Aleksei had never sobered up so fast after so much vodka.
There are only two possibilities, he thought in a wave of panic. If it’s Kiril on the couch, Brenner will be back. If it’s Brenner, Kiril has defected.
He knew what would happen once the real Kurt Brenner was safely back in the United States. Brenner’s outrage and victimhood would drive him to display his psychological and physical bruises, confirming what the world had seen on its television screens—a clever impersonation by Kiril Andreyev, brother of KGB Colonel Aleksei Andreyev.
A successful defection in full view of a banquet-hall of East Germans, then broadcast around the world. The embarrassment of the century!
He glanced at his watch. Too late to stop the plane. They were already in Zurich.
Think! If ever I need my wits about me, it’s now. When I release Brenner tomorrow—
“When,” he said aloud, “or if?”
What if he claimed that Dr. Kurt Brenner had changed his mind about taking his wife to Zurich? That he’d decided to go directly to Moscow from East Berlin? Who could prove otherwise? Who knew for certain that it wasn’t Dr. Kurt Brenner who’d announced his defection for all the world to hear?
That would leave Kiril as the only loose end. He’d deal with that later.
Aleksei grabbed the telephone from the night table and gave the operator a Zurich telephone number. When he was through talking, he replaced the receiver cautiously.
“We still have a chance,” he told Luka shakily. “We may yet survive.”
Chapter 42
On the flight from Schönefeld Airfield to Zurich, the executive jet suddenly shuddered as it banked steeply. The cabin seemed to roll precariously over on its side.
“We’ll be running into severe turbulence over the mountains,” the pilot announced.
The ultimate irony, Kiril brooded. I am going to die even as I escape from communism.
Beside him, Adrienne Brenner moaned, still on the edge of air-sickness from a surfeit of champagne. The promised explanation had never materialized. She had barely opened her eyes the whole time. Better that way.
The sky cleared abruptly, then turned calm. The plane shifted direction.
“Zurich,” he told her. “We’re going down.”
Adrienne nodded. Her eyes, opening for a moment, fell closed again.
Kiril stared out the window, his blank expression masking inner turmoil.
I am forty years old. I have no work, no money, no friends. I don’t even own the clothes on my back. Yet I have never felt so young. So confident of the future.
Future? He had never had the luxury of thinking about his future, let alone planning one. All the days were his now, he thought, realizing that he would need time to get used to the idea. What should he do with that precious new commodity, time?
Dream without restraint. Make plans. Change them if it pleases me. Buy an automobile. Travel with anticipation, not fear. What’s the American expression that sums it all up? No holds barred!
He stole a glance at Adrienne Brenner. Free to fall in love, he thought. However much he cared for Galya, he had never allowed himself to slip into a deeply emotional commitment. In the Soviet Union, to have a loved one—a family—was to forge your own chains. What kind of man plots escape when he’s locked in the grip of the hostage system?
He tensed with the sudden thud of the plane’s wheels on the runway, the vibrations coursing through his body—and nearly bolted from his seat. He had to grip both its arms as he counted the seconds. Taxiing… slowing… turning…
Stopping.
Someone slid open a door. He forgot about Adrienne Brenner’s suitcase, about helping her out of the window seat, standing aside so she could exit first.
He was moving toward the open door when he became aware of a noisy cluster of people who waited at the bottom of the aircraft’s steps.
But all he saw was pavement. All he felt was the desire to fall on his knees and kiss the ground. The instant his foot made contact with the tarmac all he felt was a sweet solemn wonder, coupled with an overwhelming exuberance.
I made it, Stepan! Anna! Kolya! I’m here!
“Look this way, please, Dr. Brenner.”
A flashbulb went off in his face. Then an unbroken series of them, popping like firecrackers, reducing his eyesight to white glare. Raising his arm like a shield, he blinked to clear his vision.
“Is it true you’re defecting to the Soviet Union?”
“Are you here to say goodbye to your parents?”
“What about your wife? Does she stay or go?”
“When do you leave for Moscow?”
“What’s behind the defection?”
“Was your family aware of your plans?”
“What are your plans, Dr. Brenner?”
The questions pitched at him were mostly in rapid-fire English, only a few in German. None in Russian.
He waited. Adrienne Brenner had joined him and stood groggily at his side.
As soon as the voices began to subside, Kiril said, “I wish to make a statement.” He took a cautious few steps away from the plane. “But not here. Is there someplace we could go?”
“Right this way, Dr. Brenner, Mrs. Brenner. It’s a short walk to the quarantine section of the terminal. You won’t have to go through customs or immigration yet,” an American reporter said, a hint of disapproval crossing her face. “Your mother and father are in a bad way about your defection,” she told him. “They have refused to make a statement until they’ve had a chance to talk to you.”
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere in the terminal. No one knew exactly what time your plane was due—or, for that matter, whether you’d even show up. I’m pretty sure your parents are still here. Should I find them and bring them to the VIP lounge? There’s a private room inside.”
“Please. I’d be extremely grateful.”
“No problem,” the reporter said, sensing the man’s acute distress; the sharpness no longer in her tone. “No one will disturb you in the lounge.”
By the time they reached the private room, Kiril’s thoughts were in turmoil. For the first time, he realized how difficult it would be to give a full explanation to Dr. Brenner’s parents. Should he tell them that a Soviet KGB colonel had a hold on their son because of some allegedly despicable act he’d committed during World War II? That only when Kurt Brenner had threatened to turn him over to the KGB had Kiril knocked him out and switched places with him?
But not to explain was futile, he thought. The truth would surface soon enough when the real Dr. Brenner stepped off a plane tomorrow. The only thing he could do for Brenner’s parents was tell them the truth face to face—and in private.
He thought of how, in desperation, he had used Adrienne Brenner. He owed her the truth as well.
Steeling himself for what was to come, he steered a still-woozy Adrienne Brenner into the VIP lounge. The American reporter had just passed some Swiss francs to a couple of bored VIP lounge attendants. As soon as they gave her a key, she handed it to Kiril.
“Your private room,” she said.
He gripped her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.”
“Good luck, Dr. Brenner,” she said, and was surprised to realize that she meant it.
How incongruous we must look in this dingy little room of an airport in the middle of the night, Kiril thought. You in your beautiful green gown, Adrienne Brenner, me in bowtie and tuxedo…