Andrew dashed headlong between the cottonwoods, across the field, and over the rise to the Zhiguli. He jumped inside, chest still heaving, hand stabbing the key at the dash, wishing he had left it in the ignition. Finally, the engine roared to life, and the car exploded from the thicket.
“After him! Hurry! Hurry!” Gorodin shouted when he heard it. The two KGB guards searched the darkness for their Volga, and took off after the Zhiguli.
Gorodin ran back into the dacha, rejoining Deschin and Uzykin. “He got away!” he exclaimed.
“With the drawings!” Deschin said angrily as they dashed down the corridor toward the study.
Melanie had gone to the window in response to the commotion outside. She whirled, startled, as the door blasted open, and they hurried past her to the desk.
Gorodin and Deschin each grabbed a phone, and dialed frantically.
“Traffic police!” Gorodin barked in Russian. “Fugitive alert to all units!” he went on when the connection was made. “Andrew Churcher. American. Driving black Zhiguli, plate number MSK6254. Apprehend at all costs!”
Deschin was on the line with Tvardovskiy. “Yes, yes, the drawings, Sergei! He got away with the drawings!”
“You didn’t destroy them?” the KGB chief angrily replied.
“I was preparing to do just that when they were taken,” Deschin shouted, realizing Tvardovskiy had him on the defensive, positioning him to take the blame. “Internal security is your responsibility, Sergei, not mine,” he countered in an ominous tone. “SLOW BURN has been jeopardized because your people let Andrew Churcher outsmart them.”
“You’re forgetting there’s GRU involvement here.”
“Indeed, there is.” Deschin exploded. “There’d be no SLOW BURN without GRU! Maybe we should turn over internal security to them, too.”
Gorodin let out a relieved breath. He’d finished his call, and was listening to Deschin, concerned he would hold him responsible.
“It’s your problem, Sergei,” Deschin went on. “Get it solved.” He hung up, took a moment to settle, and crossed to Melanie.
“This is a regrettable turn of events,” he said.
“There’s no need to apologize,” she replied, unnerved. She hadn’t been able to understand the phone conversations, but she heard “Churcher” mentioned repeatedly amidst the Russian, and heard the running and the gunshot. And she could see both men were shaken. She knew what had happened. “I think I should leave you two alone,” she concluded.
“Stay a moment,” Deschin said sharply. It was a command, not a request.
Melanie was already leaning forward in the chair to stand. She remained that way.
“Gorodin tells me that you made the acquaintance of a young man named Andrew Churcher,” Deschin said. “Have you seen much of him?”
“No. Just a few times, casually,” she replied, thinking Deschin had suddenly reverted to the distant, wary person she’d encountered earlier.
“Three times since arriving in Moscow,” Gorodin said. “The most recent being this evening on his return from Leningrad. The hall attendant at the Berlin noted the time was eight forty-two.”
Melanie flicked him a glance, trying to appear annoyed rather than intimidated by the surveillance.
“What did he want?” Deschin asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, feigning ignorance of all Andrew had told her. “I think he was going to suggest we have dinner, but I was packing when he arrived, and I left for the airport almost immediately.”
“Did he say anything to you about what he was doing here?” Deschin asked.
“Yes, he said he was buying horses.”
“Indeed, many of them. Perhaps, he introduced you to other friends or acquaintances in Moscow? People he might stay with, for example?”
“No, he didn’t,” she replied. “Why?”
“It’s not your concern. It’s a government matter. Unfortunately, I must deal with it.”
Melanie nodded that she understood. “Good night,” she said with a nervous smile. She touched his hand awkwardly, and walked toward the door, taking the photo album with her.
Deschin watched after her for a thoughtful moment, then gestured to Uzykin that he should accompany her.
He caught up with Melanie in the corridor, ushered her through the entry hall, and up the stairs. “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he said as they approached the guest room.
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Melanie replied as she entered and closed the door. The simple pine furniture and dormered ceiling gave the room a homey feeling she hadn’t noticed earlier. She moved her travel bag aside and sat on the bed, absentmindedly turning the pages of the photo album. Her eyes saw the snapshots of her grandmother dancing with the Bolshoi, but her mind kept drifting to Andrew, to thoughts of him being hunted by the KGB.
Chapter Forty-nine
At about the same time the KGB was starting its manhunt for Andrew, President Hilliard sat with Jake Boulton in the Oval Office.
“Negative, sir,” Boulton reported on CIA efforts to confirm the existence of the Soviet missile base in Nicaragua. “KH-11 sat-pix are negative. High altitude SR-71 Blackbird reconnaissance, as well as low-level runs by private pilots, same result.”
“What about field agents?” Hilliard prodded. “We’ve sent enough people down there to double the population. Not one of them came up with anything?”
“Negative, again, sir.”
“Goddammit, Jake,” Hilliard exploded. It wasn’t only the bad news that irked him but also that Boulton had a way of maintaining an emotional detachment which the President couldn’t. “Phil is out of excuses, and out of tricks!” Hilliard went on. “And we’re out of time! We either have something solid when the delegates reconvene, or we’ve lost it all!”
He spun his chair on its pedestal in an angry gesture, then took a moment to settle himself.
“When the hell was that tanker recommissioned?” he asked impatiently.
“Twenty-six July, seventy-three.”
“And we’ve determined unequivocally that she’s been making the same circuit ever since?”
“Affirmative.”
“How many circuits per year?”
“Four max. Average of three would be—”
“—Well,” the President interrupted, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “I guess we can assume the Kira hasn’t been ferrying the same missile around in her bow for the last fifteen years.”
“Agreed.”
“So the best scenario is that there are at least forty of them out there somewhere,” the President concluded, his voice starting to rise. “Forty Soviet Herons aimed right down our throats! And despite all the technology and personnel at your disposal, you can’t tell me where the hell they are!”
“Affirmative.”
“Christ!” the President exclaimed, disgusted. He whirled, strode from the oval office, and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t have to ask Cathleen to call the garage.
A low sun streamed between the trees as the President walked Arlington’s hallowed fields. He stood staring at Janet Hilliard’s headstone, thinking he was failing her. The thing he wanted most was slipping away, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Chapter Fifty
It was early morning in Moscow. A three-car KGB caravan raced at high speed along the M2 highway towards Zhukova village. Tvardovskiy’s Chaika was in the lead.
Melanie had fallen asleep in her clothes, and awoke after a few hours of fitful rest. The dacha was quiet, and the view from her window was much like the New Hampshire countryside. She undressed, showered, and put on some makeup. She was digging through her travel bag in search of fresh clothes when her hand came upon the sharp-edged package — the package of Kira drawings. And across the label Andrew had hastily scrawled: