“Time to get back to business,” Andrew said.
McKendrick nodded in agreement, pleased that they’d made their peace. “What do you think the KGB will do with those drawings?”
“Deliver them right into Aleksei’s hands,” Churcher answered. “No doubt about it.”
“Any idea where he might keep them?” Andrew asked.
Churcher nodded emphatically. “His dacha in Zhukova.” He laughed ironically, and added, “Truth is, I know exactly where. We’re remarkably alike.”
“I’ll get them,” Andrew said decisively.
“Not so fast,” Churcher snapped. “For openers, the place is alarmed, and guards are posted on the grounds whenever Aleksei’s in residence. I can get you around the alarm; but to have even half a chance, you’d have to know when he won’t be there.”
“And make sure he doesn’t suddenly show up,” McKendrick added pointedly.
“I can do that,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to waste time talking about it. Where in the dacha?”
“Hold it, Drew,” McKendrick said. “You’ve been covering for me long enough. It’s time I—”
“No way,” Andrew interrupted. “You’re not a hundred percent yet; fifty, if you’re lucky. I could’ve mopped this place with you, and you know it. I’ve picked up a few things in the last six weeks. I’m doing this.”
In the past, Andrew would have looked to Churcher for confirmation. But it was McKendrick who did it now.
Churcher studied Andrew, deciding, then he nodded. He almost smiled.
Chapter Forty-seven
That same morning in Moscow, Aleksei Deschin and the other members of the Politburo, along with government and military officials and family members, all assembled on the grounds of the Kremlin prior to burial services for the deceased Premier.
A military honor guard led the cortège through the Nikol’skiye Gate into Red Square. The group proceeded to the section of the Kremlin Wall, west of the gate, where the remains of prominent Soviet officials are entombed. Here, they joined an assembly of international representatives who were seated in front of a platform that had been constructed at the base of the Wall.
A small square of red bricks had been removed. A bronze urn that contained the Premier’s ashes stood in the opening, framed in musty blackness.
Deschin was moving toward the platform to deliver the eulogy, when a courier made his way through the throng and intercepted him. He handed the cultural minister a sealed official envelope. It contained the communiqué from Gorodin, which read:
THE SHIP HAS BEEN SALVAGED
Deschin smiled and whispered a brief instruction.
The courier hurried off.
Deschin bounded up the steps to the platform. There was a spring in his step now, a confidence that had been missing since Churcher first threatened to undermine SLOW BURN. Deschin went to the podium and began extolling Kaparov’s contributions to mankind and the Soviet state.
The Kremlin-watchers in the assembly were surprised. They’d expected that Nikolai Tikhonov, the acknowledged front-runner, would deliver the eulogy. What they’d seen as a forgone conclusion was suddenly open to speculation. A buzz spread through the crowd.
When Deschin finished speaking, a granite slab — the name DMITRI KAPAROV written in gold dimensional Cyrillic letters across it — was set into the opening in the Kremlin Wall.
Then, as tradition dictates, a signal went out through all of Moscow. And for the next five minutes, sirens wailed, factory whistles tooted, and ship and train horns blew in tribute.
Deschin stood at the podium, listening. The deafening cacophony sent a chill through him, and filled him with a sense of destiny.
Gorodin strolled brightly through Leningrad’s Rzhevka Airport. The task had been completed, and Andrew’s movements were no longer of interest. Other things were on his mind now. Before boarding a flight to Moscow, he went to a long-distance booth in the telegraph office and made a call — a call he didn’t want to make from a KGB phone.
Pasha was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Berlin, reading Izvestia, the state newspaper, when he was summoned and went to the manager’s office to take Gorodin’s call.
“How is our guest getting along?” Gorodin asked.
“She’s spending a lot of time in her room.”
“I assume that means she hasn’t yet seen any of our cultural activities?”
“Only from afar. There was a death in the family, and she attended the services. I made sure she couldn’t extend her condolences personally.”
“Good work, Pasha,” Gorodin said enthusiastically. “Who knows, she may soon have the chance.”
When Aeroflot SU-1078 arrived at Vnukovo, Gorodin was met by a driver who had instructions to take him to Deschin’s apartment.
The cultural minister had gone there directly from the funeral services. He was in his study, planning the strategy he would use to succeed to the premiership. It had never been his ambition. The cultural ministry wasn’t a breeding ground for Soviet Premiers. But now that it was within his grasp, he really wanted it. The perfectly timed success of SLOW BURN and the need for continuity at the helm were undeniable. And he would use them to overpower the coalition of wizened oligarches on the Politburo who had been pushing for Tikhonov’s ascendancy.
Deschin rose from his desk and went to the bay window. He was deep in thought when a black Chaika circling the Square caught his eye. The sedan turned into Proyezd Serova Street, and stopped directly beneath the window. Gorodin got out carrying a long cardboard mailing tube, and hurried into the building.
“Greetings, Valery!” Deschin said ebulliently as Gorodin entered the apartment.
“Greetings, Comrade Minister,” Gorodin replied, handing him the mailing tube.
Deschin smiled, and slipped on his glasses. Then he unscrewed the cap from the tube and removed the drawings, ascertaining they were, indeed, of the Kira.
“And the source?” he asked.
“A refusenik,” Gorodin replied. “He saw the error of his ways and saved the State the cost of prosecution and imprisonment.”
Deschin beamed. “I knew I could count on you, Valery. The Service is fortunate to have a man of your caliber in its ranks.”
It most certainly is! Gorodin thought, forcing a smile. He’d had his fill of praise. Twenty-five years of it. Twenty-five years of breaking his balls for — Well-done, Valery! And for most of them, he’d lived in Cuba, in that island armpit, and played nursemaid to SLOW BURN. Now, he’d saved it twice in a month’s time; twice saved the Kremlin’s key national security program, and again words — but this time he was ready.
“Ah, this is a great day for Russia, comrade,” Deschin concluded.
“Yes, sir. And for you, as well,” Gorodin replied.
“That remains to be seen,” Deschin said, assuming Gorodin was referring to the premiership. “But I was selected to deliver the eulogy— a good sign. Despite the long and close relationship I had with the Premier, there’d been rumors the honor would go to Tikhonov.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, sir; but I had something else in mind — a personal matter.”
“Personal?” Deschin replied, intrigued.
“In a manner of speaking,” Gorodin said slyly. He took Melanie’s letter from his pocket, and handed it to Deschin. “I mean, I realize everything must be seen in the light of the current political climate.”
Deschin immediately noticed that the envelope was addressed to him, bore uncancelled stamps, and had been opened. He was removing the contents when he recognized the WWII photograph — recognized himself hugging Sarah Winslow — and froze. His fingers were cold and unsteady as they slipped the four paper-clipped items fully out of the envelope. His eyes darted to Melanie’s note. The closing prior to the signature made him shudder. His heart started racing, then his face flushed and he broke out in a sweat. He took a moment to collect himself, and pulled a sleeve across his forehead. Then he read the copy of Sarah’s letter. When finished, he held Melanie’s picture to the light, contemplating it. “She’s here,” he finally said. “I saw her.”