Aces Abroad

I.

The month of April brought little in the way of relief to Muscovites staggered by an unusually cold winter. Following a brief flurry of southern breezes, which sent boys into the newly green football fields and encouraged pretty girls to discard their overcoats, the skies had darkened again, and a dreary, uninspired rain had begun to fall. To Polyakov the scene was autumnal and therefore entirely, appropriate. His masters, bending in the new breeze from the Kremlin, had decreed that this would be Polyakov's last Moscow spring. The younger, less-tainted Yurchenko would move up, and Polyakov would retire to a dacha far from Moscow.

Just as well, Polyakov thought, since scientists were saying that weather patterns had changed because of the Siberian airbursts. There might never be a decent Moscow spring again.

Nevertheless, even in its autumn clothes Moscow had the ability to inspire him: From this window he could see the cluster of trees where the Moscow River skirted Gorky Park, and beyond that, looking appropriately medieval in the mist, were the domes of St. Basil's and the Kremlin. In Polyakov's mind age equalled power, but then he was old.

"You wanted to see me?" The voice interrupted his musings. A young major in the uniform of the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff-uncommonly known as the GRU-had entered. He was perhaps thirty-five, a bit old to still hold the rank of major, Polyakov thought, especially with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal. With his classic White Russian features and sandy hair, the man looked like one of those unlikely officers whose pictures appeared on the cover of Red Star every day.

"Molniya." Polyakov elected to use the young officer's code name rather than Christian name and patronymic. Initial formality was one of the interrogator's tricks. He held out his hand. The major hesitated, then shook it. Polyakov was pleased to note that Molniya wore black rubber gloves. So far his information was correct. "Let's sit down."

They faced each other across the polished wood of the conference table. Someone had thoughtfully provided water, which Polyakov indicated. "You have a very pleasant conference room here."

"I'm sure it hardly compares with those at Dzerzhinsky Square," Molniya shot back with just the proper amount of insolence. Dzerzhinsky Square was the location of KGB headquarters.

Polyakov laughed. "As a matter of fact it's identical, thanks to central planning. Gorbachev is doing away with that, I understand."

"We've been known to read the Politburo's mail too,"

"Good. Then you know exactly why I'm here and who sent me."

Molniya and the GRU had been ordered to cooperate with the KGB, and the orders came from the very highest places. That was the slim advantage Polyakov brought to this meeting… an advantage that, as the saying went, had all the weight of words written on water… since he was an old man and Molniya was the great Soviet ace.

"Do you know the name Huntington Sheldon?" Molniya knew he was being tested and said tiredly, "He was CIA director from 1966 to