Andrew understood, now. The shaver was a battery-operated model, and had multicolor indicator lights, nine shaving modes with calibrated selector, and sleek packaging. To the inspector it looked suspiciously high tech and electronic, as its designers intended.
Andrew turned it on and ran it across his face, trying not to appear smug about it.
The inspector eyed him coldly, and shoved his bag aside, dismissing him. Melanie was next. He swept his steely eyes over her. “Papers please.”
He’s probably going to take it out on me, she thought, as she handed them to him.
The inspector examined and stamped her passport, then brusquely unfolded her visa. His eyes widened, his expression softened, and he handed it back, waving her on without checking her bags.
“Mr. Warmth must have a thing for older women,” Melanie said as they walked off.
“Does your visa have a small green crest stamped across the signature?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, it does—”
“It’s a special clearance. My father’s visa had one. It took him years to get it.”
“Now we know what Gorodin meant when he said it was within his power.”
Andrew nodded, reflecting on his suspicions.
“So much for middle-age charm,” Melanie concluded.
The Tupolev 134 had taken three hours and twenty minutes to cover the fifteen hundred miles between Rome and Moscow. With the two-hour loss of time, it was well after midnight when they arrived at the Hotel Berlin on Zhadanova Street in the theater district.
The Berlin’s lobby was deserted and quiet.
They were both too exhausted to appreciate the plush Victorian decor as they trudged to the check-in desk. The clerk was off to one side doing paperwork, and didn’t notice them. Andrew lightly tapped the bell.
“Dobriy vyecher,” the clerk said as he looked up and approached them. “Mozhna pamagat?”
“We’d like to check in, please,” Andrew replied. “Mr. Churcher, Miss Winslow.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Churcher,” the clerk said.
He took their passports, slipped a card from a file box, and gave it to Andrew to fill out. Then he prepared a propoosk—a hotel pass that contains one’s name, length of stay, and room number — and pushed it across the mahogany counter to Andrew.
“Give this to the hall attendant on your floor,” he said. “She’ll give you your key. Reverse the procedure when you leave. The propoosk must be given to the doorman to be allowed to leave the hotel.”
“Yes, thanks, I know,” Andrew replied.
“I’ll have someone bring your bags,” the clerk said. He smiled, and returned to his work, assuming Andrew and Melanie were together.
Melanie saw Andrew was about to say something, and touched his arm, stopping him.
“Don’t,” she said warmly.
Andrew studied her for a moment, then smiled wistfully and turned back to the desk.
“Excuse me, but the lady’s checking in as well.”
The clerk reddened, apologized profusely, and went through the check-in procedure with Melanie. In a few minutes, she and Andrew, propoosks in hand, were walking a long empty corridor to the elevator.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said.
“You didn’t. I was just being cautious.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They tapped my phone in Rome.”
“Why?”
“That’s how they do business,” Andrew said with a shrug, not mentioning that he suspected his father’s collaboration with the Russians was the cause. “The guidebooks say, ‘Hotel Berlin, cozy, Victorian elegance, favorite of businessmen,’ ” he went on. “The truth is, they favor it because they have no choice. The government wanted me here, and that’s where Intourist put me. And why does the government want me here?”
“To watch you—”
“That’s right.”
“But we would just be lovers.”
“I know,” he said softly, letting his eyes catch hers before adding, “And I’d like that—”
Melanie returned his look and smiled.
““—but they’re always looking for an edge. For something they can use against you.”
“Well,” she said, teasing, “I wouldn’t want them to destroy your reputation by revealing you’re sleeping with an older woman.”
“That’s how they work,” Andrew said with a grin. “Seriously,” he went on, “they’re experts at using the most innocent situation to make trouble.”
“The KGB?” she whispered.
Andrew nodded, and said, “Don’t whisper, it attracts attention.” His remark started him thinking about Raina Maiskaya, and he saw her blank eyes staring at him, staring right through him as the car whisked her away on that bleak night in Rome, and wondered if she’d been tortured and imprisoned, or if she was even still alive. The elevator door opened and snapped him out of it. He leaned his head closer to Melanie’s as he followed her inside.
“Don’t ever forget where you are,” he warned.
Melanie nodded.
The door rumbled closed, and he kissed her.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The USS Finback, a Sturgeon-class hunter/killer submarine, cut through South Atlantic waters at a depth of seven hundred and fifty feet.
The Finback’s captain, Commander Burton C. Armus, was an unpolished bear of a man, ill-suited in size for submarine duty. But he had the devious, calculating mind it takes to hunt in the dark. The Finback was as far from the South Bronx as he could get, and he loved it.
Armus was in the process of “tickling” a Soviet Alpha-class sub-marine off Puerto Rico. The titanium-hulled alpha is the swiftest and deepest diving sub yet built. Armus had spent weeks sparring with his Russian counterpart to learn about its capabilities, and he had learned a lot. He was hunched over a chart in the Finback’s control room, plotting the alpha’s course and planning a countermove, when the communications officer handed him a teletype from ASW Pensacola which read:
TOP SECRET
FLASH PRIORITY
Z143803ZAPR
FR: ASW PENSACOLA
TO: USS FINBACK
1. DISENGAGE PRESENT TARGET IMMED.
2. PROCEED TO 80W 22N ASAP. INTERCEPT TANKER VLCC KIRA DEPARTING CIENFUEGOS. TRACK TO CONFIRM GULF DESTINATION. REPORT EVENT ASW PENSACOLA IMMED.
Babysit a fucking tanker? Armus wondered.
As a security precaution, the orders were sent without a mission overview. And Armus’ reaction, if not eloquent was understandable. He had the alpha going in circles — an “underwater mind-fuck,” as he called it — and it killed him to let the Soviet submarine off the hook.
At about the same time, the Kira was slipping from her berth at the Soviet naval base in Cienfuegos. VLCC means “Very Large Crude Carrier,” and measuring longer than four football fields, the Kira was properly classified. Her hold was empty of cargo, and she rode high in the water with ungainly majesty as the harbor pilot guided her through the channel. It was 4:07 P.M. when Captain Rublyov took over the helm.
Ostensibly, Fedor Rublyov was the civilian captain of an oil tanker. But he was actually a commander first rank in the Soviet Navy, one of their finest — which was why the Kira had been entrusted to his command.
He brought the huge vessel to starboard, and headed west into the orange fireball that sat on the horizon.
The Finback was waiting for her just outside Cuban territorial waters. The sub’s BQQ-6 bow-mounted sonar picked up the rumble of the Kira’s power plant and her twin screw cavitation the moment her engines went all-ahead-full, and she headed out to open sea.