Shops were closing, and the streets were desolate. There was little activity around the warehouses and piers when he arrived. An icy wind came off the water in noisy gusts that answered the moan of boat horns.
Dusk was falling.
Andrew walked between fog-shrouded buildings, ripe with the stench of urine and creosote, until he found Number 37. It was a weathered three-story hulk, made of brick and corrugated steel. He glanced at the entrance but kept walking in order to familiarize himself with the building and surrounding area.
A few miles away, refusenik Mordechai Stvinov came out of the Frunze Naval College on Liniya, where he worked as a math tutor. Several years ago, he had given up his position as a maritime engineer with the Naval Ministry, distancing himself from so called state secrets in the hope of eventually being allowed to emigrate.
Mordechai went to a bicycle that leaned against the fence. It was an old three-speed model, with heavy frame and thick tires. He slipped a metal clip around his ankle to keep his trousers out of the chain, and was unlocking the bike when a colleague approached.
“Why do you lock what no one in their right mind would steal?” the fellow teased.
Mordechai chuckled, then rode off in the rain, heading west along the Neva as he did every night on his way home. His square, confident face had once been handsome; but now it was heavily lined and sagged, and his eyes were watery, and his hair had turned almost white, and he appeared older than his fifty-six years.
Twenty minutes later he was hauling the bike up the two flights of stairs to his flat, a dingy one-room affair with sleeping alcove and bath. Mordechai turned on the light and shut the door with a shoulder. The ceiling had leaked, and there was a small puddle on the floor. He leaned the bike against the wall and removed his raincoat, fetching a towel to mop up the water. That’s when he noticed the sheet of paper that had been slipped beneath the door. It bore the damp imprint of the bicycle tire. Mordechai unfolded it. The repeatedly typed call to action told him the note was from Raina.
A sharp tapping on the window directed Mordechai’s attention to a figure crouching on the fire escape in the darkness. Mordechai hurried to the rain-spattered window; but before opening it, he stared at Andrew, and put a finger to his mouth, warning him not to speak.
Andrew nodded he understood.
Mordechai let Andrew into the flat, then went directly to the kitchen table. A menorah that held a few burned-down candles stood on the chipped porcelain top. A tiny Israeli flag was stuck into one of the empty holders. Mordechai removed the utensil drawer, reached into the vacated space, and came out with a Magic Slate — a red-framed, gray letter-sized board covered with a clear plastic sheet. One writes with a wooden stylus on the sheet, which is then peeled up from the backing, to erase the words — instantly. Magic Slates are made for children, but in the Soviet Union they are used by those who know their apartments have been bugged, or might be raided, by the KGB.
Mordechai had more than one stylus.
“Who are you?” he wrote on the slate in Russian.
Andrew looked at it, shook his head from side to side, and wrote—“English?”
“Fine. Who are you?”
“Andrew Churcher. Theodor was my father.”
Mordechai studied him for a moment, and nodded knowingly, then wrote—“What do you want?”
“Drawings of the tanker.”
Mordechai’s eyes widened apprehensively. He brusquely peeled up the plastic sheet, clearing the slate. Then wrote—“Again? Why?!!”
“KGB killed my father and took the others.”
Mordechai became saddened, then concerned. “And Raina?”
“She’s okay. Says hello. She said you could get the drawings for me.”
Mordechai considered the request for a moment, nodded resolutely, and wrote—“You have a car?”
Andrew nodded.
Mordechai wrote—“Tomorrow 5:15 A.M., exactly. Go to Service Station Number 3 on Novaya Drevnya. Ask for Lev. Tell him your spare tire needs repair. He’ll put the drawings under the carpet in the trunk.”
Andrew studied the information, then nodded, indicating he had it memorized.
Mordechai peeled up the sheet slowly, listening to the chattering sound of the plastic and watching the words vanish, then wrote—“Be careful. One mistake, and I’ll never get out.”
Andrew nodded solemnly, shook Mordechai’s hand, and mouthed, “Thank you.” Then he zipped his slicker, went out the window, and started down the fire escape.
Mordechai closed the window behind Andrew and returned to the table. He concealed the Magic Slate, then sorted through the contents of the utensil drawer. It held the usual assortment of string, rubber bands, bottle caps, nails, and screws, loose among a few hand tools. He pinched a large carpet tack between thumb and forefinger and put it in the pocket of his raincoat.
Andrew came off the fire escape into an alley, and headed toward the rainy waterfront streets.
Patient men with faces of stone were watching from hiding places in the alley, atop the roofs, and on the piers, water dripping from the brims of their fedoras.
Chapter Forty-five
Earlier that day, a U.S. Air Force 707 arrived at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport at 11:05 A.M. Phil Keating bounded down the ramp to a waiting limousine, thinking about how he was going to stall the Russians.
Twenty minutes later, the stretched Lincoln — Stars and Stripes fluttering on either side of the distinctive grille — was speeding along Quai Mont Blanc on the western shore of Lake Geneva. It turned into the drive of the Beau Rivage Hotel, and stopped at the canopied entrance.
Gisela Pomerantz came from the lobby on the arm of a uniformed doorman, who escorted her to the car. She got in and the limousine pulled away, heading for United Nations Plaza.
“Sorry I wasn’t here when you called,” Pomerantz said as she settled next to Keating.
“No problem. Something important I wanted to cover in regard to our conversation the other evening.”
“Indeed, we had several, Philip,” she replied demurely. “So, I’m not sure how I should take that.”
“As Germany’s minister for strategic deployment,” he replied forth-rightly, taking a long drag on his cigarette before softening his tone, and adding, “though there’s a part of me that wishes it could be otherwise.”
“A part of me, too,” she replied wistfully. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your position on disarmament. You see, in light of recent developments, I’ve suggested to the President that a more forceful presentation of your policies would be in the best interests of the United States. And despite his earlier reservations, I’m pleased to report, he was in full accord.”
Pomerantz looked at him like he’d gone south.
“Gisela,” he went on, “I need to buy some time to close the loop on this Heron thing. The problem is, the President can’t stall at this juncture without losing face, especially if it turns out to be nothing.”
“But a hard-liner can.”
“Precisely. I hasten to add, this afternoon’s session would be a perfect time to unpack some of that baggage—”
“—And sprinkle a little hawk guano on the bargaining table,” she said, understanding.
“A little,” he said in a friendly warning. “I’ve worked out a scenario I think you’ll find acceptable.”
Pomerantz raised a brow and thought about it for a moment, then broke into an intrigued smile.
Less than a mile away, a gray Mercedes 600 came down Avenue de la Paix, and drove through Ariana Park to the United Nations Palace.
A horde of reporters and TV camera crews descended on the Mercedes as it came to a stop at the entrance. Soviet Disarmament Negotiator Mikhail Pykonen got out, clearly pleased by their presence. He knew what was on their minds, and he wanted to talk about it.