“I have the target on High Lark,” the pilot reported, tracking the Antonov on his long distance radar. “Course two-seventy at fifty-five hundred. Distance to target forty-five.”
In the next minute and twenty seconds, the MiG-29 had closed to within five miles.
“I have visual contact,” the pilot reported. “Target is eighty degrees to starboard.”
The group in Deschin’s study smiled with relief.
“Target is five kilometers from international waters,” ground control reported. “Engage immediately. Repeat, engage immediately.”
The pilot reached to his console and flipped a row of switches. “Weapons systems on,” he reported.
“Three point five to international waters,” ground control prompted. “Fire when ready.”
The MiG’s radar maintained a continuously updated fix on the target. The pilot was watching the floating half circles on his fire control screen. They slowly moved together to form a glowing orange ring. A green dot suddenly popped on at its center.
“Missile systems aligned; Z.G indicator is lit, warheads locked on,” he reported when the dot appeared.
“One point five to international waters,” came the response in an urgent tone.
No one in the study moved.
“Fire dammit, fire,” Deschin prompted in a tense whisper.
The pilot positioned his thumb over the yellow button in the center of his joystick, and pressed it.
One of the AA-10 missiles dropped from the Fulcrum’s starboard pylon, came to life with a whoosh, and left an arrow-straight trail across the morning sky.
“Heat seeker launched,” the pilot reported coolly as he throttled back, putting the Fulcrum into a sharp turn to avoid the debris from the upcoming explosion.
Ten seconds later the missile darted into one of the Antonov’s port side turboprops, and exploded with a loud whomp. The plane went careening out of control across the sky until the fuel tanks blew. Then, it came apart like a smashed toy, and fell in a rain of bodies and debris into the Gulf of Finland.
“Target is destroyed,” the pilot reported.
The group in the dacha erupted with a cheer.
Melanie and Gorodin heard it in the corridor. Her shoulders sagged at the knowledge Andrew had been killed. The emptiness she felt was quickly replaced by determination — nothing was going to stop her from getting that package to the Embassy.
The doors to the study swung open, giving rise to a congratulatory rumble. Deschin, Tvardovskiy, and the KGB group, carrying their hats and raincoats, trooped out in an ebullient mood.
Tvardovskiy spotted Melanie and Gorodin, and leaned to Uzykin. “Who is that woman?”
“Her name’s Miss Winslow. She’s with an American dance company.”
Tvardovskiy glared at Deschin with alarm. “An American?” he asked in a sharp whisper.
“Yes, we’ve been discussing the possibility of—”
“She goes. Now!”
“She’s here as my guest. I’ll be the one who decides when she leaves.”
“As you’ve so often reminded me,” Tvardovskiy said pointedly, “internal security is my responsibility. And as far as I’m concerned, there shouldn’t be an American in Moscow, let alone in the home of a Politburo member, until the premiership is decided. She goes.”
It wasn’t an accident that the KGB chief failed to mention “candidate,” Deschin thought as he nodded in compliance. Forcing the issue would be dangerous. A tug of war over Melanie chanced revealing her identity.
Deschin turned from Tvardovskiy and approached her. “I’m sorry, Miss Winslow,” he said with formality, “but circumstances are such that I’ll have to postpone our exchange. I think it would be best if you left.”
“I see,” Melanie replied, following his lead, and hiding her relief at the sudden ease of it. Gorodin and Pasha would drop her at the hotel, and she’d be at the Embassy in no time. “I know everyone in the company will be disappointed,” she went on. “They’ve been looking forward to dancing for your audiences.”
“I said postponed, not cancelled,” he replied, catching her eye. “We’ve started something here, and I feel very strongly about it. I’m sure we’ll find a way to continue.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said with a smile, pleased at the hidden meaning. “I’ll do everything that I can to make certain we do.”
Deschin nodded knowingly.
“Thanks for everything. You’ve been a most gracious host,” she went on.
“Get Miss Winslow’s bag,” Deschin said to Uzykin.
“No,” she said too sharply, at the thought of him finding the package. “I’ll get it.”
She was turning to go when Deschin took her arm, stopping her. “It’s all right,” he said, dispatching Uzykin with a nod. Melanie shuddered with concern as the KGB guard hurried off. Deschin was still holding her arm. He felt the tremor run through her, then saw her hands tighten nervously into little fists. It was an odd reaction, he thought, abrupt and out of context. Something was terribly wrong. He questioned her with a look. She blinked nervously, and averted her eyes. And in that instant, in that fleeting display of vulnerability, Melanie unknowingly confirmed what Deschin suspected—she had the package of drawings.
Melanie forced a smile, and quickly regained her composure. Uzykin wouldn’t search her travel bag, she reasoned. Why would he suspect she had the package? It was blown up along with Andrew. She glanced back to Deschin, thinking, despite their intentions, she might never see him again. There were so many questions she didn’t get to ask. So much left unsaid between them. She longed to embrace him and whisper, “Goodbye, Father.” It was tearing her apart that she couldn’t. And after his veiled remarks, she expected to see the same longing in his eyes; but there was only distance now — a cold, ominous stare that told her he knew, told her she’d given herself away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she wondered what he’d do.
Deschin was doing the same. He had to find a way to get the package without revealing Melanie had it. To do otherwise would mean she would be caught spying red-handed, and charged with espionage. There’d be no explaining it away. Tvardovskiy would be ruthless. At best, she’d be sent to a KGB prison; at worst, she’d face a firing squad.
“Ah,” Deschin exclaimed, as an idea struck him. “There’s something you should take with you Miss Winslow.” He started down the corridor ahead of them and, calling back, added, “I’ll meet you all outside.”
She watched with trepidation as her father hurried off. Despite all she’d been through to find him, she’d have given anything to be out of there now, out of Russia.
Instead, the head of the KGB had just taken her arm, and was ushering her down the corridor behind Deschin, the group of agents in tow.
Deschin planned to intercept Uzykin, and search Melanie’s travel bag in private. But Uzykin was already crossing the entry hall with it when Deschin entered from the corridor.
“Put that in my car,” Tvardovskiy called out from behind them as he approached.
Melanie’s heart sank at the implication.
Uzykin nodded, continued through the entry hall, and out the door with the bag.
Deschin couldn’t possibly stop him. His mind searched frantically for an alternative plan, and found one. Instead of stopping Melanie, he’d allow her to leave, and have Gorodin intercept her after Tvardovskiy dropped her at her hotel and was long gone.
“Where is it you are staying?” Tvardovskiy asked in clumsy English as they joined Deschin.