One of the stocky babushkas sweeping the cobblestones saw Melanie taking it all in. “Tourist?” she asked in a heavy accent.
“Yes, I’m an American,” Melanie said, not knowing what to expect.
“Ah, I saw you looking,” she said. “It is always a sad day when a Premier dies.”
“Oh — I didn’t know,” Melanie replied. “What’s going on over there?” She pointed to a cluster of VIP Chaikas next to the mausoleum that were ringed by a second contingent of Red Army sentries.
“Those are the Politburo’s cars,” the old woman said proudly. “They are paying their respects today.”
“The Politburo is in there right now?” Melanie asked, suddenly coming alive.
The woman found Melanie’s enthusiasm amusing, and broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Politburo, yes.”
“All the ministers are in there?”
“Yes. It is traditional. They comfort the Premier’s family from the noon hour to three.”
“So, if I got in line I could see them.”
“Yes. That’s what they’re all doing,” she said. “We mourn our beloved Dmitrievitch, but we queue to see the Politburo. On May Day they are but specks high above Lenin’s Tomb. Today they’ll be as close as he.” She inclined her head toward one of the Red Army guards who was standing nearby.
“Thanks,” Melanie replied brightly. She hurried off past the line of mourners, turned the corner, and stopped suddenly. The queue extended along the Kremlin Wall as far as she could see.
The Moscow-Leningrad Highway is a two-lane blacktop that stretches 391 miles between Russia’s major cities. Andrew drove the Zhiguli onto the flat plains north of Moscow that fell into rolling valleys, then across the stilted causeway that spans the Volga, past endless miles of stunted flax, and through the dozens of drab towns that dotted the route — all beneath the vigilant eyes of the state police, whose intimidating observation posts cropped up at precise thirty-mile intervals.
Andrew had made swift progress through the gamut of checkpoints where his passport and the documents Raina had provided received routine inspection. It was mid-afternoon when the Zhiguli left the low stucco buildings of Novogorod behind. Leningrad was seventy-five easy miles north. Andrew was thinking he’d be there before dark when he saw State Police Headquarters looming atop a rise up ahead. Dozens of garish yellow cars slashed with broad blue stripes were lined up outside the sprawling complex.
Andrew slowed as he approached a line of concrete-block-and-glass kiosks that paraded across the highway.
One of the jackbooted policemen manning the checkpoint waved his billy club, gesturing he pull over.
Andrew parked in the designated inspection lane, where other policemen leaned to the windows of vehicles, questioning the drivers.
The policeman’s dark blue greatcoat flowed behind him like a cape as he strutted toward the Zhiguli. He glowered at Andrew through the window, prompting him to lower it faster.
“Gdye vi vadeet mashinoo?”
“I’m going to Leningrad,” Andrew replied, realizing this was perhaps the tenth time he’d been stopped, and the tenth time a policeman asked exactly that question in exactly that tone, without a hello, or greeting of any kind. They were robots, he thought, knowing the next question would be in English, and would be—
“Why?”
“I’m a tourist.”
“Passport, driver’s license, and Intourist travel plan,” the policeman said. He noticed Andrew had the documents ready, and snatched them from his hand. He examined each methodically, more than did previous inspectors, Andrew noted. Then retaining them, the policeman circled the Zhiguli, sweeping his eyes over it, pausing briefly to study the license plate.
“This isn’t an Intourist car,” he said in an incriminating tone as he returned to Andrew.
“Yes, I know,” Andrew replied, trying to conceal his nervousness. “A friend loaned it to me. I have the ownership papers here.”
The policeman gave them a cursory inspection, and nodded, satisfied. “Do you know how far Leningrad is from Moscow?” he asked.
“Yes, about four hundred miles.”
“Six hundred and twenty-four kilometers.”
“Okay,” Andrew said, mollifying him.
“It is illegal for a tourist to drive more than five hundred kilometers in a single day,” the policeman noted pointedly.
“It is?” Andrew replied surprised, his mind quickly calculating. He’d already exceeded the limit — not by very much — but he had exceeded it.
“You’re not aware of this law?”
“No, no, I’m not, really.”
“Intourist Travel Service didn’t inform you of it when you picked up your itinerary?”
“No, they didn’t,” he said, concerned he would say something that would reveal he’d never been there.
“Here, as in your country, ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it. Get out of the car, please.”
Andrew was tempted to argue, but did as ordered.
The gray panel truck was approaching in the distance as the policeman led him inside the main building. He ushered Andrew to a win-dowless room — ten feet square, unpainted concrete block, a single chair, small table, and mirror — and left him there.
A few moments later, a large woman wearing a red arm band entered. She had short-cropped hair, a pig-eyed countenance, and stocky, hard-packed torso that strained the belts that girdled her black uniform.
Andrew took note of her abundant facial hair. I’m going to the mat with an Olympic shot-putter, he thought.
“Do you have any drugs?” she asked suddenly, in a Kissinger-like rumble.
“No,” Andrew replied, annoyed with himself that she’d caught him off guard, and he sounded defensive.
“A gun?”
“Of course not.”
She studied him for a moment, then dumped the contents of his shoulder bag onto the table, and sifted through them. She picked up his wallet and began peeking into the various pockets.
Andrew’s heart raced as she removed an assortment of receipts. The typed page that contained Stvinov’s name and address was concealed among them — just another piece of paper among many, he had reasoned. Now, it was literally in the hands of the enemy.
The policewoman paused, scrutinizing some of the receipts, but to Andrew’s relief she shuffled past the folded page, and returned the receipts to his wallet. “So, no gun,” she said with a disarming smile as she scooped everything back into the bag. “Don’t you believe your government’s stories about the evil Soviet empire? Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, sounding as if she didn’t believe them either.
“No,” he replied, thinking her self-deprecating tone meant he was off the hook, and started to relax. “I find people here are very helpful and friendly.”
“Good. Remove your clothes,” she ordered.
He almost gulped out loud. “Pardon me?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I mean is that really—”
“Take them off,” she interrupted. She folded her arms and watched, like a stolid Buddha, until Andrew was standing in front of her barefoot, in his shorts.
She gestured brusquely that he was to remove them.
Andrew winced, stepped out of the shorts gingerly, and stood with his hands folded in front of him, feeling degraded and vulnerable as she intended.
“Turn, and spread your legs,” she said sharply.
Andrew shuffled his feet on the cold floor and separated them apprehensively. He was looking directly into the mirror now, and the humiliated face that stared back confirmed what he was feeling.