There was no answer, but she felt a comforting hand on her tense shoulders. It was just what her father would have done. She looked appreciatively at Thatcher, who was pretending to look out the window.
"Michael," she said, "what was your wife's name?"
He turned toward her, clearly surprised by the question. "Madeline."
"Madeline," she repeated. "What a lovely name." Lydia turned back to the window and smiled.
Kovalenko strode past his secretary, heading toward his office.
Irina jumped up. "Sir, wait!"
Kovalenko paused. Then he heard voices behind his door.
"In your office—" she began.
"No one is allowed there in my absence!" He burst inside. "What's the meaning of—" Kovalenko went pale. Standing behind his desk was a man he recognized instantly. Bald, short, puffy lips — and a vipers eyes behind pince-nez glasses. Lavrenti Beria. Head of the Peoples Commissariat of Internal Affairs, or NKVD. After Joseph Stalin, the second most powerful man in Russia.
"C… Comrade Beria. What a surprise."
Beria s eyes drifted toward him, and Kovalenko suddenly felt cold, as if a Siberian wind had swept into the room. There were two other men — nondescript bodyguards or aides. Neither said a word.
Beria smiled, or tried to. "Comrade Kovalenko. I don't believe we have met."
Actually Kovalenko had seen Beria once before, at a speech he had given to a group of Foreign Service NKVD officers. Kovalenko remembered him as being quite lively and vibrant. Clearly, the war had taken a toll. Beria had gained weight, and his skin held a gray, deathly pallor.
"It is an honor," Kovalenko prattled, "I did not know you were in America."
"Nor do the Americans," Beria said, his smile broadening. "I came here directly from Germany, the Potsdam Conference."
Kovalenko had read about it in the papers. Stalin, Churchill, and Truman doling out the world like poker players splitting a pot. "You have come a long way, then."
"I have a good reason." Beria pushed a chair noisily across the hardwood floor. "Please, Kovalenko, make yourself comfortable."
Kovalenko sat.
Beria stuck his head out the door toward Irina and asked very politely for tea. He became more animated, his tone unnervingly pleasant. "It has come to my attention that your consulate was approached by a man who has offered to sell a collection of scientific papers."
"Yes, I met with him only an hour ago."
"Good, good. You kept the meeting."
"Of course."
"And you were wise to send this matter immediately to higher authorities."
Kovalenko did not feel wise. If he had known the papers were going to bring Lavrenti Beria to his office, he would have run to the Golden Gate Bridge and thrown them straight into the ocean.
Beria leaned against Kovalenko's desk, his backside up against the nameplate. "Do you know what this involves?"
"Not really. We did not talk about the subject matter. I was only following my instructions to facilitate the exchange." In a moment Kovalenko would later look back on with pride, he undertook a detailed, lucid account of his meeting with Alex. When he finished, Beria exchanged a look with one of his silent underlings.
Beria said, "This man told you that he has thousands of pages of information?"
"Yes. He said it covered every aspect of an American project of some sort."
A knock came at the door. Irina brought in the tea. She was as white as fresh snow. Beria poured two cups and handed one to Kovalenko, who could only think— Vodka> that's what I need.
"Kovalenko, allow me to explain." Beria s voice assumed a lyrical tone, as if reading a bedtime story to a child. "In the days immediately after the fall of Berlin, our Red Army brothers captured a German in Austria. He was taken into custody and questioned, but it took many weeks to discover his true identity. Does the name Hans Gruber mean anything to you?"
"He was in the SD, was he not?"
"Yes! Very good. He was a colonel, a senior man in the Operations Directorate. Once we realized this, he was brought to Moscow, to Lubyanka. Unfortunately, our hand of persuasion was — a bit too heavy. He expired." Beria said this as if talking about a loaf of bread that had turn moldy. "This was two weeks ago. In his last hours, however, Gruber did provide some intriguing information. It seems that the Germans were able to insert a spy into a very secret American weapons project."
"The friend that Alex told me about?" Kovalenko managed.
Beria looked pleased. "Perhaps, perhaps not." He put down his tea and walked slowly toward the window. "But there is a way for me to find out. So tomorrow, I will keep the meeting with Alex."
"You? But with all respect, Alex was very specific that only I should come."
Kovalenko saw Beria's head cock slightly to one side. Dear God, he thought, what am I saying? "Of course—"
Beria cut him off with a raised hand. "You should know something else, Kovalenko." His voice was sharper now, brittle. "When I was in Potsdam, with Stalin, word came that the Americans have tested this new weapon with great success." Beria turned toward him, his face now altogether different. The eyes were cold and void, and the veins at his temple spidered darkly. Yet somehow Kovalenko had the impression Beria was not addressing him, but rather talking to himself, airing his frustration. "When Stalin heard of this, he went mad. I tell you, Kovalenko, I have stood by him through a revolution and a war — a war that has cost over twenty million of our countrymen their lives — and never, never have I seen him so angry. There was indeed a moment when I feared for my own life."
Beria's underlings had receded to the corners, perhaps having sensed the impending storm. Kovalenko held motionless, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like a man about to fall off a cliff. He knew that Beria himself, as head of the NKVD, was responsible for taking at least ten million lives during the revolution. The consequence of one more — Kovalenko's, perhaps — could not be more trivial.
"You see, Kovalenko," Beria continued, "we are at a very critical juncture in the path of our world. The war is nearly done, and the winners are dividing the spoils." He then spoke as if quoting holy verse, "Whoever has this new weapon, this power, will dictate to the rest."
The head of the NKVD then calmed, his eruption over. He looked directly at Kovalenko, and said, "So here is what we will do—"
Chapter 39
The Embarcadero was less busy. A cool rain and vigorous wind had driven away the casual traffic, leaving the docks and sidewalks to carry only the business of the day. Seagulls sat hunched on pilings, their beaks tucked into their chests. Braun did much the same as he stood in a heavy overcoat and watched Kovalenko from a distance. He did not like what he saw.
The Russian had been right on time, loitering at the same spot they'd met yesterday. But twenty yards away two new men, replacements for Sergei and Dmitri, were blatantly obvious. Even worse, another man had joined them, a short, stubby man in an overcoat who, in spite of his build, seemed strangely agile. The only verse of good news was that this new man carried a briefcase.
Standing near a canvas awning that fronted a busy hotel, Braun considered his options. He could wait, but the extras would not go away. The Russians were presenting not a choice, but an ultimatum — show up if you want, but we are in charge. Braun decided he had to go forward. But he would meet intimidation with intimidation.
He walked briskly across the street and made a beeline to Kovalenko. The Russian saw him coming and forced a nervous smile. Braun spit out the first words.
"Did you not understand?" he said combatively. "You were to come alone!"