Melanie laughed. “All I could think of was, I’m wearing a towel, and look like a drowned rat.”
“A middle-aged drowned rat,” Andrew teased, covering the strangeness he felt talking about Deschin. He wanted to confide in her, but decided it wasn’t necessary; and even if it was, this wasn’t the time.
The city was awash with colorless northern light as they came from the hotel and crossed Karl Marx Prospekt to the little park that connects the Moskva and Metropole hotels.
“I’m leaving again,” he said.
“For where?”
“Leningrad.”
“Business?”
“In a manner of speaking. Better if I don’t tell you. You understand?”
“No, but it’s okay. When will you be back?”
“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.