by Greg Dinallo
“Business,” Andrew replied with an amused smile. “I decided to stay and visit Leningrad. I hear it’s really beautiful.”
“Yes, yes, it is,” Viktor said wistfully. “How did you end up in here?”
“They got me on a driving technicality. What about you?” he asked, stealing a glance at Viktor’s bruises.
“I’m what they call a dissident.”
“You mean you don’t agree with the way the government’s running things.”
“No, no,” Viktor replied, amused at the thought. “The entire population would be branded dissidents if that were the case. No, Andrew, the difference is, I want to do something about it. And that is where they draw the line. They can’t allow organized opposition. You see,” he went on, lowering his voice, “we have a network—we duplicate and distribute literature; we hide political criminals; we help people who want to leave.” He removed his shattered glasses and rubbed the cut on his nose. “They wanted me to name refuseniks who are in our group—Jews who wish to emigrate and have been turned down,” he added in explanation.
“Yes, I know—about them,” Andrew said, catching himself in mid-sentence. He empathized with Viktor and was inclined to confide in him. He almost said “Yes, I know a refusenik in Leningrad.” But he remembered his warning to Melanie, and it gave him pause. “For what it’s worth,” he went on, “your cause has a lot of support in the West.”
“So I’ve heard,” Viktor said in a subdued tone. He glanced at Andrew obliquely, deciding something. “I know I have no right to ask this, Andrew,” he said uncomfortably, “but my family is in Leningrad, and my wife doesn’t know I’ve been arrested. Perhaps you could get a message to her for me when you arrive?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Andrew replied, taken by surprise. “I’m in enough hot water as it is.”
“Just a phone call,” Viktor pleaded. “I’ll give you the location of a safe public box. You say, Viktor is in Novogorod Prison, and hang up. That’s all. My Lidiya’s English is much better than mine,” he added with husbandly pride.
Andrew thought about it for a moment. He heard the desperation in Viktor’s voice, and felt guilty for hesitating. “Okay—If I ever get out of here.”
“Don’t worry,” Viktor said. “Traffic violations aren’t that serious. You will soon be—” He was interrupted by a metallic clunk as a guard slid back the hatch that covered the slot in the steel door.
Viktor leaped up and took the two bowls the guard pushed through. The soup was lukewarm at best; but the air was so cold that wisps of steam rose from the oily surface. Two chunks of bread came through the slot and bounced on the floor.
Andrew picked them up.
Viktor gave a bowl to Andrew, grabbed a piece of bread, and settled on the mattress scooping the soup into his eager mouth.
Andrew plopped opposite him, and stared at his bowl glumly, sickened at the odor of boiled cabbage. Of the few foods he disliked, boiled cabbage was the one he detested. It literally made him gag.
“Eat,” Viktor said, gesturing to the lights to remind him. “It’s hard to eat soup in the dark.”
Andrew tried a spoonful and made a face.
Viktor chuckled. “Now you are in hot water.”
Andrew avoided the bits of chopped cabbage, and sipped the broth slowly. Each spoonful made him shudder, and left grit on his teeth. Mercifully, he thought, the lights went out well before he could finish.
They sat in the darkness and talked into the night, finally falling asleep on the lumpy mattresses.
Andrew tossed and turned fitfully. It seemed as if he’d just dozed off when the lights went on and he heard the clang of the steel door.
The pig-eyed woman and another guard entered. They grabbed Viktor beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet. He had been sound asleep, and was startled and confused and resisted them. They slapped him awake, and dragged him out of the cell.
The door slammed loudly.
Andrew flinched at the sound. He sat on the mattress, stunned, and huddled against the cold, watching his breath rising in front of his face.
Valery Gorodin was in an office down the corridor. He stood at a window that overlooked a barren field.
“I’m wasting my time,” Viktor announced as he entered. His voice had an edge that Andrew never heard. The vulnerability was gone from his face, and he stood tall with military bearing.
The pig-eyed guard was right behind him. She helped him into his police greatcoat to warm him, and handed him a mug of steaming coffee.
“You’re sure?” Gorodin asked.
“Positive. I tried every angle,” Viktor replied disgusted. “He’s very cautious. He danced around any reference to dissidents, or refuseniks, no matter how I came at him.”
“Then, we were right,” Gorodin said thoughtfully. He had assumed Andrew’s contact would most likely be someone on the dissatisfied fringes of Soviet society. It was always that way in such cases.
“Definitely,” Viktor said. “But he’ll never divulge who. I see no reason for me to spend another second in that meat locker with him.”
“Nor do I,” Gorodin replied. “You think he’ll make the call?”
“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “He hesitated when I asked, and felt quite guilty about it.”
“Good,” Gorodin said. “Then we’ll simply resume our original plan.” He looked to the pig-eyed guard, and said, “Release him.”
The hard-packed woman left the office and took Andrew from his cell to the interrogation room. He had no idea why, until she returned his shoulder bag, and said, “Pay your fine, and you’re free to go.”
“Fine?”
“It covers the cost of food and lodging. One hundred dollars, American.”
Andrew winced, and gave her the cash.
She pocketed it—in a way which told him she would keep it—and led him outside to the Zhiguli.
“This is a new day,” she said. “Remember, no more than five hundred kilometers.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Andrew replied. “You made the point painfully clear.”
He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and roared off, thinking about Mordechai Stvinov and the package of drawings, and getting the hell out of Russia as soon as possible.
But he drove cautiously, glancing often at the rearview mirror, and scrupulously observing the 60 km speed limit. The whomp of a helicopter rose above the sounds of the Zhiguli. Andrew had been driving over an hour, and thought he’d heard it several times before. A coincidence? Were they following him? Where was it headed? Unable to spot it, he rolled down the window, grasped the side-view mirror, and, tilting it at various angles, finally found the chopper directly overhead. He decided he would ditch the car when he got to Leningrad and travel by Metro as a precaution. The city had just appeared on the horizon when it started raining.
The slick road slowed the Zhiguli’s progress, but soon it was moving north on Moskovskiy, the showcase boulevard of Peter the Great’s grand dream; and in the misty rain, Andrew thought Leningrad resembled one.
He turned off Moskovskiy well before reaching the heart of the city. The rain had intensified by the time he found a place to park on Dobrisky, a crooked street behind the Mir Hotel. He put on a slicker, left the car, and walked the glistening streets to the phone box Viktor had designated on the corner of Ligovskiy.
The green kiosk was unoccupied.
Andrew glanced about cautiously before entering, then lifted the receiver, pushed two kopeks into the slot, and dialed.
“Allo, kto eta?” a woman’s soft voice said.
“Viktor is in Novogorod Prison,” Andrew said slowly, envisioning a young, vulnerable woman relieved to know her husband was at least alive. “He’s doing okay.” He hung up, wondering how families like Viktor’s don’t lose hope. He had no idea Viktor was KGB, and the number was an extension at local headquarters. Nor, despite his precaution, did Andrew see the two men in black raincoats and fedoras who had staked out the phone box, and fo
llowed him through Victory Park to the Metro station on Moskovskiy.
Andrew took the Red Line to the Nevskiy Prospekt station, transferring to the Blue for Vasil’yevskiy Island, the large delta at the mouth of the Neva which flows around it to the Gulf of Finland. It was late afternoon when the train came through the tunnel beneath the river and stopped at the station on Sredniy Prospekt. Andrew climbed the steps to the street. The rain had settled into a steady drizzle. He took the typed page from his wallet and checked Mordechai Stvinov’s address. Dey-neka Street was on the waterfront. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his slicker and headed west on Sredniy.
Shops were closing, and the streets were desolate. There was little activity around the warehouses and piers when he arrived. An icy wind came off the water in noisy gusts that answered the moan of boat horns.
Dusk was falling.
Andrew walked between fog-shrouded buildings, ripe with the stench of urine and creosote, until he found Number 37. It was a weathered three-story hulk, made of brick and corrugated steel. He glanced at the entrance but kept walking in order to familiarize himself with the building and surrounding area.
A few miles away, refusenik Mordechai Stvinov came out of the Frunze Naval College on Liniya, where he worked as a math tutor. Several years ago, he had given up his position as a maritime engineer with the Naval Ministry, distancing himself from so called state secrets in the hope of eventually being allowed to emigrate.
Mordechai went to a bicycle that leaned against the fence. It was an old three-speed model, with heavy frame and thick tires. He slipped a metal clip around his ankle to keep his trousers out of the chain, and was unlocking the bike when a colleague approached.
“Why do you lock what no one in their right mind would steal?” the fellow teased.
Mordechai chuckled, then rode off in the rain, heading west along the Neva as he did every night on his way home. His square, confident face had once been handsome; but now it was heavily lined and sagged, and his eyes were watery, and his hair had turned almost white, and he appeared older than his fifty-six years.
Twenty minutes later he was hauling the bike up the two flights of stairs to his flat, a dingy one-room affair with sleeping alcove and bath. Mordechai turned on the light and shut the door with a shoulder. The ceiling had leaked, and there was a small puddle on the floor. He leaned the bike against the wall and removed his raincoat, fetching a towel to mop up the water. That’s when he noticed the sheet of paper that had been slipped beneath the door. It bore the damp imprint of the bicycle tire. Mordechai unfolded it. The repeatedly typed call to action told him the note was from Raina.
A sharp tapping on the window directed Mordechai’s attention to a figure crouching on the fire escape in the darkness. Mordechai hurried to the rain-spattered window; but before opening it, he stared at Andrew, and put a finger to his mouth, warning him not to speak.
Andrew nodded he understood.
Mordechai let Andrew into the flat, then went directly to the kitchen table. A menorah that held a few burned-down candles stood on the chipped porcelain top. A tiny Israeli flag was stuck into one of the empty holders. Mordechai removed the utensil drawer, reached into the vacated space, and came out with a Magic Slate—a red-framed, gray letter-sized board covered with a clear plastic sheet. One writes with a wooden stylus on the sheet, which is then peeled up from the backing, to erase the words—instantly. Magic Slates are made for children, but in the Soviet Union they are used by those who know their apartments have been bugged, or might be raided, by the KGB.
Mordechai had more than one stylus.
“Who are you?” he wrote on the slate in Russian.
Andrew looked at it, shook his head from side to side, and wrote—“English?”
“Fine. Who are you?”
“Andrew Churcher. Theodor was my father.”
Mordechai studied him for a moment, and nodded knowingly, then wrote—“What do you want?”
“Drawings of the tanker.”
Mordechai’s eyes widened apprehensively. He brusquely peeled up the plastic sheet, clearing the slate. Then wrote—“Again? Why?!!”
“KGB killed my father and took the others.”
Mordechai became saddened, then concerned. “And Raina?”
“She’s okay. Says hello. She said you could get the drawings for me.”
Mordechai considered the request for a moment, nodded resolutely, and wrote—“You have a car?”
Andrew nodded.
Mordechai wrote—“Tomorrow 5:15 A.M., exactly. Go to Service Station Number 3 on Novaya Drevnya. Ask for Lev. Tell him your spare tire needs repair. He’ll put the drawings under the carpet in the trunk.”
Andrew studied the information, then nodded, indicating he had it memorized.
Mordechai peeled up the sheet slowly, listening to the chattering sound of the plastic and watching the words vanish, then wrote—“Be careful. One mistake, and I’ll never get out.”
Andrew nodded solemnly, shook Mordechai’s hand, and mouthed, “Thank you.” Then he zipped his slicker, went out the window, and started down the fire escape.
Mordechai closed the window behind Andrew and returned to the table. He concealed the Magic Slate, then sorted through the contents of the utensil drawer. It held the usual assortment of string, rubber bands, bottle caps, nails, and screws, loose among a few hand tools. He pinched a large carpet tack between thumb and forefinger and put it in the pocket of his raincoat.
Andrew came off the fire escape into an alley, and headed toward the rainy waterfront streets.
Patient men with faces of stone were watching from hiding places in the alley, atop the roofs, and on the piers, water dripping from the brims of their fedoras.
* * * * * *
Chapter Forty-five
Earlier that day, a U.S. Air Force 707 arrived at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport at 11:05 A.M. Phil Keating bounded down the ramp to a waiting limousine, thinking about how he was going to stall the Russians.
Twenty minutes later, the stretched Lincoln—Stars and Stripes fluttering on either side of the distinctive grille—was speeding along Quai Mont Blanc on the western shore of Lake Geneva. It turned into the drive of the Beau Rivage Hotel, and stopped at the canopied entrance.
Gisela Pomerantz came from the lobby on the arm of a uniformed doorman, who escorted her to the car. She got in and the limousine pulled away, heading for United Nations Plaza.
“Sorry I wasn’t here when you called,” Pomerantz said as she settled next to Keating.
“No problem. Something important I wanted to cover in regard to our conversation the other evening.”
“Indeed, we had several, Philip,” she replied demurely. “So, I’m not sure how I should take that.”
“As Germany’s minister for strategic deployment,” he replied forth-rightly, taking a long drag on his cigarette before softening his tone, and adding, “though there’s a part of me that wishes it could be otherwise.”
“A part of me, too,” she replied wistfully. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your position on disarmament. You see, in light of recent developments, I’ve suggested to the President that a more forceful presentation of your policies would be in the best interests of the United States. And despite his earlier reservations, I’m pleased to report, he was in full accord.”
Pomerantz looked at him like he’d gone south.
“Gisela,” he went on, “I need to buy some time to close the loop on this Heron thing. The problem is, the President can’t stall at this juncture without losing face, especially if it turns out to be nothing.”
“But a hard-liner can.”
“Precisely. I hasten to add, this afternoon’s session would be a perfect time to unpack some of that baggage—”
“—And sprinkle a little hawk guano on the bargaining table,” she said, understanding.
“A little,” he said in a friendly warning. “I’ve worked out a scenario I think you’ll find acceptable
.”
Pomerantz raised a brow and thought about it for a moment, then broke into an intrigued smile.
Less than a mile away, a gray Mercedes 600 came down Avenue de la Paix, and drove through Ariana Park to the United Nations Palace.
A horde of reporters and TV camera crews descended on the Mercedes as it came to a stop at the entrance. Soviet Disarmament Negotiator Mikhail Pykonen got out, clearly pleased by their presence. He knew what was on their minds, and he wanted to talk about it.
“Is Moscow upset that Minister Deschin’s letter to President Hilliard was leaked to the press?”
“It was a private communiqué,” he replied in Russian, an aide translating. “My government assumed it would remain so.”
“Are you suggesting Washington is responsible?”
“I suggest you draw your own conclusions.”
“Why would they do so, when it puts them under additional pressure?”
“It puts us all under pressure.”
“Have you received a response?”
“No.”
“When do you think one will be forthcoming?”
“I believe my American counterpart is more qualified to answer that than I,” Pykonen replied, nodding to an approaching limousine.
The heads and cameras turned to see the stretched Lincoln pulling to a stop. The correspondents ran toward it, leaving Pykonen and his group behind.
The wily Russian smiled and went inside.
Phil Keating scowled when he saw the faces and cameras peering through the windows of the limousine.
“Not a word,” he said to Pomerantz as they stepped out of the limousine into a barrage of questions about Deschin’s communiqué and President Hilliard’s response.
“No comment,” Keating said tersely. He repeated it several times and ushered Pomerantz through the crush of reporters into the United Nations Palace.
Inside, the delegates took their places at the long table beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Pykonen stood and held up a briefing paper which he’d distributed previously.
