Amy took out her camera and took several pictures, making sure that at least one of them included Joe. He rolled the car forward to pick her up and they drove back to the main road.
“No problem, no problem at all,” he said contentedly.
Neither of them spoke again until they reached Scottsboro, where they checked into another hotel, this time as brother and sister.
The long drive back to Washington consumed most of Sunday, and by the time Amy reached her apartment she wanted nothing more than an early night. She stepped out of the elevator to find Richard sitting against the wall by her door, obviously drunk.
“The lady no longer vanishes,” he said solemnly, pulling himself to his feet.
“The lady’s tired,” she said, more kindly than she felt.
“Then let’s go to bed,” he said, following her into the apartment and half-collapsing into an armchair.
She looked at him. He wasn’t given to drinking, at least not to this extent.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting down in the other chair. She knew he wanted her to make some physical gesture, but for some reason the thought of touching him filled her with revulsion.
“Nothing’s the matter. I’ve been celebrating. Why don’t you keep anything to drink?” he asked, looking around wildly.
“Stop playing the drunk,” she said acidly, “it’s not your style. I’ll make some coffee.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “I said I’ve been celebrating,” he said. “Don’t you want to know what I’m celebrating?”
“Enlighten me.” She sighed inwardly. Were all men in their late thirties just larger adolescents? “Has Jean kicked you out?” she guessed.
He laughed. “Oh no, it’s much worse than that. She’s pregnant. She’s locked me in,” he said, as if he was shocked by the discovery.
Amy had difficulty restraining the impulse to throw the coffee at him. “I suppose you had nothing to do with it,” she said, brushing past him as she carried the cups into the living room.
He almost ran after her, and for a second she thought he was going to hit her. But his face relaxed and he sank back into the chair. Poor Richard, she thought, you can’t even make it as a full-fledged bastard.
They sat for several minutes in silence. There had been a time, she thought, when this would have mattered to her, a time when she’d even flirted with the idea of giving up everything for him. It hadn’t been for long, just a couple of weeks after they’d come together, when his kindness – and, she had to admit, his imagination in bed – had concealed his lack of character. But the romantic glow had soon disappeared as if it had never been, and she had settled for the sex, safe in the knowledge that Richard had nothing else to offer. Now she just wanted to be rid of him.
“Can I stay tonight?” he asked without looking up.
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked angrily.
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Amy, I love you. I—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know the meaning of the word.” She felt angry, angrier than she wanted to be. She ought to be showing him that she didn’t gave a damn about Jean’s pregnancy.
It was too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Look, I’ll sort it out. I do love you. I don’t love her. It’s as—”
“No – no – no,” she shouted. He looked at her with astonishment. “Richard,” she said, her eyes closed, her fists clenched on her thighs, “will you just go?”
He didn’t move. “Look, I’ve said I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Just go.”
“Is there someone else?”
“What?” She couldn’t believe it.
“You heard.”
She laughed. “You come here, tell me you’ve gotten your wife pregnant, and then ask me if there’s someone else?”
“Is there? I need to know.” He was looking straight at her, his voice completely calm. He might have been asking someone the time. She suddenly realized that he was holding himself together only by a thread.
“No,” she said softly. “Satisfied?”
He smiled, an utterly meaningless smile. “Of course.” He looked at his watch. “Time I was getting back,” he said, and without another word walked out of Amy’s apartment.
Six
Kuznetsky lowered himself through the hatch and dropped nimbly onto American territory. After almost four days in the air, frequently punctuated by stops at godforsaken airstrips in the middle of the Siberian wilderness, his mind felt like running a hundred-yard sprint, his body like collapsing in an exhausted heap. He compromised, leaning against the Antonov’s wing and surveying the Alaskan landscape.
For a minute he thought they’d landed at the wrong location, then remembered what he’d been told about Ladd Field, that it was built underground. Above ground there were only the gaunt hangars and a few offices, and it was to one of these that the pilot led him. Inside, a flight of stairs led down into a brightly lit tunnel. “It’s five miles long, in a circle,” Brelikov told him. He tried to look suitably impressed.
“Welcome home, Jack,” he murmured to himself as Brelikov led him along the tunnel toward the Soviet pilots’ mess.
It was hard to believe they were in America; the only non-Russian speakers were conversing in Uzbek. The mess hall was crowded with fifty or so Soviet pilots, most of them washing down hamburgers with bottles of Coca-Cola. Kuznetsky asked an officer the way to Anisimov’s office, and was coldly pointed farther down the tunnel. The local boss was apparently not popular with the masses.
It didn’t take Kuznetsky long to understand why. Alexei Anisimov, the Soviet head of the Lend-Lease Purchasing Commission, was a prime example of a particular NKVD stereotype – slightly built, elegant, with a supercilious air and an ascetic’s face. He was probably younger than Kuznetsky, but the way he said “Welcome, Colonel” was nicely judged to emphasize his superior rank. Kuznetsky replied in kind, passing over his First Priority credentials with a condescending smile and making himself comfortable in the seat he hadn’t yet been offered.
“Yes, Colonel,” Anisimov said, offering him an American cigarette and lighting it with a contraption bearing a portrait of Mickey Mouse. “I cannot see any difficulties. I have of course been given advance warning of your requirements, but there is really nothing to it. We’ve been sending men into the United States for three years now without any trouble. They just hop off the plane at the Lend-Lease staging post in Great Falls, Montana, and catch a taxi to the railway station. No one has ever been stopped.” He smiled contemptuously and carefully scraped the ash from his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray. “I sometimes think we could land a platoon of T-34s and they’d be halfway to Washington before the Americans delivered a mild protest.”
Then any fool could do your job, Kuznetsky thought. But there was no point in antagonizing Anisimov, no point at all. “What about the return journey?” he asked. “There’s still no inspection of outbound planes?”
“None whatsoever. Well, there was one incident in January. The American in charge at Great Falls, Major Jordan, took it into his head one night to inspect one load, and he found quite a lot of … well, to call it diplomatic baggage was stretching the usual meaning of the term. Jordan was quite upset. He raced off to Washington and kicked up a fuss. Nobody took any notice of him. In fact we received an apology from the State Department, here …” He pointed out a framed letter on the wall behind him. “Since then, no more inspections. We could probably bring out the Statue of Liberty.”
Kuznetsky was glad that he’d already heard much the same in Moscow; Anisimov’s complacency wouldn’t have been very convincing on its own. Still, everything seemed okay.
“This First Priority business,” Anisimov said cordially, “it must be of extraordinary importance.”
“It is. I regret that I can tell you no more. Now I would like to get some sleep …”
Anisimov hid his disappoin
tment well. “Of course. You’ll be on a plane at ten in the morning, if that is satisfactory?”
Kuznetsky nodded.
Kuznetsky might have been tired, but sleep refused to come. He hadn’t found it easy to fall asleep since leaving the forest. And Nadezhda. He’d had no idea how much he’d miss her; he still didn’t understand it. Little things, like the way she put her hand on his shoulder and leaned against him …
In Moscow there hadn’t been time to think. For two weeks he’d been submerged in the affairs of his native country, memorizing political events, reading newspapers, watching Hollywood movies, reading radio scripts and comics. “Smooching” was the new dating game. “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty” was what the “drools” were saying to the “meatballs.” In Florida they’d just built a drive-in church; the congregation listened through huge loudspeakers and honked their car horns, once for “amen” and twice for “hallelujah.” Everyone was worried about Roosevelt’s health, and the whole country had gone mad on vitamins. Most of the top baseball stars had been drafted and basketball had suddenly become popular. There was a national shortage of bobby pins!
If Nadezhda had a bobby pin, she’d probably stick it in a German. But after the war … he’d get her one, shortage or no shortage, a piece of America for his girl …
He was awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Comrade Anisimov wants you,” a voice said. He opened his eyes and saw the man who’d shown him to his room. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“I believe it’s urgent, Comrade Colonel.”
“That’s why I said minutes.”
The messenger retreated. Kuznetsky looked at himself in the minuscule mirror above the washbasin. He’d shave first, if only to keep Anisimov waiting. No, he wasn’t worth it. Why was he feeling so petty?
There was another colonel in Anisimov’s office whom Kuznetsky knew by name but not by sight. Colonel Kotikov was nominally in charge of the Soviet operation at Great Falls, though the real authority lay with Anisimov’s NKVD surrogate, one Sergeant Vinogradsky. Kotikov was almost Anisimov’s opposite in appearance – a big burly man with a wide smile; in years gone by he’d have been a prosperous Ukrainian kulak. Kuznetsky could see that he’d get on with the Americans, who’d fall for the hearty exterior and put down the bullying side to language difficulties. A real Russian, they’d think. Our gallant allies! Anisimov, on the other hand, would seem like a well-bred snake wherever you put him. These tunnels seemed ideal.
He did not, however, look so disgustingly self-possessed as he had the previous night. “We have a problem, Colonel,” he explained between taking jerky puffs on his cigarette. “Colonel Kotikov will explain,” he added, in a tone that implied his own blamelessness.
Kotikov shook hands with Kuznetsky and leaned back wearily in his seat. “I left Great Falls on Friday evening,” he said. “I’m afraid the Americans have had another brainstorm. Comrade Anisimov tells me that you have already been informed of the nonexistent security … Well, three days ago there was a meeting at the State Department in Washington. The FBI, Military Intelligence, Customs, everyone. They intend to call a meeting with our embassy people and to inform them that in future the border and customs regulations regarding us will be strictly enforced.”
Kuznetsky looked at Anisimov, who looked at the ceiling. “Of course this may be nothing but words,” he said stiffly. He obviously found the whole business thoroughly embarrassing.
“That may be,” Kotikov continued unperturbed, “and what the Americans know about security could be written on the edge of a kopek … but I have expected this for some time. Ever since the January episode. And since Jordan left, the atmosphere has changed considerably. On Friday the new liaison man made a point of showing me around the rooms reserved for the new inspection unit. Sooner or later the bastards are going to start checking everyone and everything going out. It may be later, but I don’t think we can depend on that.”
“No,” Kuznetsky said thoughtfully. “How about entry? Will I have any trouble getting in?”
“Nothing is certain, but I will be very surprised if the Americans act that fast.”
“Very well.” He turned to Anisimov. “I presume you have already written a full report for Moscow. It must go direct to Comrade Sheslakov at Frunze Street, First Priority, and as fast as is humanly possible. I shall go in as planned.”
The flight to Great Falls took the best part of two days, each stretch of mountain or tundra culminating in an hour spent stretching his limbs at some small settlement airstrip. The American pilot fed the guardians of these lonely outposts with conversation, and Kuznetsky walked around examining the pinups of Betty Grable and listening to the vast Canadian silence. As far as the pilot knew, he spoke no English, and as such was treated as no more than a mobile piece of cargo whom it was necessary to feed but not to recognize as a fellow human being.
Great Falls was sighted soon after nine on Wednesday morning, a small but sprawling town where rivers and railroads converged. The airstrip, Gore Field, was perched high above the town on a plateau. Alongside the one lengthy runway Kuznetsky could see scores of fighters awaiting delivery to the Soviet Union, each one already adorned with its gleaming red stars.
He was met by Colonel Kotikov’s wife, a petite, nervous-looking woman in her mid-thirties whom Kuznetsky would have thought more suited to Anisimov. She took him to the living quarters above her husband’s office, provided a welcome breakfast, and left him to eat it in peace. He’d not yet seen an American, much less been challenged by one.
She came back as he was finishing his coffee, poured him another cup, sat down. “I suggest we make the switch between here and the station,” she said. “I have a suitcase full of American clothes” – she pointed it out – “and there’s an eastbound train at five this evening. You have to change several times, but it’s all written out here. In English.”
He inspected the paper. Minot, Fargo, Minneapolis. Familiar names.
“There’s some newspapers here,” she said. “Out of date of course. And there’s the radio. Jack Benny’s on at eleven. He makes $17,000 a program,” she said wistfully. “Of course,” she added quickly, “after the war our radio will be just as good.”
“I doubt it,” Kuznetsky said calmly. “There are some things Americans do well. Fortunately they’re mostly things that don’t matter very much.”
“I’ll leave you to rest then,” she said, reverting to her nervous expression. She wasn’t sure how to deal with this man. She wasn’t even sure which nationality he really was.
“Thank you,” he called after her.
* * *
At four they drove out of the airfield and down toward the town. The American guards on the gate merely saluted, and halfway down the mountain they stopped for Kuznetsky to change clothes. Kotikov’s wife left him waiting at the station, sitting on his suitcase, leaning against the wall of the depot. The train was late, only an hour the clerk said, but Kuznetsky doubted it. He took out the copy of The Grapes of Wrath that he’d found and pocketed in the plane from Fairbanks. He’d never heard of the writer, but he’d just seen the film in Moscow and been grudgingly impressed.
A car turned into the station yard and two men got out. One pointed in his direction, and they walked slowly across until they were standing looking down at him. “What’s your name?” one barked out in Russian.
“Uh?” Kuznetsky said, shielding his eyes against the sun as he looked up at them. “I don’t get your drift, fella.”
They looked at each other. The dapper-looking one smiled at him. “You’re not a Russian, then?” he asked innocently.
“You a coupla smart guys? What’s the game?”
The bulky one intervened. “Maybe we’ve made a mistake, mister. Do you have any means of identification?”
“No. Yes. Driver’s license.” He pulled the card from his inside pocket.
“Jack Tillotson. St. Cloud, Minnesota. Is that where you’re heading
?”
Kuznetsky showed him the ticket. “Who are you?” he asked. “Cops?”
“Something like that.”
He snatched the ticket back. “Hey, this is a free country. Who the hell are you?”
The bulky one showed him a card. Military Intelligence.
“Okay. Why pick on me?”
The dapper one smiled again. “Because you left Gore Field with the Russian chief’s wife, that’s why, Mr. Tillotson. Or is it Tillotsky?”
“You’re crazy. I’m as American as you are.”
“So how come you seem so cozy with the Russians?”
“She gave me a lift, that’s all. I didn’t know she was Russian till I got in the car. They’re our allies, aren’t they?”
“Sure. How did you come to be up there?”
“I got a lift from Edmonton on a plane. One of the pilots is a friend of mine.”
“Name?”
“Bob Simpson.” Kuznetsky hoped that Simpson was on his way back to Fairbanks by this time. “Check at the airfield.”
“What were you doing in Edmonton?”
“Visiting my sister. She married an oilman – they’re prospecting up there.”
“Close family, eh.”
“Something wrong with that?”
“No. Would you mind if we checked your suitcase?”
“Would it make any difference if I did?”
“Nope.”
They rummaged through the clothes, found nothing, and asked him to turn out his pockets. Kuznetsky blessed the inspiration that had told him to destroy Kolikova’s note.
The bulky one looked relieved, the dapper one chagrined. “Okay, Mr. Tillotson, sorry to have troubled you. There’s been a lot of Russians slipping into the U.S. of A. with trouble in mind. We have to be careful.”
“Okay,” Kuznetsky said, “sorry I got a bit ticked.”
The Red Eagles Page 10
