“Is Moscow upset that Minister Deschin’s letter to President Hilliard was leaked to the press?”
“It was a private communiqué,” he replied in Russian, an aide translating. “My government assumed it would remain so.”
“Are you suggesting Washington is responsible?”
“I suggest you draw your own conclusions.”
“Why would they do so, when it puts them under additional pressure?”
“It puts us all under pressure.”
“Have you received a response?”
“No.”
“When do you think one will be forthcoming?”
“I believe my American counterpart is more qualified to answer that than I,” Pykonen replied, nodding to an approaching limousine.
The heads and cameras turned to see the stretched Lincoln pulling to a stop. The correspondents ran toward it, leaving Pykonen and his group behind.
The wily Russian smiled and went inside.
Phil Keating scowled when he saw the faces and cameras peering through the windows of the limousine.
“Not a word,” he said to Pomerantz as they stepped out of the limousine into a barrage of questions about Deschin’s communiqué and President Hilliard’s response.
“No comment,” Keating said tersely. He repeated it several times and ushered Pomerantz through the crush of reporters into the United Nations Palace.
Inside, the delegates took their places at the long table beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Pykonen stood and held up a briefing paper which he’d distributed previously.
“Due to recent interludes, I’m sure you’ve had ample time to evaluate my government’s proposal,” he said. “On resumption, I officially confirm the Supreme Soviet’s commitment to the points outlined herein, and to the spirit of our communiqué to President Hilliard. I eagerly await the President’s response.” He nodded to Keating and took his seat.
“I have a response for you, sir,” Keating said, removing some papers from his attaché. “One which I’m sure you’ll find in that same spirit. One which—”
“Pardon me, Mr. Keating,” Pomerantz interrupted. “Though my government is in accord on objectives, I’m forced to remind the delegates that we differ strongly on how to achieve them. Chancellor Liebler is quite concerned that sudden withdrawal of the nuclear security blanket which has swaddled western Europe for so long might create a climate of mistrust. We believe a weaning, if you will, would better insure adherence to disarmament once achieved. To that end, the Republic of Germany proposes a five-part pullback. Phase one — a global limit of four hundred warheads be placed on intermediate range weapons systems.”
Keating played along, squirming impatiently in his chair as she enumerated.
“One hundred per side deployed within range of Europe; the remainder on home territory — one hundred on Soviet soil, a like number in the continental United States. Phase two—”
“—If I may, Minister Pomerantz,” Pykonen interrupted. “I find your lack of faith disturbing and unfounded, and would like to know if the other delegates share it?”
“I have no objection to that,” Pomerantz replied as she and Keating had planned. They knew what she would be advocating was sane policy, but they had no delusions Pykonen would accept it.
“Good,” Pykonen said. “I suggest we vote on my government’s proposal now, as a way of making that determination.”
A favorable rumble rose from the delegates.
Keating anticipated the move. He would have done the same if their positions had been reversed. Now, if the rest of the hand played out as he expected, he was quite certain Pomerantz had just bought him a day.
“In that case, gentlemen,” Pomerantz said, “I ask that the vote be held off until tomorrow. That will allow me to finish my presentation, thereby giving you a valuable basis of comparison.”
“I’m not at all pleased at the prospect of a delay,” Keating said, feigning he was upset.
“Nor am I, but it is a reasonable request,” one of the delegates chimed in, going on to solicit agreement from the others.
“All right,” Pykonen said wearily. “But I propose that we vote without discussion tomorrow, to avoid any further delays. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Pomerantz said.
“Agreed,” Keating echoed grudgingly, supressing a smile.
Chapter Forty-six
It was 4:30 A.M. Monday, in Leningrad. The rain had stopped, but the fog still hung between the piers and warehouses. Mordechai Stvinov wheeled his bike from the vestibule of the rundown building where he lived. He pedaled to the corner and turned north on Sredniy.
When he was out of sight, three men came from the doorways and darkness where they’d been waiting. One fetched a Volga from an abandoned warehouse across the street. The others got in, and headlights out, the black sedan cruised slowly after the bicycle.
On leaving Mordechai’s flat the prior evening, Andrew took the Metro back to Dobrisky, the secluded street in the southeastern quarter where he’d parked the Zhiguli. He slept uneasily in the backseat for about five hours. On waking, he walked to the Mir Hotel and had a cup of coffee in the snack bar. Then he returned to the car and headed for Service Station Number 3 on Novaya Drevnya Street.
Mordechai left Vasil’yevskiy Island, crossing the Tuchkov Bridge to the Kirov Islands, which make up the northwestern section of the city. He pedaled the length of Bolshoy Prospekt and onto the arched bridge at the end of Kirovskiy. He coasted down the far side to Novaya Drevnya, and was about two blocks from the service station, when he pulled the bike to the curb and dismounted. He reached into his pocket, then winced and withdrew his hand suddenly. The carpet tack he sought was sticking into the tip of his finger. He removed it, and sucked the dot of blood, then bent to the rear tire of the bicycle and pushed the tack into the rubber. The air rushed from the puncture with a rapid hiss.
Mordechai was crouching to the tire when the black Volga cruised past behind him and turned right at the corner. He didn’t notice it. As soon as the tire was flat, he began walking the bike along the curb.
Like all service stations in Russia, Leningrad Number 3 is state-operated, and open round-the-clock. Things were quiet at this hour, but drivers would soon be tanking up for the workweek. Four attendants were readying the pumps. A fifth stood beneath a hydraulic lift, draining the oil from an old Moskvitch.
Lev Abelson, a diminutive birdlike man of fifty, was the boss. He was sitting at a desk in the office next to the service bays reviewing repair orders. It was 5:02 A.M. and still dark when he glanced out the window to see Mordechai walking the bike toward the office.
“Mordechai,” Lev said as he came out the door. “The only time you come to see me is when you have a flat.” He crouched to the bike and spun the rear tire until he found the tack, then circled it with yellow chalk. He pulled it from the tread, caught Mordechai’s eye, and asked, “Same tire as last time, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Mordechai replied, and holding Lev’s look, added, “and the seat’s come loose again too. Maybe you can tighten it for me while you’re at it.”
Lev nodded knowingly. “Sure. You want to wait?”
“I can’t. I have to get to work.” Mordechai said. “A friend will pick it up soon. His car has a spare tire that needs to be fixed.”
“He can come anytime” Lev said with a little smile. “I’ll have it ready.”