Mirror Image

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Several hours before reaching the coast of Russia, Peggy James and David George got twenty seven minutes to taste the clean morning air of the Gulf of Finland. Then they reentered the mini-sub and undertook the second half of their journey. It was less than Peggy had wanted, but enough to keep her going.

An hour before reaching the coast of Russia, Captain Rydman lowered himself from his perch in the con and squatted in the narrow space between the hull and his passengers. Both Peggy and George had already checked their gear in the waterproof rucksacks and were struggling into their Russian uniforms. George looked away as Peggy wriggled into her blue skirt. Rydman did not.

After she finished, Rydman flipped open a twelve-by-fourteen-by-six-inch black metal box on the hull to the left of his head, then whispered, "When we surface, I'll give you sixty seconds to release the raft. You do that by tugging this pin." He hooked his finger through a ring attached to a nylon string, then pointed to the paddles on the top and bottom of the compressed raft. "These unfold in the middle. The raft has Russian markings that coincide with your documents," he said, "indicating that you're with the Argus-class submarine group operating out of Koporskiy Zaliv. I believe you've been briefed about this."

"Briefly," said George.

"How do you say that in Russian?" Peggy asked.

George squinted as he thought. "Myedlyenna, " he said, triumphantly.

"That means slowly," she said, "but it's close enough. Captain," she looked at Rydman, "why just sixty seconds? Don't you have to replenish your air and batteries?"

"We can run another hour on them… enough time to get us out of Russian waters. Now then, I suggest you give your maps another look. Memorize the area nearest your drop-off point."

Peggy said, "Petergofskoye Shosse runs past the park. We follow it east to Prospekt Stachek, head north to the river, and the Hermitage is to the east."

"Very good," said Rydman. "And you know about the workers, of course."

She looked at him. "No. What workers?"

"It was in the newspapers, for God's sake. Several thousand workers are scheduled to assemble in Palace Square tonight to mark the beginning of a twenty-four-hour nationwide strike. It was announced yesterday, called by the Russian Federation of Free Trade Unions to obtain back wages and salary and pension increases for its workers. They're holding it at night so as not to frighten away tourists."

"No," she said. "We didn't know about it. Our myopic organizations can tell you what President Zhanin read in the loo, but they don't follow the news."

"Unless that's what he was reading," George pointed out.

"Thank you, Captain," Peggy said. "I appreciate all you've done for us."

Rydman nodded once, then shimmied back into the con to guide the midget submarine through the last leg of its journey.

Peggy and George were silent again as the submarine hummed through the deep. The English agent tried to decide whether having thousands of civilians and police gathered at the target site would help or hinder the process of getting inside. Help, she decided. The police would be too busy keeping irate Russian workers in line to bother with a pair of Russian sailors.

The departure from the submarine was accomplished quickly. After using the periscope to ascertain that there were no boats nearby, the submarine broke the surface. Rydman quietly unscrewed the hatch, and Peggy climbed through. They were about a half mile from shore, and the air was thick with a dirty layer of smog. She doubted that anyone could see them, even if they'd been watching, as George handed her the surprisingly heavy rubber package. Still standing in the con, she hooked her finger through the ring and tossed the raft overboard. It was fully inflated when it hit the water. Her arms braced stiffly on the sides of the con, Peggy tucked her knees to her chest, brought her legs out, stood poised for a moment on the sloping side of the minisub, then stepped into the raft. George followed a moment later with the paddles. He passed them down to Peggy, then handed her their rucksacks and joined her in the raft.

"Good luck," Rydman said, poking his head from the con for a moment before shutting the hatch.

The midget submarine was gone less than two minutes after breaking the surface, leaving Peggy and George alone on the gentle waters.

They didn't speak as they paddled ashore, Peggy watching for the distinctive stiletto-like peninsula that marked the northern boundary of the large cove that bordered the park.

The current was with them and they paddled rapidly in order to stay warm. The icy winds slashed right through the jackets of their uniforms, with their plunging V-necks and thin, blue-and white-striped T-shirts beneath them. Even the tight blue headbands of their white caps were barely strong enough to hold them on their heads.

The duo made it to shore in slightly over forty-five minutes. They arrived in a park that was relatively deserted where it met the chilly shore. Private George used the towline to secure the raft to one of several piles. While hitching on her backpack, Peggy complained loudly, in Russian, about having to check naval buoys when it was so chilly. As she did, she looked around. The nearest person was some two hundred yards away, an artist sitting in a collapsible lawn chair, beneath a tree, drawing a charcoal portrait of a blond-haired tourist while her boyfriend looked on approvingly. The woman was looking in their direction. But if she saw them she didn't react. A militiaman walked along a shaded footpath a few yards beyond them, while a bearded man napped on a bench, a Walkman on his chest and a St. Bernard resting on the grass beside him. A jogger ran past the artist. Peggy had never thought of runners or anyone else having leisure time in Russia. It seemed an odd sight.

Less than two miles to the south of the park, planes were landing regularly in the St. Petersburg airport. The roar of the engines disturbed the tranquility of the setting. But that was the paradox of Russia, the brutish rudeness of the modem day allowed to smother the beauty of the old. She looked north, toward the city itself. Through the filmy sky she saw the array of blue domes, gold domes, white cupolas, gothic spires, bronze statues, winding waterways and canals, and countless flat, brown roofs. It was more like Venice or Florence than like London or Paris. Keith must have loved coming here.

Private George completed his task and walked over after pulling on his backpack. "Ready," he said softly.

Peggy looked toward the broad Petergofskoye Shosse, less than half a mile away. According to the map, if they followed the road east, they would reach the Metro station. A change at the Technological Institute Station would bring them right to the Hermitage.

As they set out, Peggy chattered in Russian about the condition of the buoys and how the maps showing the currents required updating.

The man on the bench watched them go. Without moving his hands, which were folded on his belly, he spoke into the thin wire hidden in his shaggy beard.

"This is Ronash," he said. "Two sailors have just come ashore at the park and left their raft. Both are wearing backpacks and walking east."

Breathing deeply, Rossky's undercover operative turned his eyes back toward the beautiful Finnish girl and decided that on his next stakeout he would most definitely be an artist.