“The Embassy won’t help me contact Minister Deschin?” Melanie interrupted.
“Not without substantial proof of what you say. And even then, it won’t be as simple as you seem to think. Chances are the Ambassador himself would have to be consulted. As I said, it’s a highly sensitive matter. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
Melanie nodded grudgingly, and let out a long breath while she regrouped. “Would it be possible to have copies of those made here?” she asked, indicating the photo and letter.
“Certainly,” Lucinda said a little too brightly. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and, turning in her chair to stand, added, “The Embassy can take care of that right away.”
“Good. I’d appreciate it if you could give me the address of the Cultural Ministry, too,” Melanie added.
Lucinda paused thoughtfully, and swiveled back to Melanie. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Miss Winslow; but I advise you to avoid rash or aggressive action. Government buildings and personnel are off-limits, and American citizens abroad are subject to the laws and judicial procedures of their host country. If you should be arrested here for some reason, the Embassy could do little to help you.”
“I understand,” Melanie replied. “I’m going to send Minister Deschina letter, and ask him to contact me. There’s no law against that, is there?”
“Not that we know of,” Lucinda replied, pointedly.
The man with the peaked cap was feeding pigeons in a park across the street when Melanie left the Embassy. She returned to the hotel, purchased some stationery at the tourist concession, then hurried to the elevator. The man waited until the floor indicator started moving before taking a seat on the far side of the lobby.
Melanie’s room was a tiny space crammed with an eclectic mixture of worn European furniture. She sat on the bed and wrote a letter to Aleksei Deschin. She wrote many of them — in a frustrating effort to explain the situation, and who she was, and what she felt. None satisfied her. She just couldn’t get it right. It was late afternoon when she wrote:
Moscow, April 6, 1987
Dear Minister Deschin,
Though I’m often told I inherited my mother’s spirit, I’m afraid I wasn’t as fortunate when it came to her gift for expression. So, I will let her words speak for both of us. Suffice to say, I am in Moscow at the Hotel Berlin, and want very, very much to meet you.
Your daughter,
Melanie
She attached the note, and a passport photo of herself to the copies of Sarah’s letter and WWII photograph, and addressed the envelope to:
Minister Aleksei Deschin
Ministry of Culture
10 Kuybysheva Street, Moscow
A few minutes later, the man in the peaked cap saw her come from the elevator, and watched as she crossed the lobby and queued for the postal service window. Then he went to the hotel manager’s office to use the phone.
That afternoon, Valery Gorodin had flown from Rome to Moscow, and went directly to the eight-story brick monolith at No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, expecting to meet with Tvardovskiy. But the KGB chief wasn’t there.
Here, as in Rome, the scope of Gorodin’s task, and the authority of his sanction, gave him highly coveted “hyphenate” status. This meant he had on-demand access to KGB personnel, facilities, and pertinent documents. He knew Tvardovskiy hated having GRU personnel loose in his domain, and purposely walked the corridors to maximize the number of sightings. En route, he observed the place was buzzing with rumors that something big was happening in the Kremlin, but no one knew what.
Gorodin settled into an unused office with some briefing memos. One informed him of Andrew Churcher’s departure for Tersk, the other of the Kira’s rescue of Arnsbarger and Lowell. He was reading the latter when the phone rang.
The man with the peaked cap quickly briefed Gorodin on Melanie’s movements, and latest action.
“Good work,” Gorodin replied. “On my way.”
The postal queue moved slowly, and it took almost a half hour for Melanie to advance to the window. The ruddy-faced worker dropped the envelope onto an old scale, flicking the counterweight along the balance arm with a forefinger. “Ten kopeks,” he said.
Melanie paid, and thanked him. A hopeful feeling came over her as she crossed the lobby. Not only did she have her father’s name and address, and was in the city where he lived, but at long last she had taken action to bring them together — action that she expected would provide knowledge of what her father was like and deepen her understanding of herself. It was within reach now, and perhaps soon, she thought, the pain from her failed marriages would be dulled and the fear of meaningful relationships, along with the loneliness and unhappiness it had brought, would be over. Indeed, at the age when most women were coping with college age children, a ding in the Mercedes, and a workaholic husband, she was without parents, siblings, husband, or children of her own. The thought of getting to know her father, and the sense of belonging it promised, had comfort and appeal and, most importantly, might get her life back on a happier course.
The postal worker had affixed the stamps to Melanie’s envelope, and was methodically rubbing his coarse thumb over them when the door behind him opened.
“Two men entered the small room.
“You’re not allowed in here,” the postal worker said sternly.
The man with the peaked cap closed the door and stood against it, insuring no one else could enter.
Valery Gorodin took the postal worker aside, presented his GRU identification, and confiscated Melanie’s letter.
Chapter Forty
It was an almost balmy morning in Washington, D.C. The reflecting pool on the mall was glass smooth, and the District’s notorious humidity was coaxing the cherry trees to blossom.
President Hilliard was at a breakfast meeting in the situation room in the White House basement, with his national security advisor and secretary of state, when informed the Viking S-3A was airborne. He joined DCI Boulton in the Oval Office, where a secure line had been tied in to the laser printer the President used with his word processor. The two men anxiously monitored the exchange of communiqués between ASW Pensacola and the USS Finback. Finally, the message they’d been waiting for printed out:
TOP SECRET
FLASH PRIORITY
Z114604ZAPR
FR: USS FINBACK
TO: ASW PENSACOLA
VIKING BLEW UP IN MIDAIR. TWO CREWMEN EJECTED.
TAKEN ABOARD KIRA. FINBACK WILL CONTINUE TRACKING.
The moment was jubiliant, but signaled the start of another vigil — Lowell and Arnsbarger’s search of the Kira. Some pressure had been eased by suspension of the disarmament talks through the upcoming weekend due to the attack on Italy’s defense minister. This meant Keating wouldn’t have to stall the fast-moving Russians while waiting for word.
He had flown in from Geneva late that afternoon. Now, he and the President were watching the evening network news broadcasts. All three reported that Minister Borsa’s condition had improved and he was expected to survive; Italian police still did not know who was responsible for the deaths of the two terrorists; the American woman believed taken hostage with Minister Borsa had not been located.
CBS’s Rather paused to take a slip of paper from an aide, then said, “This just in — the man found shot to death with terrorist Dominica Maresca in Piazza dei Siena is now believed to have been a Soviet KGB agent.”