Rockets' Red Glare (29 page)

“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:

Moscow, April 6, 1987

Dear Minister Deschin,

Though I’m often told I inherited my mother’s spirit, I’m afraid I wasn’t as fortunate when it came to her gift for expression. So, I will let her words speak for both of us. Suffice to say, I am in Moscow at the Hotel Berlin, and want very, very much to meet you.

Your daughter,

Melanie

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:

Minister Aleksei Deschin

Ministry of Culture

10 Kuybysheva Street, Moscow

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:

TOP SECRET

FLASH PRIORITY

Z114604ZAPR

FR: USS FINBACK

TO: ASW PENSACOLA

VIKING BLEW UP IN MIDAIR. TWO CREWMEN EJECTED.

TAKEN ABOARD KIRA. FINBACK WILL CONTINUE TRACKING.

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.

* * * * * *