“Yes, I know — about them,” Andrew said, catching himself in mid-sentence. He empathized with Viktor and was inclined to confide in him. He almost said “Yes, I know a refusenik in Leningrad.” But he remembered his warning to Melanie, and it gave him pause. “For what it’s worth,” he went on, “your cause has a lot of support in the West.”
“So I’ve heard,” Viktor said in a subdued tone. He glanced at Andrew obliquely, deciding something. “I know I have no right to ask this, Andrew,” he said uncomfortably, “but my family is in Leningrad, and my wife doesn’t know I’ve been arrested. Perhaps you could get a message to her for me when you arrive?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Andrew replied, taken by surprise. “I’m in enough hot water as it is.”
“Just a phone call,” Viktor pleaded. “I’ll give you the location of a safe public box. You say, Viktor is in Novogorod Prison, and hang up. That’s all. My Lidiya’s English is much better than mine,” he added with husbandly pride.
Andrew thought about it for a moment. He heard the desperation in Viktor’s voice, and felt guilty for hesitating. “Okay — If I ever get out of here.”
“Don’t worry,” Viktor said. “Traffic violations aren’t that serious. You will soon be—” He was interrupted by a metallic clunk as a guard slid back the hatch that covered the slot in the steel door.
Viktor leaped up and took the two bowls the guard pushed through. The soup was lukewarm at best; but the air was so cold that wisps of steam rose from the oily surface. Two chunks of bread came through the slot and bounced on the floor.
Andrew picked them up.
Viktor gave a bowl to Andrew, grabbed a piece of bread, and settled on the mattress scooping the soup into his eager mouth.
Andrew plopped opposite him, and stared at his bowl glumly, sickened at the odor of boiled cabbage. Of the few foods he disliked, boiled cabbage was the one he detested. It literally made him gag.
“Eat,” Viktor said, gesturing to the lights to remind him. “It’s hard to eat soup in the dark.”
Andrew tried a spoonful and made a face.
Viktor chuckled. “Now you are in hot water.”
Andrew avoided the bits of chopped cabbage, and sipped the broth slowly. Each spoonful made him shudder, and left grit on his teeth. Mercifully, he thought, the lights went out well before he could finish.
They sat in the darkness and talked into the night, finally falling asleep on the lumpy mattresses.
Andrew tossed and turned fitfully. It seemed as if he’d just dozed off when the lights went on and he heard the clang of the steel door.
The pig-eyed woman and another guard entered. They grabbed Viktor beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet. He had been sound asleep, and was startled and confused and resisted them. They slapped him awake, and dragged him out of the cell.
The door slammed loudly.
Andrew flinched at the sound. He sat on the mattress, stunned, and huddled against the cold, watching his breath rising in front of his face.
Valery Gorodin was in an office down the corridor. He stood at a window that overlooked a barren field.
“I’m wasting my time,” Viktor announced as he entered. His voice had an edge that Andrew never heard. The vulnerability was gone from his face, and he stood tall with military bearing.
The pig-eyed guard was right behind him. She helped him into his police greatcoat to warm him, and handed him a mug of steaming coffee.
“You’re sure?” Gorodin asked.
“Positive. I tried every angle,” Viktor replied disgusted. “He’s very cautious. He danced around any reference to dissidents, or refuseniks, no matter how I came at him.”
“Then, we were right,” Gorodin said thoughtfully. He had assumed Andrew’s contact would most likely be someone on the dissatisfied fringes of Soviet society. It was always that way in such cases.
“Definitely,” Viktor said. “But he’ll never divulge who. I see no reason for me to spend another second in that meat locker with him.”
“Nor do I,” Gorodin replied. “You think he’ll make the call?”
“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “He hesitated when I asked, and felt quite guilty about it.”
“Good,” Gorodin said. “Then we’ll simply resume our original plan.” He looked to the pig-eyed guard, and said, “Release him.”
The hard-packed woman left the office and took Andrew from his cell to the interrogation room. He had no idea why, until she returned his shoulder bag, and said, “Pay your fine, and you’re free to go.”
“Fine?”
“It covers the cost of food and lodging. One hundred dollars, American.”
Andrew winced, and gave her the cash.
She pocketed it — in a way which told him she would keep it — and led him outside to the Zhiguli.
“This is a new day,” she said. “Remember, no more than five hundred kilometers.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Andrew replied. “You made the point painfully clear.”
He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and roared off, thinking about Mordechai Stvinov and the package of drawings, and getting the hell out of Russia as soon as possible.
But he drove cautiously, glancing often at the rearview mirror, and scrupulously observing the 60 km speed limit. The whomp of a helicopter rose above the sounds of the Zhiguli. Andrew had been driving over an hour, and thought he’d heard it several times before. A coincidence? Were they following him? Where was it headed? Unable to spot it, he rolled down the window, grasped the side-view mirror, and, tilting it at various angles, finally found the chopper directly overhead. He decided he would ditch the car when he got to Leningrad and travel by Metro as a precaution. The city had just appeared on the horizon when it started raining.
The slick road slowed the Zhiguli’s progress, but soon it was moving north on Moskovskiy, the showcase boulevard of Peter the Great’s grand dream; and in the misty rain, Andrew thought Leningrad resembled one.
He turned off Moskovskiy well before reaching the heart of the city. The rain had intensified by the time he found a place to park on Dobrisky, a crooked street behind the Mir Hotel. He put on a slicker, left the car, and walked the glistening streets to the phone box Viktor had designated on the corner of Ligovskiy.
The green kiosk was unoccupied.
Andrew glanced about cautiously before entering, then lifted the receiver, pushed two kopeks into the slot, and dialed.
“Allo, kto eta?” a woman’s soft voice said.
“Viktor is in Novogorod Prison,” Andrew said slowly, envisioning a young, vulnerable woman relieved to know her husband was at least alive. “He’s doing okay.” He hung up, wondering how families like Viktor’s don’t lose hope. He had no idea Viktor was KGB, and the number was an extension at local headquarters. Nor, despite his precaution, did Andrew see the two men in black raincoats and fedoras who had staked out the phone box, and followed him through Victory Park to the Metro station on Moskovskiy.
Andrew took the Red Line to the Nevskiy Prospekt station, transferring to the Blue for Vasil’yevskiy Island, the large delta at the mouth of the Neva which flows around it to the Gulf of Finland. It was late afternoon when the train came through the tunnel beneath the river and stopped at the station on Sredniy Prospekt. Andrew climbed the steps to the street. The rain had settled into a steady drizzle. He took the typed page from his wallet and checked Mordechai Stvinov’s address. Dey-neka Street was on the waterfront. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his slicker and headed west on Sredniy.