“The Berlin,” Melanie replied.
“Ah, I know it well.”
I’ll bet, Melanie thought. “But I’d prefer to go to the US Embassy first,” she went on with as nonchalant an air as she could muster. “I have to report that we’re postponing the dance exchange.”
Tvardovskiy nodded agreeably.
Deschin shuddered, his mind reeling. There’d be no way to stop her at the Embassy. He’d have to wait until they left to brief Gorodin, which would make it impossible for him to get to the Embassy before they did. And even if Gorodin tailed them closely, Melanie would be out of the Chaika and inside the Embassy gates before Gorodin ever arrived.
Tvardovskiy saw the distant look in Deschin’s eyes. “Aleksei?” he said.
Deschin stared at him blankly.
“You were going to get something?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Deschin replied, coming out of it. He hurried off, forced to play out his charade, agonizing over the painful decision. His country stood on the brink of unchallenged nuclear superiority, of being in the position of ultimate power it had long sought but never enjoyed, a position of being able to actually make demands on the West. And Melanie stood in the way. The only way he could save it now was by sending his daughter to jail. If he didn’t, SLOW BURN would be finished and his chance at the premiership along with it.
Tvardovskiy led the group out of the dacha. Uzykin had put the bag in the Chaika’s trunk. The driver closed it as they approached, then opened the rear door of the car, and gestured Melanie to enter.
Melanie didn’t know what Deschin was up to, but under the circumstances she’d just as soon get the hell out of there before he reappeared. She glanced over her shoulder, dreading his return, then moved quickly to get into the Chaika when she didn’t see him. She had grasped the door frame, and had one foot on the sill when Deschin’s voice rang out.
“Just a minute, Miss Winslow,” he said sharply as he hurried out of the dacha.
Melanie froze, and turned slowly to face him.
He approached carrying a parcel, and handed it to her. His eyes locked onto hers for what seemed like an eternity before he flicked a little glance to the Chaika’s trunk. “Good luck,” he said.
She forced a smile, took a deep breath, and got into the car.
Tvardovskiy joined her.
The black sedan roared off.
The other KGB vehicles followed.
“Well, it’s done,” Gorodin said, relieved.
Deschin tightened his lips in a thin smile and watched the line of cars wind through the trees until they were out of sight.
Chapter Fifty-one
President Hilliard returned to the White House from his visit to Arlington Cemetery in a gloomy depression. That evening, he picked at a light dinner while watching a Marx Brothers movie in the White House screening room. It gave his spirits a short-lived boost. Now, he was in the Oval Office, nursing a bourbon, pondering the arms control situation.
It was 1:46 A.M. when the DCI called.
“Hello, Jake,” Hilliard said wearily. “What’s up?”
“Mission accomplished, sir.”
“Pardon me?” Hilliard replied cautiously.
“Station chief in Moscow reports full set of drawings on VLCC Kira in hand. Preliminary analysis identifies deployment site.”
“Geezus!” Hilliard exclaimed, the hair on the back of his neck springing to life.
A half hour ago, at 9:17 A.M. MOSCOW time, a Marine guard at the US Embassy ushered Melanie into the CIA station chief’s office with the package addressed to Boulton. The Chief notified the DCI immediately. He ordered that the package be pouched to Helsinki. The courier departed Moscow on Aeroflot INT-842 at 10:30 A.M., arriving at the Embassy just past noon. CIA personnel set up a digitized satellite transmission to Langley. By 6:32 A.M. EST, Boulton and the President were in the Oval Office staring at photocopies of the Kira drawings. The highly detailed plans revealed where and how the Soviet missiles were deployed.
“Theodor — you goddamn son of a bitch,” Boulton said bitterly, almost to himself.
The President nodded in agreement. “Right under our noses all along,” he said awestruck.
“Deployment site is nothing short of brilliant.”
“Sure as hell explains why we couldn’t find them. I owe you an apology, Jake.”
The following afternoon at United Nations Palace in Geneva, Soviet negotiator Mikhail Pykonen took his seat at the long table, fully convinced that the threat to SLOW BURN had been ended once and for all.
“Gentleman,” Keating began, “I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve been authorized to accept the Pykonen Proposal in full. However, before I take that action, I have one question for my Soviet counterpart. One which Germany’s deputy minister first put to President Hilliard and myself months ago.”
“Please,” Pykonen replied graciously, concealing contempt for what he assumed would be another delay.
Keating nodded and gestured to Pomerantz.
“Whatever happened to the Heron, sir?” she asked.
“The Heronl” Pykonen replied, trying not to sound surprised.
“That’s correct. Your SS-16A,” Keating replied.
“I’m quite familiar with the nomenclature, Mr. Keating. The program was discontinued fifteen years ago, as you very well know.”
“In other words, the system was never deployed.”
“I’d say that would be a reasonable conclusion,” Pykonen said, getting irritated. “Please, Mr. Keating, spare us the pain of further stalling tactics.”
“I’m forced to agree with Minister Pykonen,” another delegate replied.”
“Yes,” said a third. “Let’s get on with it, Keating. Unless you can prove what you’re inferring.”
“Oh, I can,” Keating replied, nodding to an aide. “But I’ll let you be the judge.”
The doors to the meeting room opened. A large-screen television was rolled in. The aide turned it on, then put a phone on the table next to Keating. He depressed the blinking button and lifted the receiver. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
All eyes turned to the television.
A sign that read—138—filled the screen.
“That transmission is coming via satellite—” Keating said with a dramatic pause.
The image started zooming back, revealing an offshore pumping station — Churchco 138. The camera was mounted in a helicopter that had been on the landing pad and was slowly lifting off.
“—live from the Gulf of Mexico,” he resumed.
The image continued widening to include the Kira. The supertanker was tied up at a floating offshore wharf. Massive hoses snaked over her side like huge aortas, filling her compartments with crude.
“About fifteen years ago,” Keating continued, “that supertanker, the VLCC Kira, was reoutfitted with a unique capability in Leningrad shipyards. And now, you’re going to see it in action.”
Captain Rublyov was on the Kira’s bridge. He saw the chopper circling, but thought nothing of it. They were always buzzing around the pumping stations. But he didn’t see the team of U.S. Navy divers who were brought in by helicopter the night before. Nor had he seen them at the far end of the massive wharf, in scuba gear and wet suits, as they slipped into the water a short time earlier. Two underwater television cameras that can virtually see in the dark were mounted on their sea sleds.
The television screen appeared to go blank for a moment. A school of pogies swam into view. The image had switched from helicopter to undersea camera.