Kuznetsky was glad that he’d already heard much the same in Moscow; Anisimov’s complacency wouldn’t have been very convincing on its own. Still, everything seemed okay.
“This First Priority business,” Anisimov said cordially, “it must be of extraordinary importance.”
“It is. I regret that I can tell you no more. Now I would like to get some sleep…”
Anisimov hid his disappointment well. “Of course. You’ll be on a plane at ten in the morning, if that is satisfactory?”
Kuznetsky nodded.
Kuznetsky might have been tired, but sleep refused to come. He hadn’t found it easy to fall asleep since leaving the forest. And Nadezhda. He’d had no idea how much he’d miss her; he still didn’t understand it. Little things, like the way she put her hand on his shoulder and leaned against him…
In Moscow there hadn’t been time to think. For two weeks he’d been submerged in the affairs of his native country, memorizing political events, reading newspapers, watching Hollywood movies, reading radio scripts and comics. “Smooching” was the new dating game. “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty” was what the “drools” were saying to the “meatballs.” In Florida they’d just built a drive-in church; the congregation listened through huge loudspeakers and honked their car horns, once for “amen” and twice for “hallelujah.” Everyone was worried about Roosevelt’s health, and the whole country had gone mad on vitamins. Most of the top baseball stars had been drafted and basketball had suddenly become popular. There was a national shortage of bobby pins!
If Nadezhda had a bobby pin, she’d probably stick it in a German. But after the war… he’d get her one, shortage or no shortage, a piece of America for his girl…
He was awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Comrade Anisimov wants you,” a voice said. He opened his eyes and saw the man who’d shown him to his room. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“I believe it’s urgent, Comrade Colonel.”
“That’s why I said minutes.”
The messenger retreated. Kuznetsky looked at himself in the minuscule mirror above the washbasin. He’d shave first, if only to keep Anisimov waiting. No, he wasn’t worth it. Why was he feeling so petty?
There was another colonel in Anisimov’s office whom Kuznetsky knew by name but not by sight. Colonel Kotikov was nominally in charge of the Soviet operation at Great Falls, though the real authority lay with Anisimov’s NKVD surrogate, one Sergeant Vinogradsky. Kotikov was almost Anisimov’s opposite in appearance — a big burly man with a wide smile; in years gone by he’d have been a prosperous Ukrainian kulak. Kuznetsky could see that he’d get on with the Americans, who’d fall for the hearty exterior and put down the bullying side to language difficulties. A real Russian, they’d think. Our gallant allies! Anisimov, on the other hand, would seem like a well-bred snake wherever you put him. These tunnels seemed ideal.
He did not, however, look so disgustingly self-possessed as he had the previous night. “We have a problem, Colonel,” he explained between taking jerky puffs on his cigarette. “Colonel Kotikov will explain,” he added, in a tone that implied his own blamelessness.
Kotikov shook hands with Kuznetsky and leaned back wearily in his seat. “I left Great Falls on Friday evening,” he said. “I’m afraid the Americans have had another brainstorm. Comrade Anisimov tells me that you have already been informed of the nonexistent security… Well, three days ago there was a meeting at the State Department in Washington. The FBI, Military Intelligence, Customs, everyone. They intend to call a meeting with our embassy people and to inform them that in future the border and customs regulations regarding us will be strictly enforced.”
Kuznetsky looked at Anisimov, who looked at the ceiling. “Of course this may be nothing but words,” he said stiffly. He obviously found the whole business thoroughly embarrassing.
“That may be,” Kotikov continued unperturbed, “and what the Americans know about security could be written on the edge of a kopek… but I have expected this for some time. Ever since the January episode. And since Jordan left, the atmosphere has changed considerably. On Friday the new liaison man made a point of showing me around the rooms reserved for the new inspection unit. Sooner or later the bastards are going to start checking everyone and everything going out. It may be later, but I don’t think we can depend on that.”
“No,” Kuznetsky said thoughtfully. “How about entry? Will I have any trouble getting in?”
“Nothing is certain, but I will be very surprised if the Americans act that fast.”
“Very well.” He turned to Anisimov. “I presume you have already written a full report for Moscow. It must go direct to Comrade Sheslakov at Frunze Street, First Priority, and as fast as is humanly possible. I shall go in as planned.”
The flight to Great Falls took the best part of two days, each stretch of mountain or tundra culminating in an hour spent stretching his limbs at some small settlement airstrip. The American pilot fed the guardians of these lonely outposts with conversation, and Kuznetsky walked around examining the pinups of Betty Grable and listening to the vast Canadian silence. As far as the pilot knew, he spoke no English, and as such was treated as no more than a mobile piece of cargo whom it was necessary to feed but not to recognize as a fellow human being.
Great Falls was sighted soon after nine on Wednesday morning, a small but sprawling town where rivers and railroads converged. The airstrip, Gore Field, was perched high above the town on a plateau. Alongside the one lengthy runway Kuznetsky could see scores of fighters awaiting delivery to the Soviet Union, each one already adorned with its gleaming red stars.
He was met by Colonel Kotikov’s wife, a petite, nervous-looking woman in her mid-thirties whom Kuznetsky would have thought more suited to Anisimov. She took him to the living quarters above her husband’s office, provided a welcome breakfast, and left him to eat it in peace. He’d not yet seen an American, much less been challenged by one.
She came back as he was finishing his coffee, poured him another cup, sat down. “I suggest we make the switch between here and the station,” she said. “I have a suitcase full of American clothes” — she pointed it out — “and there’s an eastbound train at five this evening. You have to change several times, but it’s all written out here. In English.”
He inspected the paper. Minot, Fargo, Minneapolis. Familiar names.
“There’s some newspapers here,” she said. “Out of date of course. And there’s the radio. Jack Benny’s on at eleven. He makes $17,000 a program,” she said wistfully. “Of course,” she added quickly, “after the war our radio will be just as good.”
“I doubt it,” Kuznetsky said calmly. “There are some things Americans do well. Fortunately they’re mostly things that don’t matter very much.”
“I’ll leave you to rest then,” she said, reverting to her nervous expression. She wasn’t sure how to deal with this man. She wasn’t even sure which nationality he really was.
“Thank you,” he called after her.