbed the steps to the street. The rain had settled into a steady drizzle. He took the typed page from his wallet and checked Mordechai Stvinov’s address. Dey-neka Street was on the waterfront. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his slicker and headed west on Sredniy.

Shops were closing, and the streets were desolate. There was little activity around the warehouses and piers when he arrived. An icy wind came off the water in noisy gusts that answered the moan of boat horns.

Dusk was falling.

Andrew walked between fog-shrouded buildings, ripe with the stench of urine and creosote, until he found Number 37. It was a weathered three-story hulk, made of brick and corrugated steel. He glanced at the entrance but kept walking in order to familiarize himself with the building and surrounding area.

A few miles away, refusenik Mordechai Stvinov came out of the Frunze Naval College on Liniya, where he worked as a math tutor. Several years ago, he had given up his position as a maritime engineer with the Naval Ministry, distancing himself from so called state secrets in the hope of eventually being allowed to emigrate.

Mordechai went to a bicycle that leaned against the fence. It was an old three-speed model, with heavy frame and thick tires. He slipped a metal clip around his ankle to keep his trousers out of the chain, and was unlocking the bike when a colleague approached.

“Why do you lock what no one in their right mind would steal?” the fellow teased.

Mordechai chuckled, then rode off in the rain, heading west along the Neva as he did every night on his way home. His square, confident face had once been handsome; but now it was heavily lined and sagged, and his eyes were watery, and his hair had turned almost white, and he appeared older than his fifty-six years.

Twenty minutes later he was hauling the bike up the two flights of stairs to his flat, a dingy one-room affair with sleeping alcove and bath. Mordechai turned on the light and shut the door with a shoulder. The ceiling had leaked, and there was a small puddle on the floor. He leaned the bike against the wall and removed his raincoat, fetching a towel to mop up the water. That’s when he noticed the sheet of paper that had been slipped beneath the door. It bore the damp imprint of the bicycle tire. Mordechai unfolded it. The repeatedly typed call to action told him the note was from Raina.

A sharp tapping on the window directed Mordechai’s attention to a figure crouching on the fire escape in the darkness. Mordechai hurried to the rain-spattered window; but before opening it, he stared at Andrew, and put a finger to his mouth, warning him not to speak.

Andrew nodded he understood.

Mordechai let Andrew into the flat, then went directly to the kitchen table. A menorah that held a few burned-down candles stood on the chipped porcelain top. A tiny Israeli flag was stuck into one of the empty holders. Mordechai removed the utensil drawer, reached into the vacated space, and came out with a Magic Slate — a red-framed, gray letter-sized board covered with a clear plastic sheet. One writes with a wooden stylus on the sheet, which is then peeled up from the backing, to erase the words — instantly. Magic Slates are made for children, but in the Soviet Union they are used by those who know their apartments have been bugged, or might be raided, by the KGB.

Mordechai had more than one stylus.

“Who are you?” he wrote on the slate in Russian.

Andrew looked at it, shook his head from side to side, and wrote—“English?”

“Fine. Who are you?”

“Andrew Churcher. Theodor was my father.”

Mordechai studied him for a moment, and nodded knowingly, then wrote—“What do you want?”

“Drawings of the tanker.”

Mordechai’s eyes widened apprehensively. He brusquely peeled up the plastic sheet, clearing the slate. Then wrote—“Again? Why?!!”

“KGB killed my father and took the others.”

Mordechai became saddened, then concerned. “And Raina?”

“She’s okay. Says hello. She said you could get the drawings for me.”

Mordechai considered the request for a moment, nodded resolutely, and wrote—“You have a car?”

Andrew nodded.

Mordechai wrote—“Tomorrow 5:15 A.M., exactly. Go to Service Station Number 3 on Novaya Drevnya. Ask for Lev. Tell him your spare tire needs repair. He’ll put the drawings under the carpet in the trunk.”

Andrew studied the information, then nodded, indicating he had it memorized.

Mordechai peeled up the sheet slowly, listening to the chattering sound of the plastic and watching the words vanish, then wrote—“Be careful. One mistake, and I’ll never get out.”

Andrew nodded solemnly, shook Mordechai’s hand, and mouthed, “Thank you.” Then he zipped his slicker, went out the window, and started down the fire escape.

Mordechai closed the window behind Andrew and returned to the table. He concealed the Magic Slate, then sorted through the contents of the utensil drawer. It held the usual assortment of string, rubber bands, bottle caps, nails, and screws, loose among a few hand tools. He pinched a large carpet tack between thumb and forefinger and put it in the pocket of his raincoat.

Andrew came off the fire escape into an alley, and headed toward the rainy waterfront streets.

Patient men with faces of stone were watching from hiding places in the alley, atop the roofs, and on the piers, water dripping from the brims of their fedoras.

Chapter Forty-five

Earlier that day, a U.S. Air Force 707 arrived at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport at 11:05 A.M. Phil Keating bounded down the ramp to a waiting limousine, thinking about how he was going to stall the Russians.

Twenty minutes later, the stretched Lincoln — Stars and Stripes fluttering on either side of the distinctive grille — was speeding along Quai Mont Blanc on the western shore of Lake Geneva. It turned into the drive of the Beau Rivage Hotel, and stopped at the canopied entrance.

Gisela Pomerantz came from the lobby on the arm of a uniformed doorman, who escorted her to the car. She got in and the limousine pulled away, heading for United Nations Plaza.

“Sorry I wasn’t here when you called,” Pomerantz said as she settled next to Keating.

“No problem. Something important I wanted to cover in regard to our conversation the other evening.”

“Indeed, we had several, Philip,” she replied demurely. “So, I’m not sure how I should take that.”

“As Germany’s minister for strategic deployment,” he replied forth-rightly, taking a long drag on his cigarette before softening his tone, and adding, “though there’s a part of me that wishes it could be otherwise.”

“A part of me, too,” she replied wistfully. “What’s on your mind?”

“Your position on disarmament. You see, in light of recent developments, I’ve suggested to the President that a more forceful presentation of your policies would be in the best interests of the United States. And despite his earlier reservations, I’m pleased to report, he was in full accord.”

Pomerantz looked at him like he’d gone south.

“Gisela,” he went on, “I need to buy some time to close the loop on this Heron thing. The problem is, the President can’t stall at this juncture without losing face, especially if it turns out to be nothing.”

“But a hard-liner can.”

“Precisely. I hasten to add, this afternoon’s session would be a perfect time to unpack some of that baggage—”

“—And sprinkle a little hawk guano on the bargaining table,” she said, understanding.

“A little,” he said in a friendly warning. “I’ve worked out a scenario I think you’ll find acceptable.”

Pomerantz raised a brow and thought about it for a moment, then broke into an intrigued smile.

Less than a mile away, a gray Mercedes 600 came down Avenue de la Paix, and drove through Ariana Park to the United Nations Palace.

A horde of reporters and TV camera crews descended on the Mercedes as it came to a stop at the entrance. Soviet Disarmament Negotiator Mikhail Pykonen got out, clearly pleased by their presence. He knew what was on their minds, and he wanted to talk about it.

“Is Moscow upset that Minister Deschin’s letter to President Hilliard was leaked to the press?”

“It was a private communiqué,” he replied in Russian, an aide translating. “My government assumed it would remain so.”

“Are you suggesting Washington is responsible?”

“I suggest you draw your own conclusions.”

“Why would they do so, when it puts them under additional pressure?”

“It puts us all under pressure.”

“Have you received a response?”

“No.”

“When do you think one will be forthcoming?”

“I believe my American counterpart is more qualified to answer that than I,” Pykonen replied, nodding to an approaching limousine.

The heads and cameras turned to see the stretched Lincoln pulling to a stop. The correspondents ran toward it, leaving Pykonen and his group behind.

The wily Russian smiled and went inside.

Phil Keating scowled when he saw the faces and cameras peering through the windows of the limousine.

“Not a word,” he said to Pomerantz as they stepped out of the limousine into a barrage of questions about Deschin’s communiqué and President Hilliard’s response.

“No comment,” Keating said tersely. He repeated it several times and ushered Pomerantz through the crush of reporters into the United Nations Palace.

Inside, the delegates took their places at the long table beneath the crystal chandeliers.

Pykonen stood and held up a briefing paper which he’d distributed previously.

“Due to recent interludes, I’m sure you’ve had ample time to evaluate my government’s proposal,” he said. “On resumption, I officially confirm the Supreme Soviet’s commitment to the points outlined herein, and to the spirit of our communiqué to President Hilliard. I eagerly await the President’s response.” He nodded to Keating and took his seat.

“I have a response for you, sir,” Keating said, removing some papers from his attaché. “One which I’m sure you’ll find in that same spirit. One which—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Keating,” Pomerantz interrupted. “Though my government is in accord on objectives, I’m forced to remind the delegates that we differ strongly on how to achieve them. Chancellor Liebler is quite concerned that sudden withdrawal of the nuclear security blanket which has swaddled western Europe for so long might create a climate of mistrust. We believe a weaning, if you will, would better insure adherence to disarmament once achieved. To that end, the Republic of Germany proposes a five-part pullback. Phase one — a global limit of four hundred warheads be placed on intermediate range weapons systems.”

Keating played along, squirming impatiently in his chair as she enumerated.

“One hundred per side deployed within range of Europe; the remainder on home territory — one hundred on Soviet soil, a like number in the continental United States. Phase two—”

“—If I may, Minister Pomerantz,” Pykonen interrupted. “I find your lack of faith disturbing and unfounded, and would like to know if the other delegates share it?”

“I have no objection to that,” Pomerantz replied as she and Keating had planned. They knew what she would be advocating was sane policy, but they had no delusions Pykonen would accept it.

“Good,” Pykonen said. “I suggest we vote on my government’s proposal now, as a way of making that determination.”

A favorable rumble rose from the delegates.

Keating anticipated the move. He would have done the same if their positions had been reversed. Now, if the rest of the hand played out as he expected, he was quite certain Pomerantz had just bought him a day.

“In that case, gentlemen,” Pomerantz said, “I ask that the vote be held off until tomorrow. That will allow me to finish my presentation, thereby giving you a valuable basis of comparison.”

“I’m not at all pleased at the prospect of a delay,” Keating said, feigning he was upset.

“Nor am I, but it is a reasonable request,” one of the delegates chimed in, going on to solicit agreement from the others.

“All right,” Pykonen said wearily. “But I propose that we vote without discussion tomorrow, to avoid any further delays. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Pomerantz said.

“Agreed,” Keating echoed grudgingly, supressing a smile.

Chapter Forty-six

It was 4:30 A.M. Monday, in Leningrad. The rain had stopped, but the fog still hung between the piers and warehouses. Mordechai Stvinov wheeled his bike from the vestibule of the rundown building where he lived. He pedaled to the corner and turned north on Sredniy.

When he was out of sight, three men came from the doorways and darkness where they’d been waiting. One fetched a Volga from an abandoned warehouse across the street. The others got in, and headlights out, the black sedan cruised slowly after the bicycle.

On leaving Mordechai’s flat the prior evening, Andrew took the Metro back to Dobrisky, the secluded street in the southeastern quarter where he’d parked the Zhiguli. He slept uneasily in the backseat for about five hours. On waking, he walked to the Mir Hotel and had a cup of coffee in the snack bar. Then he returned to the car and headed for Service Station Number 3 on Novaya Drevnya Street.

Mordechai left Vasil’yevskiy Island, crossing the Tuchkov Bridge to the Kirov Islands, which make up the northwestern section of the city. He pedaled the length of Bolshoy Prospekt and onto the arched bridge at the end of Kirovskiy. He coasted down the far side to Novaya Drevnya, and was about two blocks from the service station, when he pulled the bike to the curb and dismounted. He reached into his pocket, then winced and withdrew his hand suddenly. The carpet tack he sought was sticking into the tip of his finger. He removed it, and sucked the dot of blood, then bent to the rear tire of the bicycle and pushed the tack into the rubber. The air rushed from the puncture with a rapid hiss.

Mordechai was crouching to the tire when the black Volga cruised past behind him and turned right at the corner. He didn’t notice it. As soon as the tire was flat, he began walking the bike along the curb.

Like all service stations in Russia, Leningrad Number 3 is state-operated, and open round-the-clock. Things were quiet at this hour, but drivers would soon be tanking up for the workweek. Four attendants were readying the pumps. A fifth stood beneath a hydraulic lift, draining the oil from an old Moskvitch.

Lev Abelson, a diminutive birdlike man of fifty, was the boss. He was sitting at a desk in the office next to the service bays reviewing repair orders. It was 5:02 A.M. and still dark when he glanced out the window to see Mordechai walking the bike toward the office.

“Mordechai,” Lev said as he came out the door. “The only time you come to see me is when you have a flat.” He crouched to the bike and spun the rear tire until he found the tack, then circled it with yellow chalk. He pulled it from the tread, caught Mordechai’s eye, and asked, “Same tire as last time, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mordechai replied, and holding Lev’s look, added, “and the seat’s come loose again too. Maybe you can tighten it for me while you’re at it.”

Lev nodded knowingly. “Sure. You want to wait?”

“I can’t. I have to get to work.” Mordechai said. “A friend will pick it up soon. His car has a spare tire that needs to be fixed.”

“He can come anytime” Lev said with a little smile. “I’ll have it ready.”

Mordechai waved and headed off.

Lev rolled the bike through the office into a back room where auto parts were stored, and latched the door. He took a wrench from a pocket in the leg of his coveralls, loosened the nut beneath the bicycle’s seat, and started twisting and pulling upward to remove it.

Mordechai was crossing Novaya Drevnya when he saw two black Volgas and a police van come out of the darkness at high-speed and converge on the service station. One of the Volgas veered in his direction. Mordechai started to run, cutting between two apartment buildings toward a footpath that paralleled the river.

The Volga screeched to a stop. Three KGB men got out. Two went after Mordechai. The third ran to the station, joining four uniformed policemen who piled out of the van. They began rounding up the attendants, using truncheons to subdue those who protested.

Gorodin and another KGB agent got out of the second Volga, and strode quickly toward the office.

In the storeroom, Lev had just removed the bicycle seat. The end of a plastic bag — that had been twisted and wrapped with clear tape, causing it to resemble the wick of a huge candle — was sticking up out of the tubular frame. Lev grasped it, and pulled slowly upward.

The plastic bag contained drawings of the tanker VLCC Kira—the ones that delineated the modifications in the bow area. They had been duplicated on 2.5 mil tracing mylar, tightly rolled, wrapped in protective plastic, and slipped down into the section of tubular frame beneath the seat. They’d been there for years.

Lev was pulling the long, thin cylinder of drawings from the frame when Gorodin tried the knob, then kicked open the door to the storeroom. Lev bolted for another door that led to the work bays.

Gorodin lunged and got a handful of his coveralls. He spun Lev around, and backhanded him a shot that sent him reeling toward the KGB agent who was standing in the doorway. The agent sidestepped, drove a fist into Lev’s midsection, doubling him over, then put a foot into his rump and booted him out the door.

Gorodin crossed to the bike, pulled the roll of Kira drawings from the frame, and smiled.

It was exactly 5:14 A.M. when the Zhiguli turned into Novaya Drevnya and approached Service Station Number 3. Andrew saw the attendants being herded into the police van by the uniformed officers. He fought the impulse to hit the brakes and make a screeching U-turn and, instead, drove past the service station inconspicuously.

The doors of the crowded Metro car were just closing as Mordechai slipped between them. Despite his appearance, decades of bike riding had kept him fit. He had sprinted along the river, through a grove of trees, and down a staircase to the Metro station on Vyborgskaya, losing his KGB pursuers in the morning rush hour crowds. But he had no doubt he’d be arrested before the day was out. He knew he’d never be allowed to leave Russia now, and would soon be suffering the frigid inhumanities of the Gulag. He decided there was one thing he had to do before the KGB tracked him down.

Andrew hadn’t seen Mordechai, and didn’t know he’d almost been captured — how the drawings would get to the service station wasn’t something they’d discussed. Andrew’s first thought was to warn Mordechai the KGB was onto him. He headed for his flat in the Zhiguli.

About five minutes later, Gorodin and two of the KGB agents left Service Station Number 3 for the same destination — a frustrating drive through Leningrad’s interwoven maze of streets and canals where traffic is funneled across countless bridges, and is often snarled. It took Andrew an hour in the Zhiguli to make the same trip that took Mordechai fifteen minutes on the Metro.

Andrew parked right in front of the waterfront building and went in the main entrance. There was no need to climb fire escapes, and enter through windows now; the KGB knew everything. There was nothing to hide. Andrew dashed up the stairs, ran down the corridor to Mordechai’s flat, and rapped on the door.

“Mordechai? Mordechai, you in there?”

He tried the knob. The door opened, and he entered the darkened flat, not closing it.

Light spilled into the sleeping alcove through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar.

“Mordechai?”

Andrew crossed the room and pushed through the door.

“Hey, Morde—” he bit off the sentence and looked away repulsed. Mordechai was slumped in the bathtub. His left arm hung over the side, hand resting on the floor, fingers splayed lifelessly in a massive pool of blood. Andrew backed away and closed the door. He was swallowing hard to keep from retching when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward the flat. The KGB hadn’t wasted a minute, he thought. He started for the window on the far side of the room.

A shadow darted into the flat from the corridor.

Andrew realized he’d never make the window, and ducked behind the half open door.

A large man in a raincoat entered.

Andrew moved swiftly in the darkness, grasped the back of his neck, and spun him hard, face first, into the wall behind the door. The man bounced off the plaster. Andrew grasped his throat, and was about to bash a fist into his face when the lights came on.

Andrew flinched and pulled the punch, startled to discover he was face-to-face with McKendrick.

“Ed!” Andrew exclaimed.

“Drew!” McKendrick growled, tugging on Andrew’s hand that was still clutching his throat.

“Are you all right?” Andrew asked, removing it and backing off a step.

McKendrick nodded, rubbing his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew went on. “I thought you were the KGB. I just had a—” Andrew let it trail off, suddenly struck by the fact that the lights had come on. He swung a curious glance to the fixture overhead, then to the switch next to the door behind him. His head snapped around, and he gasped, recoiling in shock at what he saw in the doorway.

“Hello, son,” Theodor Churcher said with a weary smile. His left arm had been amputated below the elbow, and the sleeve of his coat hung limply and flat against his side. He looked gaunt and tired; but his eyes still sparkled, and he was very much alive.

Andrew was traumatized. In the last hour, his emotions had been battered and wrenched beyond words. He stared at his father, feeling ecstatic that he was alive and angered at the agony he’d been through unnecessarily. He had no thought of embracing him.

“God,” Andrew finally rasped in a whisper. “What happened to you? How’d you get here?”

“Getting here was the easiest part,” Churcher replied. “We flew into Helsinki, and trained in this morning. The rest is a little more complicated.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Andrew said sharply, working to control the anger and hurt that had been building since Raina had confirmed his father’s collaboration with the Soviets.

“What’s that mean?” Churcher challenged.

“It means I know what you did,” Andrew replied evenly. “And I want to know why?”

Churcher’s face reddened at the remark.

“Hold on,” McKendrick said, reaching out to calm him and prevent the confrontation from escalating. Then, shifting his look to Andrew, he asked, “Didn’t you just come at me thinking I was KGB?”

“That’s right,” Andrew replied, realizing he’d been so stunned by his father’s appearance he’d lost his edge. “We’ll have to talk someplace else,” he concluded in a commanding tone to signify he intended to pursue the matter. He led the way as they hurried from the flat, got into the Zhiguli, and drove off.

Moments later, Gorodin and the KGB agents arrived. Gorodin stared at Mordechai’s body in the bathtub, and smiled. He had the Kira drawings, their source was dead, and SLOW BURN had been preserved. He went to KGB headquarters and called Deschin. When informed he wasn’t available, Gorodin left a top secret message for immediate dispatch, then headed for the airport.

Andrew had driven several miles along the waterfront and pulled the Zhiguli into an abandoned pier. It was a vast structure of rotting timbers and rusting steel sheet. McKendrick remained at the car, keeping watch on the entrance, while father and son walked amidst the discarded packing crates and litter, Churcher telling of his confrontation with Deschin in the submarine, and explaining how he’d survived.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Andrew replied when he’d finished.

“No time for that,” Churcher said with finality, expecting his tone would dismiss Andrew, as it always had. “If we’re going to beat these Russian sons of bitches, we’ve got to get our hands on that package of drawings, fast. Ed tells me you’ve been chasing it.”

“That’s right—” Andrew replied, fighting to overcome a lifetime of conditioning that was now prompting him to back away from the matter of his father’s treason.

“And—”

“The KGB showed up.”

“Damn. What about Mordechai? I was counting on him to get us another set.”

“He’s dead,” Andrew said flatly. Then getting back to what was on his mind, but no longer able to confront his father directly, he prodded, “The only way you’ll beat the Russians now, Dad, is by coming forward with the truth.”

Churcher’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about?” he asked warily.

“Your deal with Aleksei Deschin. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s connected to what’s going on in Geneva. But you’re the only one who knows the details.”

“Right — on both counts,” Churcher said. “The Russians could come away with all the marbles. And I’m the only one who knows how.”

“Then, call Jake Boulton and fill him in.”

“You and I have our wires crossed, boy. I’m not out to even the score in Geneva. I’m out to settle one with Aleksei. He got what he wanted, but I didn’t. Like I said, I called him on it, and he tried to kill me. Those drawings are the only way to tighten the screws and force him to pay what he owes.”

“The paintings—” Andrew said incredulously.

“Right,” Churcher went on. “And once I have them, and his people have things in Geneva right where they want them—” he paused, and brightened savoring the thought “—then, I’ll send Jake the drawings to make Aleksei pay for this.” He raised his left arm and shook the stump angrily.

“But not otherwise.”

“That’s right.”

Andrew couldn’t believe that his father had no intention of righting the wrong.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Churcher asked.

“Yes. It bothers me a lot,” Andrew replied, the feelings of anger and betrayal intensifying, supplying the courage that had deserted him earlier. He looked his father square in the eye and asked, “How would you feel if you found out your father was a traitor?”

Churcher’s eyes flared. “Don’t you dare stand in judgment of me!” he exploded. His voice echoed in the empty structure as he whirled and began walking away.

“Why not?” Andrew challenged, pursuing him, no longer able to contain his outrage. “I don’t hear you denying it! How could you do it? How?”

“You know how many nuclear weapons we have?” Churcher retorted. “And how many they have?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Between us, we could blow this planet to bits a hundred times over,” Churcher went on. “What the hell’s another dozen or two?”

“Dad — You sold out your country!”

“Bull!” Churcher said, stung by the truth and trying to conceal it. “I don’t have to take this! Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

“I’m your son!” Andrew said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I believed in you. Defended you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look up to someone all your life, to try to emulate him, and then—”

“You did a lousy job,” Churcher snapped cruelly.

“I did my best,” Andrew replied. “And I’d always felt ashamed because I thought I’d failed. Now, I’m ashamed for trying. All these years you held yourself up as an example — Theodor Scoville Churcher: model citizen, champion of free enterprise, war hero.”

“All true.”

“All lies! You were working for the Russians!”

“I was working for myself!”

“It was wrong! Dead wrong, and you know it! Why don’t you admit it?”

“Maybe it was,” Churcher mumbled defensively.

“And do something about it?” Andrew continued, not hearing him.

“I said I was wrong, dammit!” Churcher shouted. “I shouldn’t have done it!”

Andrew was taken back more by the admission than the volume. He studied Churcher’s face as they glared at each other. Despite the anger, there was a pathetic blankness in his father’s eyes now, and his skin had a gray, waxen pallor. The old coot looked old, Andrew thought, old and exhausted.

“Why?” Andrew asked softly after a long silence. “Why’d you do it?”

“That’s a tough one,” Churcher replied in a subdued voice. His stamina still hadn’t returned, and the angry exchange left him weary. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never really thought about it much.”

“Well, it’s time you did.”

Churcher nodded, accepting, almost welcoming, the sudden and dramatic change in their roles. “I wish I could say it was misplaced ideals or something equally honorable,” he began. “But it comes down to greed, I guess. Greed and power. I got used to having my way, to getting what I wanted and believing that if Theodor Churcher wanted something, it was right. But I sure as hell never set out to hurt anyone.” He paused, his face softening, voice taking on a sincere timbre as he added, “I sure never wanted to hurt you, son.”

“But you did, Dad. You hurt a lot of people — me — Jake — Ed — Raina—”

“You know about her—” Churcher said flatly.

“Yes, she’s given up a lot to help you.”

“Those bastards have her?”

“Not as of two days ago. But it’s only a matter of time after what happened this morning.”

Churcher didn’t reply, but Andrew could see the thought of it pained him deeply. It had never occurred to him that his father had fallen in love. He’d always assumed his pride wouldn’t allow it.

“I’ll make amends,” Churcher said in an uncharacteristically contrite tone.

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “Start with Geneva.”

“I’m sorry son, but I can’t do that,” Churcher replied, his lips tightening in frustration. “I’ve worked too long and hard to spend the rest of my life in disgrace. I want to make up for what I’ve done, God knows I do,” he went on, anguished. “I really do. You have to believe that. But I can’t just come forward. I can’t. You understand?”

Andrew considered it for a long moment, stealing a glance at the sleeve that hung limply at Churcher’s side. His father had been a risk taker all his life, and had always gotten away with it. And if there’d been a price to be paid, somehow it had always been paid by others— but this time it had cost him.

“Okay,” Andrew finally said, his tone indicative of his resolve. “We’ll find another way.”

Churcher nodded, relieved, and settled on a packing crate. “Ed?” he called out, waving McKendrick over.

“You two okay?” McKendrick asked as he hurried toward them from the Zhiguli.

“We worked it out,” Churcher said softly.

“Time to get back to business,” Andrew said.

McKendrick nodded in agreement, pleased that they’d made their peace. “What do you think the KGB will do with those drawings?”

“Deliver them right into Aleksei’s hands,” Churcher answered. “No doubt about it.”

“Any idea where he might keep them?” Andrew asked.

Churcher nodded emphatically. “His dacha in Zhukova.” He laughed ironically, and added, “Truth is, I know exactly where. We’re remarkably alike.”

“I’ll get them,” Andrew said decisively.

“Not so fast,” Churcher snapped. “For openers, the place is alarmed, and guards are posted on the grounds whenever Aleksei’s in residence. I can get you around the alarm; but to have even half a chance, you’d have to know when he won’t be there.”

“And make sure he doesn’t suddenly show up,” McKendrick added pointedly.

“I can do that,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to waste time talking about it. Where in the dacha?”

“Hold it, Drew,” McKendrick said. “You’ve been covering for me long enough. It’s time I—”

“No way,” Andrew interrupted. “You’re not a hundred percent yet; fifty, if you’re lucky. I could’ve mopped this place with you, and you know it. I’ve picked up a few things in the last six weeks. I’m doing this.”

In the past, Andrew would have looked to Churcher for confirmation. But it was McKendrick who did it now.

Churcher studied Andrew, deciding, then he nodded. He almost smiled.

Chapter Forty-seven

That same morning in Moscow, Aleksei Deschin and the other members of the Politburo, along with government and military officials and family members, all assembled on the grounds of the Kremlin prior to burial services for the deceased Premier.

A military honor guard led the cortège through the Nikol’skiye Gate into Red Square. The group proceeded to the section of the Kremlin Wall, west of the gate, where the remains of prominent Soviet officials are entombed. Here, they joined an assembly of international representatives who were seated in front of a platform that had been constructed at the base of the Wall.

A small square of red bricks had been removed. A bronze urn that contained the Premier’s ashes stood in the opening, framed in musty blackness.

Deschin was moving toward the platform to deliver the eulogy, when a courier made his way through the throng and intercepted him. He handed the cultural minister a sealed official envelope. It contained the communiqué from Gorodin, which read:

Deschin smiled and whispered a brief instruction.

The courier hurried off.

Deschin bounded up the steps to the platform. There was a spring in his step now, a confidence that had been missing since Churcher first threatened to undermine SLOW BURN. Deschin went to the podium and began extolling Kaparov’s contributions to mankind and the Soviet state.

The Kremlin-watchers in the assembly were surprised. They’d expected that Nikolai Tikhonov, the acknowledged front-runner, would deliver the eulogy. What they’d seen as a forgone conclusion was suddenly open to speculation. A buzz spread through the crowd.

When Deschin finished speaking, a granite slab — the name DMITRI KAPAROV written in gold dimensional Cyrillic letters across it — was set into the opening in the Kremlin Wall.

Then, as tradition dictates, a signal went out through all of Moscow. And for the next five minutes, sirens wailed, factory whistles tooted, and ship and train horns blew in tribute.

Deschin stood at the podium, listening. The deafening cacophony sent a chill through him, and filled him with a sense of destiny.

Gorodin strolled brightly through Leningrad’s Rzhevka Airport. The task had been completed, and Andrew’s movements were no longer of interest. Other things were on his mind now. Before boarding a flight to Moscow, he went to a long-distance booth in the telegraph office and made a call — a call he didn’t want to make from a KGB phone.

Pasha was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Berlin, reading Izvestia, the state newspaper, when he was summoned and went to the manager’s office to take Gorodin’s call.

“How is our guest getting along?” Gorodin asked.

“She’s spending a lot of time in her room.”

“I assume that means she hasn’t yet seen any of our cultural activities?”

“Only from afar. There was a death in the family, and she attended the services. I made sure she couldn’t extend her condolences personally.”

“Good work, Pasha,” Gorodin said enthusiastically. “Who knows, she may soon have the chance.”

When Aeroflot SU-1078 arrived at Vnukovo, Gorodin was met by a driver who had instructions to take him to Deschin’s apartment.

The cultural minister had gone there directly from the funeral services. He was in his study, planning the strategy he would use to succeed to the premiership. It had never been his ambition. The cultural ministry wasn’t a breeding ground for Soviet Premiers. But now that it was within his grasp, he really wanted it. The perfectly timed success of SLOW BURN and the need for continuity at the helm were undeniable. And he would use them to overpower the coalition of wizened oligarches on the Politburo who had been pushing for Tikhonov’s ascendancy.

Deschin rose from his desk and went to the bay window. He was deep in thought when a black Chaika circling the Square caught his eye. The sedan turned into Proyezd Serova Street, and stopped directly beneath the window. Gorodin got out carrying a long cardboard mailing tube, and hurried into the building.

“Greetings, Valery!” Deschin said ebulliently as Gorodin entered the apartment.

“Greetings, Comrade Minister,” Gorodin replied, handing him the mailing tube.

Deschin smiled, and slipped on his glasses. Then he unscrewed the cap from the tube and removed the drawings, ascertaining they were, indeed, of the Kira.

“And the source?” he asked.

“A refusenik,” Gorodin replied. “He saw the error of his ways and saved the State the cost of prosecution and imprisonment.”

Deschin beamed. “I knew I could count on you, Valery. The Service is fortunate to have a man of your caliber in its ranks.”

It most certainly is! Gorodin thought, forcing a smile. He’d had his fill of praise. Twenty-five years of it. Twenty-five years of breaking his balls for — Well-done, Valery! And for most of them, he’d lived in Cuba, in that island armpit, and played nursemaid to SLOW BURN. Now, he’d saved it twice in a month’s time; twice saved the Kremlin’s key national security program, and again words — but this time he was ready.

“Ah, this is a great day for Russia, comrade,” Deschin concluded.

“Yes, sir. And for you, as well,” Gorodin replied.

“That remains to be seen,” Deschin said, assuming Gorodin was referring to the premiership. “But I was selected to deliver the eulogy— a good sign. Despite the long and close relationship I had with the Premier, there’d been rumors the honor would go to Tikhonov.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir; but I had something else in mind — a personal matter.”

“Personal?” Deschin replied, intrigued.

“In a manner of speaking,” Gorodin said slyly. He took Melanie’s letter from his pocket, and handed it to Deschin. “I mean, I realize everything must be seen in the light of the current political climate.”

Deschin immediately noticed that the envelope was addressed to him, bore uncancelled stamps, and had been opened. He was removing the contents when he recognized the WWII photograph — recognized himself hugging Sarah Winslow — and froze. His fingers were cold and unsteady as they slipped the four paper-clipped items fully out of the envelope. His eyes darted to Melanie’s note. The closing prior to the signature made him shudder. His heart started racing, then his face flushed and he broke out in a sweat. He took a moment to collect himself, and pulled a sleeve across his forehead. Then he read the copy of Sarah’s letter. When finished, he held Melanie’s picture to the light, contemplating it. “She’s here,” he finally said. “I saw her.”

“I know,” Gorodin replied.

Deschin flicked him a wary look, then he swept his eyes in a circle from Gorodin, to Melanie’s picture, to her note, to Sarah’s letter and WWII photograph — making an assessment of all the factors in the equation as he calculated. Then, his eyes narrowed and held Gorodin’s.

Gorodin returned the look unblinkingly; and in that moment, all was communicated. Gorodin didn’t have to say he had copied the documents — which he had — nor did he have to ask for what he wanted, or make threats to obtain it. They were givens, and Deschin knew it.

You blackmailing son of a bitch! Deschin thought, the anger starting to boil. A Soviet Premier with American offspring? Lenin would turn over in his tomb! The Politburo would never knowingly make such a selection. Then it occurred to him that Gorodin could have taken the information to one of his adversaries — to Tvardovskiy — and he maintained his composure, and smiled at his good fortune.

“You know, Gorodin,” he said, “few men possess the qualities necessary to handle such a delicate matter as skillfully as you have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Deschin put an arm over Gorodin’s shoulders. “You’re a bachelor, aren’t you, Valkasha?” he said as he directed him across the room.

“Yes, I’m afraid, I just never found the right woman,” Gorodin replied with a shrug.

Deschin lifted a framed photograph that stood on his desk, and handed it to Gorodin. It was a print of the WWII photograph Sarah Winslow had kept on her dresser. “Even when we do,” Deschin said wistfully, “they sometimes slip away, taking everything that matters with them.”

Gorodin nodded with understanding. “You’ve served the motherland unselfishly, and with such distinction, for so long, sir,” he said. “You could rightfully consider the whole of the Soviet people your family.”

“Perhaps. But a man’s own flesh and blood—” Deschin paused reflectively, letting the sentence trail off. Then he patted Gorodin on the back, and added more brightly, “I have no doubt our people will be equally well served by your rise through the ranks.”

Gorodin smiled, his long sought membership in nomenklatura assured. “I’ll make every effort to prove worthy of your sponsorship,” he said.

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Deschin said thoughtfully. He studied him for a moment and added, “You’ll begin tonight — by bringing my daughter to Zhukova.”

Chapter Forty-eight

After leaving the abandoned pier, Andrew drove his father and McKendrick to Leningrad’s Finlyandskiy Station to catch the late morning train back to Helsinki. En route, Churcher familiarized Andrew with the grounds and layout of Deschin’s dacha and, with McKendrick’s help, worked out precisely how he would gain entry. Before getting out of the Zhiguli, Churcher took a camera from his briefcase and gave it to Andrew.

It was a simple, seventy-nine-dollar 35 mm Olympus: compact, fully automatic, built-in flash. “This might come in handy,” he said. “I smuggled the drawings out in plain sight last time,” he went on, grinning at the recollection. “Rolled them up with the plans of a processor we were developing for the Mining Ministry, and carried them on the plane in my hand. But I wasn’t planning on being that lucky twice.”

“Thanks,” Andrew said, taking the camera. It was slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and slipped neatly into his shirt pocket.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” McKendrick said. He mussed Andrew’s hair, got out of the car, and went to the trunk to get their bags.

Churcher remained for a moment. There was a look of pride and acceptance in his eyes Andrew had never seen before.

“Good luck, son,” he said softly. “I’m with you.”

Andrew nodded. “Bye, Dad. I love you.”

Churcher bit a lip, popped the door, and got out.

Andrew headed for Moscow.

Churcher and McKendrick boarded the Helsinki Express and settled into their compartment. The train was still in the station when Churcher said, “I’m going to the head.” He walked to the end of the car, but continued past the lavatory, went down the steps to the platform, and hurried off. The train had pulled out by the time McKendrick went looking for him. It was racing along the main spur when he completed his search and realized Churcher had left the train.

It took Andrew almost nine hours to drive to Moscow. He parked on Zhandanova Street, a short distance from the Berlin, and went directly to Melanie’s room.

The time was 8:39 P.M.

She was packing.

“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, baffled. It was the last thing he’d expected, and it completely changed the thrust of his approach.

“I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“I found out I’m not wanted here.”

“Your father won’t see you?”

She nodded forlornly, and threw an armful of clothing into the soft travel bag on the bed.

Andrew winced. He just assumed Melanie had made contact with Deschin by now.

“He said that?” he asked.

“He didn’t say anything. Not a word,” Melanie said with evident bitterness. “Hold this, will you?” she asked. She handed him a plastic bag and started tossing toiletries into it.

“Maybe he didn’t get your letter yet?”

“I thought about that, but it’s been almost a week. And I haven’t been out of this room for days, so I know I didn’t miss his call. He got it, Andrew. I know he did. The woman at the Embassy was right. I’m an embarrassment to him.” She forced an ironic laugh at the thought of her naiveté. “I was a fool to think he’d welcome me with open arms. I romanticized the whole thing. He probably slept with every nurse he could get his grubby paws on.”

She tossed a bottle of shampoo into the plastic bag, did the twist-tie, and put it in her travel bag.

“Besides,” she went on, “I’m running out of money, and I can’t take anymore time from my job.”

“Look, you’ve come this far, and—”

“Right, and I’ve got nothing to show for it,” she interrupted. “I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even have a phone number.” She shrugged, and turned to the dresser for a few last items.

Andrew clicked on the television.

Melanie’s head snapped around in reaction as he turned up the volume and crossed the room toward her.

“I do,” he whispered.

“You?” she asked, puzzled.

Andrew nodded a little apprehensively.

“You mean you’ve been watching me go crazy trying to contact him, and all along you knew how?” she asked indignantly.

“No. Now, calm down, okay?” he replied. “I got the information this morning from my father.”

“I thought he was dead?”

“So did I. I’m as confused as you are, believe me.”

“Sure,” she said sarcastically, and resumed packing.

“Melanie, it’s a dangerous situation. I didn’t want to get you involved.”

“Now you do—”

Andrew nodded. “To make a long story short, my father made a — a deal with the Russians. Something that could really hurt the United States.”

“He was involved in espionage?”

“Good a word as any,” he replied, trying to hide the shame he felt. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on some documents that can turn it around — and your father has them.”

Melanie looked at him in disbelief.

“It’s important, Melanie,” Andrew went on fervently. “There’s a lot at stake. People have put their lives on the line to help me.”

“You’re asking me to risk my life?”

“I’m asking you to take your father to dinner — to the ballet, anywhere. Keep him busy for an evening, so he and his KGB watchdogs won’t get in my way.”

“Andrew — I just told you he won’t see me.”

“He will once he hears your voice.”

She shook no. “I still wouldn’t help you.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“I had a run-in with the KGB.”

“You’re kidding—”

“I wish I were. They threatened to arrest me. They still might,” she replied, her voice cracking. “I can’t take any chances. I’m afraid.”

Andrew was suddenly hearing the snap and squeak of surgical rubber, and imagined Melanie being strip-searched by the pig-eyed policewoman, or more likely her pig-eyed brother. He shuddered at the thought. “I can’t say I blame you,” he said, softening his tone.

She smiled, and leveled a tender gaze at him. “I like you, Andrew. I might even love you,” she said, thinking of the many times she’d sworn that she would never, ever again, utter those words to a man, and of her long-standing decision to avoid love affairs, to keep her emotions walled in, as a way of insuring she’d never get hurt again.

Andrew didn’t react to the remark. He didn’t know how. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said they loved him.

“I’m not sure what made me say that,” Melanie continued, amazed that having done so, having allowed the wall to crack, she was now letting it crumble. “I mean, we hardly even know each other, not to mention I’ve got fifteen years on you.”

“Fourteen,” Andrew said with a warm smile.

“I guess, if I’m honest with myself,” Melanie went on, “it’s because lately — I’ve had feelings that I haven’t had in years.” She said the last part slowly, cautiously, then paused, and shrugged vulnerably before adding, “But I don’t want to end up in Siberia, and I don’t want to die. I’ve gotten along without my father all these years. I’ll manage somehow.”

She planted a light kiss on his lips, swept the travel bag off the bed, and left the room.

Andrew let out a long breath, and sat down on the bed to collect his thoughts. His concentration was broken by applause from the television, where “Let’s Go Girls!" — a popular Soviet game show — was in progress. Three zaftig women from a dairy collective had been competing in a milking contest, and the winner had just raised her pail in triumph.

Melanie checked out of the Berlin, and took a taxi to Sheremetyevo Airport.

Andrew left Melanie’s room, went to a street corner phone box, and called Deschin’s dacha. There was no answer. He made a beeline for the Zhiguli.

A few minutes later, a Volga pulled up in front of the Hotel Berlin. Pasha got out, hurried inside, and discovered Melanie had checked out.

She was at Sheremetyvo, in the check in line for the late evening flight to London with a connection to JFK, thinking about her father, and Andrew, and having second thoughts about leaving, when she heard a voice.

“Miss Winslow—”

Melanie turned. A chill went through her when she saw Pasha approaching. She was going to be arrested by the KGB and thrown into one of those horrible prisons! And for what? She hadn’t done anything! Lucinda Bartlett’s words rang in her head: “Subject to their laws! Embassy could do little to help you!” She started backing away, terrified; then, panicking, she turned and ran through the terminal toward the street.

Pasha pursued her outside to the arrivals loop.

A black Volga roared forward and screeched to a stop next to her, blocking her way. The front passenger door popped open.

Pasha caught up with Melanie and bear-hugged her toward it. She was trying to knee him in the groin when Gorodin’s hands came from within the car and pulled her inside. Melanie whirled blindly, pummeling him, struggling to get free. Gorodin parried the blows, got hold of her wrists, and held them tightly until she recognized him.

“Gorodin!” she exclaimed.

“Your father wants to see you,” he said, relaxing his grip when she stopped struggling.

Pasha tossed her travel bag into the backseat and got in next to her.

Gorodin tromped on the accelerator.

The Volga lurched forward and roared into the night.

Andrew had the Zhiguli’s gas pedal to the floor, heading down the M2 highway for Zhukova village. The paved ribbon led to a gravel road that snaked through the estate country southwest of Moscow. A low stone wall told him he was nearing Deschin’s estate. He killed the headlights and engine, coasting for about a quarter mile before pulling off the road into a grove of cottonwoods. The Zhiguli rolled to a stop behind a dense thicket of brambles that concealed it.

He slipped out of the car, went to the trunk, and removed the jack— bumper type with shoe that ratchets on a long, notched square tube. The L-shaped tire iron that doubled as a ratchet handle was affixed to the tube. Next, he unclipped the shoulder strap from the snap rings of his suitcase, and hooked one of the fasteners into each end of the tube, making a sling. After closing the trunk, he put an arm through the makeshift sling and, carrying the jack against his back like a rifle, hurried off in the darkness. The wind blew in halfhearted gusts as he came to a rise that overlooked Deschin’s dacha.

The eighteenth-century czarist mansion was surrounded by cotton-woods, and sprawled across a swale in the rolling landscape. A fieldstone and wood facade rose in tiers beneath a steeply sloped snow roof that had deep overhangs and numerous dormers.

The ground level was comprised of two main wings: residential— dining room, library, and study — on the left; and maintainence— kitchen, servants’ quarters, garages, and storage facilities — on the right. Long corridors branched off from a two-story entrance hall connecting them. Sleeping quarters were on a second level that spanned the lower wings.

The windows were dark, and neither cars nor guards were visible as Andrew approached.

The way in — the way around the alarm system — was via the roof. But as his father had warned, the overhangs and steep slope made it inaccessible from the ground. Churcher had also told him of the big trees, and now Andrew was hurrying toward a cottonwood off to the right side of the dacha.

The huge main trunk split into three smaller ones. Andrew climbed up into the crotch, and shinnied up the trunk closest to the dacha. One of the limbs branched off and extended well over the roof. Andrew straddled it for a moment, catching his breath, then he grasped it with both hands and humped forward toward the dacha. He paused to snap off some twigs that were in his way, and saw headlights through the trees in the distance.

Two cars were winding along the approach road.

Andrew froze as Deschin’s Chaika and a KGB Volga drove through the entrance and stopped on a graveled parking area in front of the dacha.

Deschin got out carrying the mailing tube that contained the roll of Kira drawings. He and Uzykin were joined by the two KGB guards who were in the Volga. Deschin gave them brief instructions, then he and Uzykin went to the dacha. Deschin tapped out a code on the keypad next to the door, deactivating the alarm system, and they entered.

Andrew was straddling the limb, thinking fast — thinking that he’d continue to the roof, hide behind the dormers until morning, and make his move after Deschin and the guards left. He watched warily as one moved off across the grounds at an easy patrol pace. Then, his eyes darted to the other, who went to a stone fireplace at the rear of the house and began tossing in kindling from a woodpile next to it.

This was no time for a cookout, Andrew reasoned, and Deschin sure didn’t come all the way out here to burn garbage. Damn! he thought as it dawned on him, the son of a bitch is going to burn the drawings!.

There’d be no waiting till morning, now. Unarmed, and one against six, Andrew decided that stealth rather than direct confrontation was still his best chance, and he resumed his journey.

He was about halfway to the dacha when he reached a network of thick branches that blocked his way. He pulled a leg back over the limb, and turned sideways onto his stomach. Then, hands grasping the limb like a fat gymnastics bar, he eased over headfirst until he was hanging beneath it, about twenty-five feet above the ground, and began working his way hand over hand toward the roof. He’d traveled a short distance when he spotted the patrolling guard approaching on a course that would take him between the tree and the dacha — right beneath Andrew.

Andrew adjusted the position of his hands, and swung his legs up around the limb to lessen the strain on his arms and minimize his profile.

The movement dislodged a large piece of bark.

Andrew craned his neck, and watched the curved, jagged-edged square wafting toward the ground.

It was headed right for the guard, right for a three-point landing on his head. But a little gust of wind altered its course slightly. And it fell behind him — within a millimeter of grazing the back of his raincoat — as he strolled directly beneath Andrew.

It hit the ground with a little click.

The guard paused in midstride, cocked his head curiously, and turned around.

Andrew was hanging directly above him—like a skewered pig at a Texas barbecue, he thought, hoping it wasn’t a precursor of things to come.

That’s when the guard noticed the headlights of an approaching car and, instead of looking up, started walking toward the entrance gate.

Andrew sighed, relieved. He swung his legs down from the limb, and continued hand over hand toward the dacha. He was soon hanging above it, his feet about four feet from the roof. He had planned to just drop onto it. But the house was occupied now, and he didn’t want to make a thud when he landed. He realized that the limb and up-sloping roof were at converging angles, which meant the distance between them would diminish as he moved outward. So, he kept going — the limb bending slightly under his weight, the roof rising toward him — and finally, the waffled tips of his Reeboks scraped against the slate surface below. He inched a little farther, and let go, landing silently in a crouch.

The car that had gotten the guard’s attention pulled through the gate and crunched to a stop on the gravel next to the other vehicles.

Andrew had made his way to the center of the dacha’s roof, behind two sharply peaked dormers that concealed him. His eyes widened in amazement when first Gorodin, and then Melanie, got out of the Volga, and were ushered into the dacha by the guard.

Pasha drove off in the Volga.

The guard resumed his rounds.

Andrew crawled around to the front of one of the dormers. Two small French windows were set into the recessed facade. He slipped the blade of a pocketknife between the overlapping frames. The latch had been painted over, and it took three tries before he broke the bond and it flicked open. Despite his father’s assurances that only ground floor doors and windows were alarmed, Andrew opened these with apprehension, expecting to hear the piercing shriek at any moment. But his anxiety was unfounded.

Next, he unslung the jack and set it on the roof. It wasn’t part of his plan to get into the dacha, but into a locked room inside it. Placed horizontally across the door at lock level, the jack would easily bow the jambs the one half to three quarters of an inch necessary to expose the deadbolt, allowing the door to be opened. But now that the house was occupied, there’d be no using the jack, not with its noisey ratchet; once inside, he’d have to improvise. Andrew left the jack behind, and climbed into the attic without incident.

Gorodin showed Melanie to a guest room on the second level and put her suitcase on the bed. She went to a mirror, took a brush from her purse, and began running it through her hair. En route from the airport, he had informed her of Deschin’s stake in the current political scene, and she was thinking about that now, thinking about her father becoming the Soviet Premier.

“Ready?” Gorodin asked.

She straightened her clothing, and took a moment to compose herself. “Yes,” she said nervously.

“Remember,” Gorodin warned, “Pasha and I are your father’s friends. We share his secret. But officially, you’re a representative from an American dance company, meeting the minister to arrange a tour.”

Melanie nodded, and followed Gorodin from the room.

The guard at the stone fireplace behind the house thought he had a fair-sized blaze going. But only the paper he had stuffed beneath the wood was burning, and it soon went out. He was trying to relight it when the patrolling guard arrived.

“Give me a hand with this,” the inept fire-maker said. “The minister will be out here any minute.”

“I doubt it,” the other replied. He broke into a salacious grin, adding, “And so would you, comrade, if you’d seen what just arrived.”

“Ah, he’s starting a little fire of his own.”

“Precisely. I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in yours until she leaves.”

It was a natural conclusion. The state-supplied women were dispatched here as well as to the Moscow apartment. And the guards had seen many arrive.

Gorodin showed Melanie into a large study, shutting the big wooden doors behind him as he left.

The room was ringed with chestnut wainscoting, and covered in dark floral-patterned paper. Bulky thirties furniture, and heavy draperies, gave it the gloomy feeling of Deschin’s Moscow apartment.

He was sitting in a big square armchair that swallowed him. A cigarette burned in his left hand. Smoke rose into the light that came from a reading lamp. The glow grazed the side of his face, leaving his features obscured, and sent a bold shadow across the floor in front of him.

Melanie remained where Gorodin had left her, and stood unmoving until Deschin broke the electrifying stillness.

“Sit down,” he said in a strong voice, gesturing to a chair opposite his.

Melanie smiled demurely, and sat on the edge of the cushion. Her eyes hid behind the rise of her cheekbones, flicking nervous glances at him.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you the other day,” she said awkwardly, in a dry voice.

Deschin neither reacted nor replied, staring at her impassively for a long moment. “You couldn’t,” he finally said. “I didn’t know who you were.”

“And I was so sure that you’d gotten my letter, and were rejecting me,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“It came this afternoon,” he said.

“Oh—”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” she replied defensively, unnerved by his manner. “I don’t want anything.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I was curious about you. I wanted to know what you were like.”

“Then, that’s what you want.”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Why now? Why at this time?”

“I didn’t know you existed until about a month ago. I found out after my mother died.”

Deschin didn’t expect that, and stiffened.

Melanie saw it, and regained some of her confidence. “You know, Gorodin told me what’s going on. I can’t believe you think I came all this way to hurt you. Why are you being so hostile?”

“You — threaten me,” he replied, surprised by her directness, which pleased him. “You always have.”

Melanie blinked in astonishment.

“Yes, I knew,” he said before she could ask. “I always thought this day would come.”

How? she wondered. “My mother’s letter was never delivered. It was sealed. I opened it.”

“And so did Military Intelligence,” he explained. “The war was almost over, and they knew our countries wouldn’t be allies much longer. When they saw my code name on the envelope, they steamed it open to examine the contents, then delivered it unsealed — a subtle way of informing me I was no longer trusted.”

“You read it, sealed it, and sent it back—”

Deschin nodded.

“Why?”

“To protect myself.”

“You mean professionally?”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, and shook no. “Emotionally,” he replied. “I was devastated when your mother decided to leave Italy. We’d been through so much together. It took me a year to get over her. When I read the letter, when I saw what we could’ve had—” he paused suppressing his bitterness. “It was a way of denying it. I couldn’t allow myself any expectations.” His chest heaved, and he stubbed out the cigarette and pulled himself from the chair.

Melanie felt saddened, but her eyes flickered with anxiety as he circled behind her. She wasn’t sure what to expect until the light caught his face, and she saw that, despite it all, he was pleased she was there.

“Gorodin told me it’s been a trying quest.”

“Yes, it has.”

“I hope I prove worthy of it,” he said, holding out a hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. They were about to leave when Deschin glanced to the mailing tube that was leaning against his chair. He took it, and led the way from the study.

After climbing through the dormer, Andrew had crawled across the rafters in the unfinished attic to a ceiling hatch. He eased it aside and reached through the opening into the darkness, running his hand along the ceiling. His fingers found a light fixture and tugged on the pull chain. The bare bulb came on with a loud click that made him flinch. He peered down into a utility room, where a small patch of floor was visible amidst an assortment of tools and equipment, then eased down through the opening.

Melanie and Deschin had crossed the entry hall and were walking down one of the corridors toward the maintenance wing. Deschin detoured to an alcove where a door that opened onto the rear of the dacha was located, and peered outside. The fireplace was unattended. A few lazy flames were licking at the charred stone. He snapped his fingers several times, and the guard came running.

“What’s the problem?” Deschin asked in Russian.

“We thought you’d — prefer to wait, sir,” the guard replied, flicking a nervous look to Melanie.

“I asked you to build a fire, comrade. I expect it to be done. Notify me when it is.”

The guard nodded stiffly and hurried off.

Deschin closed the door and shook his head in disgust. “Something I’d hope to have accomplished before you arrived,” he said to Melanie as they moved off down the corridor.

In the utility room, Andrew was completing his descent, taking care not to dislodge anything that would make a noise. He had barely touched down when he heard footsteps in the corridor on the other side of the door. He stood on his toes, stretched to the light fixture, and unscrewed the bulb a few turns to shut it off.

The footsteps came closer and closer.

Andrew turned the knob gingerly and opened the door a crack.

Deschin and Melanie walked right past him and turned a corner at the far end of the corridor.

Andrew slipped out of the utility room and followed. He laid back and peered around the corner, watching as they continued to a heavy wooden door.

Deschin took keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and swung it open, gesturing to Melanie to enter first.

She stepped tentatively into the darkened space.

The glimmer of a pale moon came through a wire glass skylight, silhouetting what appeared to be an immense winged insect overhead.

Deschin followed, closing and bolting the door. “You said you wanted to know me—” he said, letting the sentence trail off as he turned on the lights.

The room exploded with brilliance and color.

Picasso’s incendiary “Three Women” was directly opposite the entry. A huge Calder mobile hung beneath the skylight. Each wall displayed great works of art from the Hermitage and Pushkin: Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Renoir, Monet, among them. Deschin’s gallery was no match for Churcher’s museum, but the contents would more than hold their own — these were original works.

Melanie was stunned, as Deschin had anticipated.

“Venture about,” he said with a pleased smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Melanie nodded, her eyes darting from the Picasso to Cézanne’s “Woman in Blue” on an adjacent wall.

Deschin went to a workroom within the gallery where paintings were stored and crated. He paused in the door and stole a glance at Melanie, watching her for a moment. A proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Then he entered the room, put the mailing tube on a table, and went to a cabinet. The package Gorodin had stolen from Churcher’s museum was on the top shelf. Deschin put it on the table next to the mailing tube, and returned to the gallery.

Andrew was in the corridor right outside the gallery now. He pulled some crumpled rubles from his jeans, and tore the corner off one of them. Next, he wet his thumb and forefinger with saliva, rolled the paper between them, and forced the tiny spitball into the keyhole in the gallery door, then hurried back down the corridor to the utility room.

Melanie was standing in front of a Degas when Deschin rejoined her. The tiny masterpiece was from the lyrical series of ballet dancers that the Impressionist had painted near the end of his life.

Deschin looked from the painting to Melanie’s splayed stance, and smiled knowingly.

“My mother danced,” he said.

Melanie turned to him, her face suddenly aglow.

“Oh—” she exclaimed in a fulfilled whisper. “I always knew it came from somewhere.”

“Your grandmother’s name was Tatiana. Tatiana Chinovya,” he said, pleased at the effect of his remark.

“Where did she dance?”

“With the Bolshoi,” he said proudly.

“My God—” Melanie said, awestruck.

“In the ensemble,” he added, tempering his answer but not her reaction. “When I was a child,” he went on reflectively, “I would slip backstage and watch her perform. I was always so fascinated, and felt such pride.”

He paused, and touched Melanie’s cheek with his fingertips.

“We both have her face; but you have her fine bones, and no doubt her talent. A man couldn’t ask for more in a daughter. You’re all I have, you know.”

Melanie’s face flushed with warmth.

“Was Sarah happy?” he asked somewhat suddenly.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good,” he said, trying to sound detached.

Melanie sensed his wistfulness, despite it. “But I always had the feeling her life wasn’t — complete,” she went on for his sake.

Deschin felt his eyes getting misty.

“Your grandfather was in the military,” he said brightly to get past the moment. “He cut quite a handsome figure in his uniform. I have pictures of him — and many of your grandmother dancing.”

Her expression told him he didn’t have to ask if she wanted to see them. He led the way from the gallery, turned off the lights, closed the door, and inserted the key into the lock. But it wouldn’t turn. He removed it, checking that he had the right one.

As Andrew had planned, the key had pushed the spitball to the rear of the keyhole. The speck of paper was only a few millimeters thick, and the key appeared to be fully inserted despite the fact that it wasn’t. Nevertheless, the offset was enough to keep the key’s ridges from properly engaging the pin tumblers — just enough to prevent the lock from turning.

Deschin inserted the key again, with the same result. He shrugged, assuming something in the mechanism had broken, and headed off with Melanie.

Andrew heard them pass the utility room. He waited a few moments, then slipped into the corridor and entered the gallery.

Melanie and Deschin returned to the study. He went to a desk and pressed a button on the phone, then removed a photo album from the book shelves behind him, and brought it to Melanie. They settled side by side on a sofa and began looking through the pictures.

A few moments later, Uzykin came from his quarters in response to the buzz. He opened the door to the study, waiting until Deschin beckoned before entering.

“I couldn’t lock the gallery,” Deschin said, giving him his keys. “See what you can do with it.”

Andrew had made his way to the gallery workroom and found the package and mailing tube on the table. Heart pounding, fingers shaking, he unscrewed the cap, slipped the drawings from the tube, and flattened them on the table. He was reaching to his pocket for the camera when the lights in the gallery came on. His head snapped around at the brightness. He hurried to the workroom door and peered into the gallery.

Uzykin had opened the door, stabbed the key into the lock, and was trying to turn it. He stood on the far side of the door, which opened inward and blocked his view of the gallery. He pushed the key in and out of the lock repeatedly, twisting and jiggling it to get it to turn — and then all of a sudden it did. His machinations had mashed the spitball against the metal back plate, mushrooming the paper out, around the tip of the key; thereby allowing him to push it all the way into the cylinder, and turn it.

Andrew heard it; heard the unmistakable rotation of the tumbler and thrust of the deadbolt. He realized he was about to be locked in and was starting to feel panicky when he heard the sound again, and then again.

Uzykin was turning the key back and forth repeatedly now, watching the deadbolt go in and out to make certain it was working properly.

Andrew took the package of drawings addressed to Boulton, slipped it into his waistband against the small of his back, and hurried into the gallery. He slid along the wall, timing his steps to the sound of the lock to cover any noise.

Uzykin stopped working the key.

Andrew froze a distance from the door. The Riffian warrior of Matisse’s “Moroccan In Green” stared impassively over his shoulder. Uzykin was about to close the door, and lock it. Three fast strides put Andrew directly behind it. On the fourth, he smashed the sole of his shoe into the hardwood frame. It caught Uzykin square in the face with a loud thud. He let out a groan, and went sprawling across the floor.

Andrew scooted around the door, into the corridor.

Uzykin got to his feet and staggered after him.

Andrew was hurrying down the corridor in search of the alcove where the door that led to the rear patio was located, when he heard Uzykin shouting for help.

Deschin and Melanie were in the study, looking through the photo album, when they heard the sound and exchanged uncertain glances. The gallery was in the maintenance wing at the opposite end of the dacha, and the distance and heavy wooden doors on the study had muffled Uzykin’s shout.

Gorodin, however, was in the kitchen getting something to eat. He heard it clearly, and headed for the corridor.

Andrew had almost reached the alcove when he heard Gorodin opening the kitchen door up ahead. He reversed direction, and bounded up a flight of stairs.

Gorodin had just entered the corridor when Uzykin stumbled around the corner. “The gallery!” he gasped. “Someone was in the gallery!”

Andrew was hurrying down a second-floor corridor, opening doors in search of Melanie’s room. When he saw her travel bag on the bed he knew that he’d found it. He slipped inside, took the package from his waistband, and scribbled a message across the label beneath Boulton’s address.

He figured his chances of getting out of the dacha with the package were fifty-fifty, but had no hope of getting out of the country with it. His father’s score with Deschin would have to go unsettled. The game in Geneva, on the other hand, could still be won — if he could get the package to the U.S. Embassy. But the KGB would have every street and entrance blanketed with agents by the time he got there. He’d never get near the place, let alone inside. Melanie would have a far better chance.

He put the package of drawings into her travel bag, pushing it down beneath the clothes, then zipped it and left the room, hurrying down the corridor.

Gorodin realized Andrew had to have taken the stairs. “Stay here,” he ordered, stationing Uzykin at the base of the staircase. The only way Andrew could get out of the dacha now was by going out a window onto the roof, and Gorodin would be outside waiting for him. He ran down the corridor toward the entry hall.

Curiosity had gotten the best of Deschin. He left Melanie in the study and was crossing the entry hall, when Gorodin arrived.

“Andrew Churcher,” Gorodin said sharply as he hurried past him. And that’s all he had to say. Deschin blanched and took off for the gallery.

Gorodin charged out the front door into the night, calling out for the two KGB guards. The one who had been working on the fire was coming to the door to inform Deschin he had it going. Gorodin almost ran right past him. “The roof!” he said. “Look for someone on the roof!”

Andrew had slipped out a window, and was crouching behind the dormers. He spotted them, scurried across the slate surface in the opposite direction to the edge, and made the long jump to the ground in the darkness. He landed with a loud, jarring thump.

Gorodin heard it and ran toward the sound.

Andrew was coming around the corner of the dacha to the front of the grounds. Gorodin and the guard were running right toward him. He stopped suddenly, feet skidding in the gravel, and reversed direction.

The patrolling guard had been at the opposite end of the grounds when Gorodin called out. He was heading for the front of the dacha when he saw Andrew running toward the rear. He pulled his gun and settled into a two-handed stance, tracking him.

Andrew charged down the gravel driveway, legs churning, arms pumping, lungs gasping for air. He glanced back to see Gorodin and the other guard coming around the corner of the dacha behind him. There was a blaze in the fireplace now. He yanked a piece of kindling from it as he ran past.

The patrolling guard squeezed off a shot. The round whistled past Andrew’s head and shattered one of the stones in the fireplace.

Andrew whirled, on the run, and tossed the flaming stick in the direction of his pursuers. It pinwheeled through the air, and landed right on target — right on the long snowy drift of cottonwood pookh that had blown against the rocks which edged the drive. The volatile fuzz ignited right in front of Gorodin and the two guards in an explosive whoosh. They recoiled at the brilliant flash. It had the effect of a thousand strobes, so tightly constricting their pupils that they couldn’t see, and went stumbling about in the dark.

Andrew dashed headlong between the cottonwoods, across the field, and over the rise to the Zhiguli. He jumped inside, chest still heaving, hand stabbing the key at the dash, wishing he had left it in the ignition. Finally, the engine roared to life, and the car exploded from the thicket.

“After him! Hurry! Hurry!” Gorodin shouted when he heard it. The two KGB guards searched the darkness for their Volga, and took off after the Zhiguli.

Gorodin ran back into the dacha, rejoining Deschin and Uzykin. “He got away!” he exclaimed.

“With the drawings!” Deschin said angrily as they dashed down the corridor toward the study.

Melanie had gone to the window in response to the commotion outside. She whirled, startled, as the door blasted open, and they hurried past her to the desk.

Gorodin and Deschin each grabbed a phone, and dialed frantically.

“Traffic police!” Gorodin barked in Russian. “Fugitive alert to all units!” he went on when the connection was made. “Andrew Churcher. American. Driving black Zhiguli, plate number MSK6254. Apprehend at all costs!”

Deschin was on the line with Tvardovskiy. “Yes, yes, the drawings, Sergei! He got away with the drawings!”

“You didn’t destroy them?” the KGB chief angrily replied.

“I was preparing to do just that when they were taken,” Deschin shouted, realizing Tvardovskiy had him on the defensive, positioning him to take the blame. “Internal security is your responsibility, Sergei, not mine,” he countered in an ominous tone. “SLOW BURN has been jeopardized because your people let Andrew Churcher outsmart them.”

“You’re forgetting there’s GRU involvement here.”

“Indeed, there is.” Deschin exploded. “There’d be no SLOW BURN without GRU! Maybe we should turn over internal security to them, too.”

Gorodin let out a relieved breath. He’d finished his call, and was listening to Deschin, concerned he would hold him responsible.

“It’s your problem, Sergei,” Deschin went on. “Get it solved.” He hung up, took a moment to settle, and crossed to Melanie.

“This is a regrettable turn of events,” he said.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she replied, unnerved. She hadn’t been able to understand the phone conversations, but she heard “Churcher” mentioned repeatedly amidst the Russian, and heard the running and the gunshot. And she could see both men were shaken. She knew what had happened. “I think I should leave you two alone,” she concluded.

“Stay a moment,” Deschin said sharply. It was a command, not a request.

Melanie was already leaning forward in the chair to stand. She remained that way.

“Gorodin tells me that you made the acquaintance of a young man named Andrew Churcher,” Deschin said. “Have you seen much of him?”

“No. Just a few times, casually,” she replied, thinking Deschin had suddenly reverted to the distant, wary person she’d encountered earlier.

“Three times since arriving in Moscow,” Gorodin said. “The most recent being this evening on his return from Leningrad. The hall attendant at the Berlin noted the time was eight forty-two.”

Melanie flicked him a glance, trying to appear annoyed rather than intimidated by the surveillance.

“What did he want?” Deschin asked.

“Nothing,” she replied, feigning ignorance of all Andrew had told her. “I think he was going to suggest we have dinner, but I was packing when he arrived, and I left for the airport almost immediately.”

“Did he say anything to you about what he was doing here?” Deschin asked.

“Yes, he said he was buying horses.”

“Indeed, many of them. Perhaps, he introduced you to other friends or acquaintances in Moscow? People he might stay with, for example?”

“No, he didn’t,” she replied. “Why?”

“It’s not your concern. It’s a government matter. Unfortunately, I must deal with it.”

Melanie nodded that she understood. “Good night,” she said with a nervous smile. She touched his hand awkwardly, and walked toward the door, taking the photo album with her.

Deschin watched after her for a thoughtful moment, then gestured to Uzykin that he should accompany her.

He caught up with Melanie in the corridor, ushered her through the entry hall, and up the stairs. “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he said as they approached the guest room.

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Melanie replied as she entered and closed the door. The simple pine furniture and dormered ceiling gave the room a homey feeling she hadn’t noticed earlier. She moved her travel bag aside and sat on the bed, absentmindedly turning the pages of the photo album. Her eyes saw the snapshots of her grandmother dancing with the Bolshoi, but her mind kept drifting to Andrew, to thoughts of him being hunted by the KGB.

Chapter Forty-nine

At about the same time the KGB was starting its manhunt for Andrew, President Hilliard sat with Jake Boulton in the Oval Office.

“Negative, sir,” Boulton reported on CIA efforts to confirm the existence of the Soviet missile base in Nicaragua. “KH-11 sat-pix are negative. High altitude SR-71 Blackbird reconnaissance, as well as low-level runs by private pilots, same result.”

“What about field agents?” Hilliard prodded. “We’ve sent enough people down there to double the population. Not one of them came up with anything?”

“Negative, again, sir.”

“Goddammit, Jake,” Hilliard exploded. It wasn’t only the bad news that irked him but also that Boulton had a way of maintaining an emotional detachment which the President couldn’t. “Phil is out of excuses, and out of tricks!” Hilliard went on. “And we’re out of time! We either have something solid when the delegates reconvene, or we’ve lost it all!”

He spun his chair on its pedestal in an angry gesture, then took a moment to settle himself.

“When the hell was that tanker recommissioned?” he asked impatiently.

“Twenty-six July, seventy-three.”

“And we’ve determined unequivocally that she’s been making the same circuit ever since?”

“Affirmative.”

“How many circuits per year?”

“Four max. Average of three would be—”

“—Well,” the President interrupted, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “I guess we can assume the Kira hasn’t been ferrying the same missile around in her bow for the last fifteen years.”

“Agreed.”

“So the best scenario is that there are at least forty of them out there somewhere,” the President concluded, his voice starting to rise. “Forty Soviet Herons aimed right down our throats! And despite all the technology and personnel at your disposal, you can’t tell me where the hell they are!”

“Affirmative.”

“Christ!” the President exclaimed, disgusted. He whirled, strode from the oval office, and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t have to ask Cathleen to call the garage.

A low sun streamed between the trees as the President walked Arlington’s hallowed fields. He stood staring at Janet Hilliard’s headstone, thinking he was failing her. The thing he wanted most was slipping away, and he felt powerless to stop it.

Chapter Fifty

It was early morning in Moscow. A three-car KGB caravan raced at high speed along the M2 highway towards Zhukova village. Tvardovskiy’s Chaika was in the lead.

Melanie had fallen asleep in her clothes, and awoke after a few hours of fitful rest. The dacha was quiet, and the view from her window was much like the New Hampshire countryside. She undressed, showered, and put on some makeup. She was digging through her travel bag in search of fresh clothes when her hand came upon the sharp-edged package — the package of Kira drawings. And across the label Andrew had hastily scrawled:

She was standing there holding the package, shocked at the import of her discovery, when she heard cars roaring onto the grounds. She went to the window, pulled back the curtain slightly, and peered out.

Tvardovskiy’s Chaika and two Volgas came to fast stops on the gravel below. Men in fedoras and black raincoats began piling out of them and slamming the doors. Uzykin came from the dacha and ardently greeted Tvardovskiy, who led the stony entourage inside.

The scene struck Melanie like something out of Nazi Germany — like the Gestapo tipped off to the whereabouts of a resistance organizer. They were there for her, she thought. They’d caught Andrew, and forced him to tell them what he’d done with the package.

She latched the door and began searching frantically for someplace to hide the package. Behind the dresser? No. They’d find it. And deny as she might, who’d believe her? The window. She could throw it out the window into the bushes. They’d think Andrew had ditched it if they found it there — but not if he’d told them she had it. She was darting back and forth across the room gripped by panic when it dawned on her that the dacha was still quiet. The KGB men weren’t clambering up the stairs. Their fists weren’t pounding on the door. If they knew she had the package, if they were there for her, they’d have broken it down and arrested her by now. She stared at the package for a long moment, listening, and thinking of a way to minimize the risks. She put the package on the dresser and picked at the corner of the incriminating label with a fingernail to remove it. But time had firmly affixed the adhesive, and the corner broke off in a little chip. She shuddered with dismay, her mind searching for a way to camouflage it.

Downstairs, Tvardovskiy and his KGB entourage had trooped into the study, joining Deschin and Gorodin.

“We have a hijacking in progress,” Tvardovskiy announced. “I think it’s Churcher.”

“Why?” Deschin asked.

“The plane’s destination was Estonia. You recall Madame Maiskaya?”

“His father’s woman, of course.”

“An Estonian. We picked her up at Yaroslavl Station after she gave Churcher her car, and have been interrogating her since. She insists she has no idea where he’s headed, now.”

“Out of the country. Where else?”

“Then why hijack a domestic flight?”

“Because it would be impossible to elude security at Sheremetyvo and board an international one, but he could get on a domestic flight at Vnukovo undetected and—”

“Yes, yes, and turn it into an international one,” Tvardovskiy interjected, understanding.

Deschin was nodding gravely when the phone rang. Tvardovskiy blocked his hand and snatched up the receiver. It was the chief of air security.

“It’s Churcher,” the embarrassed fellow reported.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. His name’s on the manifest, and the passport control ledger, as well.”

“Destination?”

“The pilot radioed he’s being forced at gunpoint to divert to Helsinki. We had every international flight covered. We never thought he would—”

“Yes, I know,” Tvardovskiy interrupted angrily and, turning to the others, said, “It’s definitely him.”

Deschin leaned across the desk and turned on the speakerbox, so all could hear the conversation.

“Does the pilot still have his weapon?” Tvardovskiy asked.

“No, that was the first thing Churcher demanded.”

“What about the air marshall?”

“He was found unconscious in an airport men’s room. His weapon was taken.”

Deschin burned Tvardovskiy with a look, reached out, and picked up the extension.

“How many passengers aboard?” Deschin asked.

“Seventy-nine, sir.”

Deschin winced and let out a long breath. “That plane must be stopped,” he said.

Melanie had dressed, and was now hurriedly cutting a rectangle out of the paper sack that they’d given her at the hotel concession when she bought the stationery. An Intourist symbol, which she reasoned would give the package of drawings the appearance of having been purchased there, was centered in the rectangle. She put a dab of nail polish behind each corner, and glued it over the existing label, covering Andrew’s message as well as Boulton’s name and address, then put the package in her travel bag, atop the clothes, unhidden. She slipped out of the room wondering how she could leave the dacha without raising suspicion.

She had gone down the stairs and was crossing the entry hall when she heard voices at the far end of the corridor. One of the doors to the study was partially open when she arrived. She peered in.

Tvardovskiy noticed her immediately, and flicked a penetrating stare in her direction, then sent Uzykin to close the door. Uzykin’s approach alerted Gorodin to Melanie’s presence. “I’ll handle her,” he said. He stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

“What do you want?” he asked tensely.

“I feel in the way,” she replied. “I mean, maybe I should go, and come back when he has time to see me.”

“That’s up to Minister Deschin,” he replied. “And he can’t be interrupted now.”

“Why not? What’s going on?”

He eyed her for a moment, deciding, then led her down the corridor away from the door. “Your friend Churcher hijacked a plane,” he replied.

“Oh, my God.”

“He’s a fool. He’ll never get away with it.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Intercept and destroy,” he replied coldly. “The decision was just made.”

Melanie recoiled, horrified. But the initial shock was nothing compared to the chilling realization that followed — the extreme action had been ordered because they believed Andrew had the package. The package in her travel bag. The dilemma was tearing her apart. Every bone in her body was prompting her to shout, “No! No, don’t! Andrew doesn’t have the package! I do! I have it!” But she heard Andrew’s words and saw what he’d written, and she knew what he wanted, and didn’t.

The hijacked Antonov-10 was a regularly scheduled flight from Moscow to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, a major seaport on the Gulf of Finland. The turboprop had turned onto a new heading for Helsinki, barely fifty miles across the gulf, when two MiG-29 Fulcrums scrambled from Ptovshak Airbase on Hiiumaa Island, seventy-five miles due west in the Baltic. It wasn’t by chance that the Fulcrums had been selected. The tactical fighter was the newest and fastest in the Soviet arsenal, armed with six A-10 medium-range air-to-air missiles — three heat-seeking, three radar homing — on two pylons under each wing, and one AA-11 under each engine duct. Only one would be needed to blow the Antonov out of the sky.

“Target is twenty miles from international waters,” ground control reported. “It can’t be allowed to leave Soviet airspace. Rapid closure mandatory!”

“Damn!” Tvardovskiy said in response. The call from the chief of air security had come through the Vertushka. The Kremlin operator had patched the line into the radio transmission between the Fulcrum and ground control, and the group in the study was listening on the speaker-box.

“Projecting intercept in two minutes,” the pilot of the lead Fulcrum reported as he walled his throttles.

The afterburners on the Tumansky R-33D turbofans kicked in. The MiG rocketed forward at Mach 1.8, the rapid acceleration pinning the pilot to his couch. In exactly one minute, the Fulcrum had covered thirty of the seventy-five miles to the Antonov-10.

“I have the target on High Lark,” the pilot reported, tracking the Antonov on his long distance radar. “Course two-seventy at fifty-five hundred. Distance to target forty-five.”

In the next minute and twenty seconds, the MiG-29 had closed to within five miles.

“I have visual contact,” the pilot reported. “Target is eighty degrees to starboard.”

The group in Deschin’s study smiled with relief.

“Target is five kilometers from international waters,” ground control reported. “Engage immediately. Repeat, engage immediately.”

The pilot reached to his console and flipped a row of switches. “Weapons systems on,” he reported.

“Three point five to international waters,” ground control prompted. “Fire when ready.”

The MiG’s radar maintained a continuously updated fix on the target. The pilot was watching the floating half circles on his fire control screen. They slowly moved together to form a glowing orange ring. A green dot suddenly popped on at its center.

“Missile systems aligned; Z.G indicator is lit, warheads locked on,” he reported when the dot appeared.

“One point five to international waters,” came the response in an urgent tone.

No one in the study moved.

“Fire dammit, fire,” Deschin prompted in a tense whisper.

The pilot positioned his thumb over the yellow button in the center of his joystick, and pressed it.

One of the AA-10 missiles dropped from the Fulcrum’s starboard pylon, came to life with a whoosh, and left an arrow-straight trail across the morning sky.

“Heat seeker launched,” the pilot reported coolly as he throttled back, putting the Fulcrum into a sharp turn to avoid the debris from the upcoming explosion.

Ten seconds later the missile darted into one of the Antonov’s port side turboprops, and exploded with a loud whomp. The plane went careening out of control across the sky until the fuel tanks blew. Then, it came apart like a smashed toy, and fell in a rain of bodies and debris into the Gulf of Finland.

“Target is destroyed,” the pilot reported.

The group in the dacha erupted with a cheer.

Melanie and Gorodin heard it in the corridor. Her shoulders sagged at the knowledge Andrew had been killed. The emptiness she felt was quickly replaced by determination — nothing was going to stop her from getting that package to the Embassy.

The doors to the study swung open, giving rise to a congratulatory rumble. Deschin, Tvardovskiy, and the KGB group, carrying their hats and raincoats, trooped out in an ebullient mood.

Tvardovskiy spotted Melanie and Gorodin, and leaned to Uzykin. “Who is that woman?”

“Her name’s Miss Winslow. She’s with an American dance company.”

Tvardovskiy glared at Deschin with alarm. “An American?” he asked in a sharp whisper.

“Yes, we’ve been discussing the possibility of—”

“She goes. Now!”

“She’s here as my guest. I’ll be the one who decides when she leaves.”

“As you’ve so often reminded me,” Tvardovskiy said pointedly, “internal security is my responsibility. And as far as I’m concerned, there shouldn’t be an American in Moscow, let alone in the home of a Politburo member, until the premiership is decided. She goes.”

It wasn’t an accident that the KGB chief failed to mention “candidate,” Deschin thought as he nodded in compliance. Forcing the issue would be dangerous. A tug of war over Melanie chanced revealing her identity.

Deschin turned from Tvardovskiy and approached her. “I’m sorry, Miss Winslow,” he said with formality, “but circumstances are such that I’ll have to postpone our exchange. I think it would be best if you left.”

“I see,” Melanie replied, following his lead, and hiding her relief at the sudden ease of it. Gorodin and Pasha would drop her at the hotel, and she’d be at the Embassy in no time. “I know everyone in the company will be disappointed,” she went on. “They’ve been looking forward to dancing for your audiences.”

“I said postponed, not cancelled,” he replied, catching her eye. “We’ve started something here, and I feel very strongly about it. I’m sure we’ll find a way to continue.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said with a smile, pleased at the hidden meaning. “I’ll do everything that I can to make certain we do.”

Deschin nodded knowingly.

“Thanks for everything. You’ve been a most gracious host,” she went on.

“Get Miss Winslow’s bag,” Deschin said to Uzykin.

“No,” she said too sharply, at the thought of him finding the package. “I’ll get it.”

She was turning to go when Deschin took her arm, stopping her. “It’s all right,” he said, dispatching Uzykin with a nod. Melanie shuddered with concern as the KGB guard hurried off. Deschin was still holding her arm. He felt the tremor run through her, then saw her hands tighten nervously into little fists. It was an odd reaction, he thought, abrupt and out of context. Something was terribly wrong. He questioned her with a look. She blinked nervously, and averted her eyes. And in that instant, in that fleeting display of vulnerability, Melanie unknowingly confirmed what Deschin suspected—she had the package of drawings.

Melanie forced a smile, and quickly regained her composure. Uzykin wouldn’t search her travel bag, she reasoned. Why would he suspect she had the package? It was blown up along with Andrew. She glanced back to Deschin, thinking, despite their intentions, she might never see him again. There were so many questions she didn’t get to ask. So much left unsaid between them. She longed to embrace him and whisper, “Goodbye, Father.” It was tearing her apart that she couldn’t. And after his veiled remarks, she expected to see the same longing in his eyes; but there was only distance now — a cold, ominous stare that told her he knew, told her she’d given herself away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she wondered what he’d do.

Deschin was doing the same. He had to find a way to get the package without revealing Melanie had it. To do otherwise would mean she would be caught spying red-handed, and charged with espionage. There’d be no explaining it away. Tvardovskiy would be ruthless. At best, she’d be sent to a KGB prison; at worst, she’d face a firing squad.

“Ah,” Deschin exclaimed, as an idea struck him. “There’s something you should take with you Miss Winslow.” He started down the corridor ahead of them and, calling back, added, “I’ll meet you all outside.”

She watched with trepidation as her father hurried off. Despite all she’d been through to find him, she’d have given anything to be out of there now, out of Russia.

Instead, the head of the KGB had just taken her arm, and was ushering her down the corridor behind Deschin, the group of agents in tow.

Deschin planned to intercept Uzykin, and search Melanie’s travel bag in private. But Uzykin was already crossing the entry hall with it when Deschin entered from the corridor.

“Put that in my car,” Tvardovskiy called out from behind them as he approached.

Melanie’s heart sank at the implication.

Uzykin nodded, continued through the entry hall, and out the door with the bag.

Deschin couldn’t possibly stop him. His mind searched frantically for an alternative plan, and found one. Instead of stopping Melanie, he’d allow her to leave, and have Gorodin intercept her after Tvardovskiy dropped her at her hotel and was long gone.

“Where is it you are staying?” Tvardovskiy asked in clumsy English as they joined Deschin.

“The Berlin,” Melanie replied.

“Ah, I know it well.”

I’ll bet, Melanie thought. “But I’d prefer to go to the US Embassy first,” she went on with as nonchalant an air as she could muster. “I have to report that we’re postponing the dance exchange.”

Tvardovskiy nodded agreeably.

Deschin shuddered, his mind reeling. There’d be no way to stop her at the Embassy. He’d have to wait until they left to brief Gorodin, which would make it impossible for him to get to the Embassy before they did. And even if Gorodin tailed them closely, Melanie would be out of the Chaika and inside the Embassy gates before Gorodin ever arrived.

Tvardovskiy saw the distant look in Deschin’s eyes. “Aleksei?” he said.

Deschin stared at him blankly.

“You were going to get something?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Deschin replied, coming out of it. He hurried off, forced to play out his charade, agonizing over the painful decision. His country stood on the brink of unchallenged nuclear superiority, of being in the position of ultimate power it had long sought but never enjoyed, a position of being able to actually make demands on the West. And Melanie stood in the way. The only way he could save it now was by sending his daughter to jail. If he didn’t, SLOW BURN would be finished and his chance at the premiership along with it.

Tvardovskiy led the group out of the dacha. Uzykin had put the bag in the Chaika’s trunk. The driver closed it as they approached, then opened the rear door of the car, and gestured Melanie to enter.

Melanie didn’t know what Deschin was up to, but under the circumstances she’d just as soon get the hell out of there before he reappeared. She glanced over her shoulder, dreading his return, then moved quickly to get into the Chaika when she didn’t see him. She had grasped the door frame, and had one foot on the sill when Deschin’s voice rang out.

“Just a minute, Miss Winslow,” he said sharply as he hurried out of the dacha.

Melanie froze, and turned slowly to face him.

He approached carrying a parcel, and handed it to her. His eyes locked onto hers for what seemed like an eternity before he flicked a little glance to the Chaika’s trunk. “Good luck,” he said.

She forced a smile, took a deep breath, and got into the car.

Tvardovskiy joined her.

The black sedan roared off.

The other KGB vehicles followed.

“Well, it’s done,” Gorodin said, relieved.

Deschin tightened his lips in a thin smile and watched the line of cars wind through the trees until they were out of sight.

Chapter Fifty-one

President Hilliard returned to the White House from his visit to Arlington Cemetery in a gloomy depression. That evening, he picked at a light dinner while watching a Marx Brothers movie in the White House screening room. It gave his spirits a short-lived boost. Now, he was in the Oval Office, nursing a bourbon, pondering the arms control situation.

It was 1:46 A.M. when the DCI called.

“Hello, Jake,” Hilliard said wearily. “What’s up?”

“Mission accomplished, sir.”

“Pardon me?” Hilliard replied cautiously.

“Station chief in Moscow reports full set of drawings on VLCC Kira in hand. Preliminary analysis identifies deployment site.”

“Geezus!” Hilliard exclaimed, the hair on the back of his neck springing to life.

A half hour ago, at 9:17 A.M. MOSCOW time, a Marine guard at the US Embassy ushered Melanie into the CIA station chief’s office with the package addressed to Boulton. The Chief notified the DCI immediately. He ordered that the package be pouched to Helsinki. The courier departed Moscow on Aeroflot INT-842 at 10:30 A.M., arriving at the Embassy just past noon. CIA personnel set up a digitized satellite transmission to Langley. By 6:32 A.M. EST, Boulton and the President were in the Oval Office staring at photocopies of the Kira drawings. The highly detailed plans revealed where and how the Soviet missiles were deployed.

“Theodor — you goddamn son of a bitch,” Boulton said bitterly, almost to himself.

The President nodded in agreement. “Right under our noses all along,” he said awestruck.

“Deployment site is nothing short of brilliant.”

“Sure as hell explains why we couldn’t find them. I owe you an apology, Jake.”

The following afternoon at United Nations Palace in Geneva, Soviet negotiator Mikhail Pykonen took his seat at the long table, fully convinced that the threat to SLOW BURN had been ended once and for all.

“Gentleman,” Keating began, “I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve been authorized to accept the Pykonen Proposal in full. However, before I take that action, I have one question for my Soviet counterpart. One which Germany’s deputy minister first put to President Hilliard and myself months ago.”

“Please,” Pykonen replied graciously, concealing contempt for what he assumed would be another delay.

Keating nodded and gestured to Pomerantz.

“Whatever happened to the Heron, sir?” she asked.

“The Heronl” Pykonen replied, trying not to sound surprised.

“That’s correct. Your SS-16A,” Keating replied.

“I’m quite familiar with the nomenclature, Mr. Keating. The program was discontinued fifteen years ago, as you very well know.”

“In other words, the system was never deployed.”

“I’d say that would be a reasonable conclusion,” Pykonen said, getting irritated. “Please, Mr. Keating, spare us the pain of further stalling tactics.”

“I’m forced to agree with Minister Pykonen,” another delegate replied.”

“Yes,” said a third. “Let’s get on with it, Keating. Unless you can prove what you’re inferring.”

“Oh, I can,” Keating replied, nodding to an aide. “But I’ll let you be the judge.”

The doors to the meeting room opened. A large-screen television was rolled in. The aide turned it on, then put a phone on the table next to Keating. He depressed the blinking button and lifted the receiver. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

All eyes turned to the television.

A sign that read—138—filled the screen.

“That transmission is coming via satellite—” Keating said with a dramatic pause.

The image started zooming back, revealing an offshore pumping station — Churchco 138. The camera was mounted in a helicopter that had been on the landing pad and was slowly lifting off.

“—live from the Gulf of Mexico,” he resumed.

The image continued widening to include the Kira. The supertanker was tied up at a floating offshore wharf. Massive hoses snaked over her side like huge aortas, filling her compartments with crude.

“About fifteen years ago,” Keating continued, “that supertanker, the VLCC Kira, was reoutfitted with a unique capability in Leningrad shipyards. And now, you’re going to see it in action.”

Captain Rublyov was on the Kira’s bridge. He saw the chopper circling, but thought nothing of it. They were always buzzing around the pumping stations. But he didn’t see the team of U.S. Navy divers who were brought in by helicopter the night before. Nor had he seen them at the far end of the massive wharf, in scuba gear and wet suits, as they slipped into the water a short time earlier. Two underwater television cameras that can virtually see in the dark were mounted on their sea sleds.

The television screen appeared to go blank for a moment. A school of pogies swam into view. The image had switched from helicopter to undersea camera.

The divers advanced toward the Kira on their underwater sleds.

The section of hull below the water — gradually became visible on the television screen.

The delegates gathered around it intently.

Soon, a hairline of light split the undersea darkness and began to widen. The Kira’s bulbous bow had cracked open on its centerline, like the halves of a gigantic mussel shell. The one-hundred-foot long sections slowly hinged apart, exposing the lower missile assembly deck— the deck which Lieutenant Jon Lowell never saw.

The Kira had been taking on crude for days. But missile deployment couldn’t commence until her holds were at least two thirds full to insure the hull was low enough in the water to be concealed when it opened.

The water rolled up into the massive bow cavity with a tumultuous gurgling, and engulfed a missile launching tube. A Soviet SS-16A Heron was sealed inside.

The tube was six feet in diameter and thirty feet long. The interior launch apparatus — though fitted with a self-contained steam generator and hi-band receiver for remote activation — was identical to those used on nuclear submarines. But the exterior had been substantially reinforced, and fitted with sharp-edged planes that spiraled around it from a pointed base, giving the launch tube the look of an undersea auger— which it was. It perched at the end of a hydraulic arm, like a gargantuan dentist’s drill.

The hydraulic arm was gyro-gimbaled to hold its position in the sea while it moved to the precise commands of a motion-control computer. Like a long-necked sea monster, it lowered the augered launch tube from the bowels of the ship into the water. Then it began bending at the elbow, bringing it into a vertical position beneath the Kira’s hull. When fully extended, it had positioned the augered tube’s drill point thirty feet above the floor of the Gulf.

In a control room in the Kira’s bow, technicians sat at instrument consoles monitoring the deployment. The chief missile technician evaluated the data, then pressed a button initiating phase two of the operation.

The hydraulic arm began telescoping downward in response. It stopped when the drill point pressed against the surface of the continental shelf eighty feet beneath the Kira’s hull.

Another signal started the augered tube turning slowly. The sharp blades began drilling a cylinder into the muddy sediment that, in this area, covers the Earth’s basalt mantle to depths of a hundred feet. Powerful air jets in the drill point helped loosen the ooze. High velocity vacuums on the hydraulic arm sucked up the debris to prevent it from surfacing.

Since being reoutfitted, the Kira had taken on crude from thirty-six Churchco offshore pumping stations. And each time, it left a Heron behind in the muddy sea bottom. The high concentration of metal created by the storage tanks and docking facilities was responsible for the missile base being virtually impervious to detection. The multispectral scanners and thermal and infrared sensors in KH-11 satellites would have immediately detected a concentration of metal in open sea — where there had been none before; but couldn’t detect a relatively minuscule addition to the high concentration already present at a drilling or pumping station — a concentration which tended to vary widely as tankers and support vessels arrived and departed, compounding the detection problem.

The delegates watched with growing astonishment as the augered launch tube gradually screwed its way into the sea bottom. When it was fully seated, the hydraulic arm disengaged, and began retracting into the Kira’s hull. The launch tube’s watertight hatch that explodes open on missile-launch was concealed beneath a soft mound of silt.

The delegates were aghast.

Keating let the impact register, then said, “Should one of those hatches become exposed, and be noticed — by maintenance divers for, example—this covered it.” He passed out copies of a Churchco memo which Boulton had procured. It was signed by Theodor Churcher, and authorized installation of underwater environmental control sensors that monitored seismic activity, and the chemical content of the seawater. The affixed specification sheet depicted a disc-shaped unit which looked exactly like a launch tube hatch.

“It’s a hoax,” Pykonen scoffed, gesturing to the television where the hull of the Kira could be seen slowly closing. “Totally lacking in credibility.”

“I agree, it is very hard to believe,” Keating replied. He exchanged smiles with Pomerantz, then leaning to the phone, said, “Quite a show, gentlemen. May we have verification now?”

Moments later, one of the Navy divers came into view. He swam toward the camera until his mask filled the television screen, then displayed a plastic-wrapped copy of the Communist party newspaper, Pravda.

“That’s today’s edition,” Keating said to the delegates. He looked to Pykonen, adding, “President Hilliard thought you’d find his selection of newspapers especially appropriate under the circumstances.” He didn’t have to remind Pykonen that Pravda means truth.

Chapter Fifty-two

The front-page headline of the International Tribune read:

Beneath it was a series of underwater photographs, that had been released by the Pentagon, of the VLCC Kira deploying the Heron.

The Soviet delegation had stormed out of the talks in protest the previous afternoon. Pykonen immediately called Moscow to report the devastating news. But the Politburo was in session, debating the merits of various candidates for the premiership and it took him longer than anticipated to get through the Vertushka. He spent the evening on the phone with Gromyko and Dobrynin, working out the official Soviet position.

The arms control talks had been indefinitely suspended in the interim, and the following morning, Pykonen faced a swarm of reporters at Cointrin Airport, prior to his boarding a flight to Moscow.

“The Soviet Union officially and categorically denies the false accusations brought by the American delegation,” Pykonen said through his interpreter.

“The evidence seems irrefutable, sir,” one of the reporters prodded. “How do you account for it?”

The interpreter was still translating the question when Pykonen interrupted in English. “Soviet film experts are in agreement that state of the art special effects techniques and electronic trickery were used to create this underhanded deception,” he replied angrily. “Be advised, my government has no doubt this is but another example of Washington involving Hollywood in foreign policy matters. Evidently, Mr. Keating, and those he represents, never believed that the Soviet Union would negotiate in good faith, and when suddenly faced with our sincerity and openness, they employed these purveyors of smut and violence to undermine the talks. We note this was accomplished with the assistance of the Republic of Germany, and we condemn this despicable attempt to embarrass our nation. It is most deplorable, especially at this time when the Soviet people are still mourning the tragic loss of a beloved leader.”

The Aeroflot Ilyushin 62M with Pykonen aboard had just taken off when the Politburo — stung by the loss of the nuclear superiority SLOW BURN had promised, and freed from the political constraints it had imposed — bypassed Aleksei Deschin and selected Nikolai Tikhonov as the new Premier.

A short time later, in another section of the terminal, Phil Keating entered a Lufthansa VIP lounge, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Good morning,” he said, approaching Pomerantz, who was standing thoughtfully at one of the huge windows.

“Good morning, Philip. What beautiful flowers,” she replied as she turned, and he set them in her arms.

“It’s the least I can do,” he replied. “We’d have never gotten onto the trail of the Heron if it weren’t for you. You more than earned them.”

“You never gave me the chance,” she teased, eyeing him flirtatiously.

“I came close.”

“Well, I haven’t given up on you, Keating,” she said spiritedly. “Though, we’ll probably both be in rocking chairs by the time I pull it off.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Keating said with a grin. “I spent an entire weekend in a rocker once.”

“And?” she asked intrigued.

“Beth got pregnant, and I spent a month in traction.”

Pomerantz was laughing when the last call for her flight was announced. “That’s me, Philip.”

“We stung ’em pretty good, didn’t we?” he said as he escorted her to the gate.

“Yes, but they always come back for more.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Oh, they will — and I’ll be here.”

“So will I.”

“I have a wonderful antique rocker at home. I’ll make sure I bring it along.” She kissed his cheek, then turned and hurried down the boarding ramp.

All three network news programs opened with the story of Nikolai Tikhonov’s ascendancy. President Hilliard leaned back in his chair thinking chances for an arms control agreement before the end of his term were nonexistent now. In light of the humiliating events in Geneva, the elderly Soviet Premier, and the older oligarchies who advised him, would undoubtedly revert to cold war paranoia, and back away from disarmament. The President was in a morose mood when Boulton entered the Oval Office.

“Tikhonov — very unsteady at swearing in ceremonies,” the DCI reported. “Advanced emphysema.”

“Prognosis?” Hilliard asked in a hopeful tone.

“He’ll be gone within a year.”

“So will I,” Hilliard said glumly, referring to his term. He was thinking a quick change in regimes might give him another chance for an arms control agreement.

“NATO wanted a draw,” Boulton said encouragingly, seeing his disappointment. “You gave it to them.”

“Not the one I wanted, Jake.”

“Can’t win them all, sir.”

“I can try,” the President said firmly.

There’d be no presidential library fund-raisers, no rush to publish memoirs after his term in office, he vowed. Not until the job was done. Not until nuclear disarmament was achieved. He’d be out of the White House, but he’d still be in the thick of it. The political wags on the Hill wouldn’t have to wonder how private citizen Jim Hilliard was spending his time. Jennings would tell them on the evening news.

That afternoon, he went for a walk in Arlington. He placed some fresh flowers at the base of his wife’s headstone, and straightened them just so.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

Lieutenant Jon Lowell was brought directly to CIA headquarters at Langley for further debriefing. Boulton offered him a job during the course of it, and Lowell accepted. It wasn’t a difficult decision; flying ASW would never be the same without Arnsbarger. Before leaving, Lowell requested a moment alone with the DCI. Boulton knew what was on his mind. He’d been thinking about it, too, and agreed when Lowell proposed it.

Cissy and her son were out back picking oranges when Lowell arrived. Cissy rushed right into his arms, her eyes brimming with tears. The kid kept a few steps distance, taking it all in with a forlorn sadness.

“He died in the service of his country,” Lowell said softly, hugging her.

“I never believed he didn’t,” Cissy said, her face brightening. “I miss him so much.”

“So do I, Cissy,” Lowell replied solemnly. “He gave his life to save mine. They would have killed us both if he hadn’t.”

She leaned back from Lowell and stared at him for a moment, the impact of his words registering. “He thought the world of you, Jon.”

“I’ll never have another friend like him.”

“You know,” she began, her voice cracking with emotion, “there’s something about him just being gone like that, lost at sea. It’s so much harder to accept. I mean, every time the phone rings I get this feeling that maybe, just maybe—” She paused, choking up, a steady stream of tears rolling down her face.

“I know,” Lowell said compassionately, running his hand over her hair to calm her. “We talked that night. He told me he was going to marry you,” he went on, bending the truth for her sake.

An appreciative smile brightened Cissy’s sad face. She rubbed some tears from her eyes, then looked to her son sympathetically, and put a hand on his shoulder. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, and hugged her.

Lowell mussed his hair.

“How’re you doing, tiger?”

The kid shrugged. Then, his face sort of peered out from behind Cissy’s skirt and screwed up with a question, the way children’s faces do before they ask them. “This mean he was a hero?”

“Yes,” Lowell replied softly, crouching down so that they were eye to eye. “He was a hero.”

Valery Gorodin’s membership in nomenklatura was not to be. Instead, he was assigned to Military Department 35576—the GRU’s spy school on Militia Street in Moscow. For several weeks now, he’d been teaching the Soviet Union’s best and brightest what he knew how to do better than most — screw the KGB. He and Pasha met at Lastochka for dinner once a week.

“How’s it going?” Pasha asked.

“Boring. What makes you think this week would be any better than last?”

“Well,” Pasha replied in a tantalizing tone, “a GRU courier handles many sensitive documents.”

“And?”

“Tell me, does your first name end in IE or Y?”

“Very funny. Y, you know that. Why do you ask?”

“If my memory serves me correctly, I recall seeing a document this morning mentioning that the GRU rezident at our UN Mission is being called back. It seems the poor fellow is unable to cope with his KGB counterpart.”

Gorodin leaned across the table, burning with curiosity. “You saw the official list of candidates?”

“Of course not,” Pasha replied, as if it was beneath him. Then, eyes twinkling mischievously, he added, “I saw the official recommendation.’’

Aleksei Deschin’s dream of becoming Premier ended with SLOW BURN. He took comfort in the knowledge that it was Tvardovskiy who drove Melanie to the U.S. Embassy that morning, and every time since then, whenever Deschin saw the KGB chief, he smiled, savoring the irony of it.

Tvardovskiy had no inkling as to why, and always felt a perplexing uneasiness.

A few weeks had passed when Tvardovskiy arrived at the Cultural Ministry to discuss security for an exhibition of works from the Hermitage and Pushkin museums, scheduled to tour the United States.

“Good morning, Sergei,” Deschin said with the unnerving little smile.

“Aleksei,” the KGB chief replied, checking his fly.

Deschin handed him a list of personnel who would travel with the exhibit, and required clearances.

Tvardovskiy perused it for a moment. “There don’t seem to be any problems,” he said, pausing briefly before adding, “I see you’ve decided to make the trip.”

“Yes, the Metropolitan was adamant that I supervise the installation,” Deschin replied.

“Aghhh, New York is a horrid city.”

“True,” Deschin said philosophically, “but once you give life to something, Sergei — Well, you know how it is—” He splayed his hands, letting the sentence trail off.

In the weeks since she’d returned from Moscow, Melanie Winslow had gone back to the dance company and thrown herself into choreographing routines with renewed vigor. Indeed, the parcel Deschin had given her contained the old photo album, and the snapshots of her grandmother dancing were the source of Melanie’s inspiration.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon as she got out of a taxi in front of her building. Gramercy Park was alive with children and nannies pushing carriages. A few joggers were running laps outside the fence.

Melanie had spent the morning at the theater and the afternoon at Bloomingdale’s. She entered her lobby carrying a shopping bag, and paused to check for mail. There were a few pieces in her box. She shuffled through them and came upon a folded note.

Her heart pounded at the handwritten message.

She dashed from the building, crossing the street toward the gate at the north end of the Park. Her eyes searched for him in the spaces between the cast iron pickets as she ran. Her hand was shaking, and she could hardly get the key into the lock. She swung the gate open and, not taking the time to close it, dashed down the gravel path. He was talking to a scruffy six-year-old when she saw him. She froze in her tracks. Then she let out a joyful cry, and started running toward him.

Andrew heard the shout, and turned just as she ran into his arms. They clung to each other with crushing force. Finally, Melanie leaned back, staring at his face, as if making sure she hadn’t accosted a stranger.

“It was my father,” Andrew replied to the question in her eyes. “He’s the one who hijacked that plane.” Andrew took a deep breath, reflecting on the day he’d returned to Houston and discovered his father wasn’t at Chappell Hill, as he’d expected. When McKendrick told him about Churcher leaving the train, Andrew pieced it together.

“I’m real sorry, Drew,” McKendrick had said.

“Me, too,” Andrew replied sadly. “But it’s fitting, in its way. He would have been devastated by the disgrace—” He let the sentence trail off, and lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

“He paid his debt, son,” McKendrick said spiritedly, and, forcing past it, added, “now, as he’d say, let’s get to business. Churchco’s got eleven companies, seventy-two thousand employees, and no boss. You think you’re up to it?”

Andrew thought for a moment and nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said with a quiet determination that confirmed it. “But there’s someone I have to see first.”

“Ahhh,” McKendrick said knowingly. “You slipped into one of those flesh-crazed madonnas after all.”

Andrew smiled shyly, and shook no.

“A special one?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Andrew replied.

Melanie stood in the park, hugging the breath out of him now. “I still can’t believe it,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.

“Neither can I,” Andrew replied. “I mean, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my father. He really outsmarted them,” Andrew went on with a reflective smile. “He knew the Russians were certain they’d killed him, and would assume I had hijacked that plane.”

“How’d you get out of the country?”

“I drove to Helsinki. Once they thought I was dead, they stopped looking for me. Funny,” he went on reflectively, “the last thing my father said to me was, ‘Good luck, son. I’m with you.’ I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but now I—” Andrew paused and shrugged, his eyes filling at the recollection. “You know,” he resumed, trying to maintain his composure, “he wasn’t the type who could let his emotions show. I mean, I don’t think he ever said — ever said that he loved me. But—” Andrew bit a lip and gently leaned his forehead against hers as the feelings welled up from deep inside.

Melanie kissed his cheek and embraced him comfortingly.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the sun dropping behind the buildings, sending long shadows across the grass.

“But he did,” Andrew finally whispered.

“So do I,” she said softly.