“I know,” Gorodin replied.
Deschin flicked him a wary look, then he swept his eyes in a circle from Gorodin, to Melanie’s picture, to her note, to Sarah’s letter and WWII photograph — making an assessment of all the factors in the equation as he calculated. Then, his eyes narrowed and held Gorodin’s.
Gorodin returned the look unblinkingly; and in that moment, all was communicated. Gorodin didn’t have to say he had copied the documents — which he had — nor did he have to ask for what he wanted, or make threats to obtain it. They were givens, and Deschin knew it.
You blackmailing son of a bitch! Deschin thought, the anger starting to boil. A Soviet Premier with American offspring? Lenin would turn over in his tomb! The Politburo would never knowingly make such a selection. Then it occurred to him that Gorodin could have taken the information to one of his adversaries — to Tvardovskiy — and he maintained his composure, and smiled at his good fortune.
“You know, Gorodin,” he said, “few men possess the qualities necessary to handle such a delicate matter as skillfully as you have.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Deschin put an arm over Gorodin’s shoulders. “You’re a bachelor, aren’t you, Valkasha?” he said as he directed him across the room.
“Yes, I’m afraid, I just never found the right woman,” Gorodin replied with a shrug.
Deschin lifted a framed photograph that stood on his desk, and handed it to Gorodin. It was a print of the WWII photograph Sarah Winslow had kept on her dresser. “Even when we do,” Deschin said wistfully, “they sometimes slip away, taking everything that matters with them.”
Gorodin nodded with understanding. “You’ve served the motherland unselfishly, and with such distinction, for so long, sir,” he said. “You could rightfully consider the whole of the Soviet people your family.”
“Perhaps. But a man’s own flesh and blood—” Deschin paused reflectively, letting the sentence trail off. Then he patted Gorodin on the back, and added more brightly, “I have no doubt our people will be equally well served by your rise through the ranks.”
Gorodin smiled, his long sought membership in nomenklatura assured. “I’ll make every effort to prove worthy of your sponsorship,” he said.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Deschin said thoughtfully. He studied him for a moment and added, “You’ll begin tonight — by bringing my daughter to Zhukova.”
Chapter Forty-eight
After leaving the abandoned pier, Andrew drove his father and McKendrick to Leningrad’s Finlyandskiy Station to catch the late morning train back to Helsinki. En route, Churcher familiarized Andrew with the grounds and layout of Deschin’s dacha and, with McKendrick’s help, worked out precisely how he would gain entry. Before getting out of the Zhiguli, Churcher took a camera from his briefcase and gave it to Andrew.
It was a simple, seventy-nine-dollar 35 mm Olympus: compact, fully automatic, built-in flash. “This might come in handy,” he said. “I smuggled the drawings out in plain sight last time,” he went on, grinning at the recollection. “Rolled them up with the plans of a processor we were developing for the Mining Ministry, and carried them on the plane in my hand. But I wasn’t planning on being that lucky twice.”
“Thanks,” Andrew said, taking the camera. It was slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and slipped neatly into his shirt pocket.
“Go get ‘em, kid,” McKendrick said. He mussed Andrew’s hair, got out of the car, and went to the trunk to get their bags.
Churcher remained for a moment. There was a look of pride and acceptance in his eyes Andrew had never seen before.
“Good luck, son,” he said softly. “I’m with you.”
Andrew nodded. “Bye, Dad. I love you.”
Churcher bit a lip, popped the door, and got out.
Andrew headed for Moscow.
Churcher and McKendrick boarded the Helsinki Express and settled into their compartment. The train was still in the station when Churcher said, “I’m going to the head.” He walked to the end of the car, but continued past the lavatory, went down the steps to the platform, and hurried off. The train had pulled out by the time McKendrick went looking for him. It was racing along the main spur when he completed his search and realized Churcher had left the train.
It took Andrew almost nine hours to drive to Moscow. He parked on Zhandanova Street, a short distance from the Berlin, and went directly to Melanie’s room.
The time was 8:39 P.M.
She was packing.
“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, baffled. It was the last thing he’d expected, and it completely changed the thrust of his approach.
“I’m leaving.”
“Why?”
“I found out I’m not wanted here.”
“Your father won’t see you?”
She nodded forlornly, and threw an armful of clothing into the soft travel bag on the bed.
Andrew winced. He just assumed Melanie had made contact with Deschin by now.
“He said that?” he asked.
“He didn’t say anything. Not a word,” Melanie said with evident bitterness. “Hold this, will you?” she asked. She handed him a plastic bag and started tossing toiletries into it.
“Maybe he didn’t get your letter yet?”
“I thought about that, but it’s been almost a week. And I haven’t been out of this room for days, so I know I didn’t miss his call. He got it, Andrew. I know he did. The woman at the Embassy was right. I’m an embarrassment to him.” She forced an ironic laugh at the thought of her naiveté. “I was a fool to think he’d welcome me with open arms. I romanticized the whole thing. He probably slept with every nurse he could get his grubby paws on.”
She tossed a bottle of shampoo into the plastic bag, did the twist-tie, and put it in her travel bag.
“Besides,” she went on, “I’m running out of money, and I can’t take anymore time from my job.”
“Look, you’ve come this far, and—”
“Right, and I’ve got nothing to show for it,” she interrupted. “I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even have a phone number.” She shrugged, and turned to the dresser for a few last items.
Andrew clicked on the television.
Melanie’s head snapped around in reaction as he turned up the volume and crossed the room toward her.
“I do,” he whispered.
“You?” she asked, puzzled.
Andrew nodded a little apprehensively.
“You mean you’ve been watching me go crazy trying to contact him, and all along you knew how?” she asked indignantly.
“No. Now, calm down, okay?” he replied. “I got the information this morning from my father.”
“I thought he was dead?”
“So did I. I’m as confused as you are, believe me.”
“Sure,” she said sarcastically, and resumed packing.
“Melanie, it’s a dangerous situation. I didn’t want to get you involved.”
“Now you do—”
Andrew nodded. “To make a long story short, my father made a — a deal with the Russians. Something that could really hurt the United States.”