Keating shook no. “None of the above, but I know it’ll work.”
“Hang onto it,” Hilliard replied brightening, and turned back to the phone. “Jake? We’ll carry the ball in Geneva. Nicaragua’s all yours. Oh — please convey my admiration and thanks to those two brave men.”
“To one, sir. Second was lost at sea. I’m sorry.”
The President sagged. “So am I, Jake,” he said solemnly. “Thanks.” He hung up, stood and looked out the window taking a moment to collect himself, then turned to Keating.
“I hope you have a brainstorm for me, Phil.”
“What am I bid for ‘the potential stumbling block to the smooth progression of the talks’?”
Hilliard brightened, sensing where he was headed. “The one with a slight German accent?”
Keating nodded and grinned.
Chapter Forty-four
The queue for Lenin’s Tomb moved — as Muscovites say—“slower than the frozen Moskva.”
Melanie had been inching forward for well over two hours, concerned that the Politburo members would be gone by the time she got inside. Finally, she walked between the two Red Army guards flanking the bronze doors at Sentry Post Number 1 and entered the vestibule. The line turned left and down a flight of granite steps that led to the feldspar-walled viewing chamber.
The queue entered the severe space from behind the catafalque, which was centered on a black marble platform where the official mourners were seated. The Premier’s angular coffin lay open and tilted slightly to afford a better view of its occupant. The line circled six deep along a marble railing that ringed the platform.
At first, Melanie’s view of the official group was obscured by the blankets of flowers that covered the base of the catafalque. Gradually her sight line moved around it, and one by one, the weighted faces came into view: Gromyko, impassive with button eyes; Tikhonov, austere and openly presumptuous; Dobrinyn, a kindly grandfather’s countenance; Yeletsev, affable, with a trace of impatience; Tvardovskiy, bellicose and clearly bored; Mrs. Kaparov; and then — Deschin.
Melanie’s heart rate soared at the sight of him. The resemblance was strong, she thought; and he still had the pride and quiet intelligence she had seen in her mother’s photograph. The line seemed to be moving much too fast now. Melanie kept hanging back, fighting to hold her place along the marble railing. Others in the line bumped and shoved her as they passed, their eyes riveted on the Politburo’s hardened faces rather than the waxen countenance of their deceased Premier.
Pasha, who was a short distance behind, became concerned and left the queue.
Melanie was trying to catch Deschin’s eye when she felt a hard poke atop her shoulder. She turned to see one of the Red Army guards towering above her.
“Move along, madam” he hissed in Russian, using several sharp jerks of his head for emphasis.
Melanie nodded that she’d comply, and stole a last glance at the official mourners. The guard’s arrival had attracted some attention. Deschin was looking right at her. She locked her eyes onto his, and broke into a hopeful smile. It had been four days since she mailed the letter. Certainly, he’d received it, and would recognize her from the picture she included. She stood her ground against the guard’s presence, waiting for Deschin to acknowledge her — a smile, a nod, a signal of some kind that would indicate he was reaching out — but it never came. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of acceptance in his eyes, only contempt for the disturbance she had caused.
The guard’s fist tightened around her arm. He directed her out of the line forcefully, and ushered her aside to an alcove where Pasha was waiting.
“Why didn’t you keep moving?” Pasha demanded as the guard moved off. He wore a black raincoat and the peaked cap; and his eyes were veiled by green-tinted prescription lenses. He spoke in Russian at low volume but with an intensity that frightened her.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie said. “I don’t understand.”
“Passport,” he said in English, condescendingly.
Melanie took it from her bag and handed it to him.
Pasha’s eyes flicked from her face to the photo. Then he removed a black leather notebook from his coat.
“Oh, and my visa,” she said, assuming he was KGB, and would relent on seeing the green seal.
“Your name and passport number are sufficient,” Pasha replied, copying the information in bold strokes.
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel Berlin.”
Pasha noted it. “We don’t tolerate public disturbances,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I had—”
“Do you understand?” he interrupted.
“Yes, I do.”
He nodded crisply and returned her passport. “You’re not a Soviet citizen, so I won’t detain you, now. But this will be reported,” Pasha threatened. “My superiors will decide if you should be arrested and charged with hooliganism. I suggest you avoid such behavior in the meantime.” He directed her to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured she leave.
Melanie hurried into the narrow alley that was shrouded in late afternoon darkness. She followed it back to Red Square, frightened by Pasha’s threat, and depressed over what had happened with Deschin. Maybe he wanted to acknowledge her, she thought, but couldn’t, under the circumstances. Then again, maybe he hadn’t gotten the letter, and assumed she was a troublesome Muscovite. Either way, he was her father, and his disdainful glare made her feel small and rejected.
Spring hadn’t come yet to the barren plains three hundred miles north of Moscow. The temperature in the concrete cell had plunged along with the sun.
Andrew’s fear had given way to a preoccupation with keeping warm. “When do they turn on the heat in this place?” he asked his bruised cellmate, who had introduced himself in English as Viktor, explaining he once taught languages in an elementary school.
“Wait,” Viktor replied with a knowing smile, “we still have warmth from the lights. They’re turned off exactly ten minutes after dinner, and then—” He was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.
It was the pig-eyed guard. She threw two mattresses and two blankets into the cell, and slammed the door.
Viktor kicked the bedding across the cell in disgust. “They did this because you’re here,” he said. “They don’t want you to go back to your country and tell of our barbaric jails.”
“Incredible,” Andrew muttered, amazed that they thought he’d consider the threadbare blankets and thin, lumpy mattresses a humanitarian gesture.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Viktor wondered as they arranged the bedding on the floor. “I thought Americans vacationed in Disneyland and Las Vegas.”
“Business,” Andrew replied with an amused smile. “I decided to stay and visit Leningrad. I hear it’s really beautiful.”
“Yes, yes, it is,” Viktor said wistfully. “How did you end up in here?”
“They got me on a driving technicality. What about you?” he asked, stealing a glance at Viktor’s bruises.
“I’m what they call a dissident.”
“You mean you don’t agree with the way the government’s running things.”
“No, no,” Viktor replied, amused at the thought. “The entire population would be branded dissidents if that were the case. No, Andrew, the difference is, I want to do something about it. And that is where they draw the line. They can’t allow organized opposition. You see,” he went on, lowering his voice, “we have a network — we duplicate and distribute literature; we hide political criminals; we help people who want to leave.” He removed his shattered glasses and rubbed the cut on his nose. “They wanted me to name refuseniks who are in our group — Jews who wish to emigrate and have been turned down,” he added in explanation.