by Greg Dinallo
“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 viol
ated, 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.
