Downstairs, I also took my time: I bought two packs of cigarettes, a copy of Pravda, and left a wake-up call at the desk. Then I rode the elevator up to my floor. As in all Russian hotels, the Astoria has separate "night clerks" on each floor, old ladies who keep an eye on the guests, the staff, and other-Wlse get in the way. I passed a few words with mine, asking her how long the bar stayed open, then went on to my room.
It was now eleven twenty-five.
I washed my face and spruced myself up — a fresh shirt, a different tie, a navy blazer I'd bought in Montreal. The total effect was nothing fancy but at least respectable. Now I laid my coat out on the bed. It was an Aquascutum raincoat, not very warm, but it had a zip-in lining that now proved handy. Opening it up, I packed away a couple of shirts, a sweater, and a pair of socks, then stuffed it into a pillowcase and put my boots in on top. Knotted up, this made a fancy version of a hobo's satchel. Next I got a towel from the bathroom. Doubling it around my hand, I gave the window a couple of hard raps, cracking the glass. It was a sealed, double-glazed unit; with my penknife, I opened up the cracks, then wiggled the pieces of glass away from the plastic. I was able to manage all this very quietly; even if my room had looked onto a main street, I don't think anyone would have noticed. As it was, I was at the back, facing another building. When the hole was big enough, I pushed my bundle out. It disappeared in the darkness and I didn't even hear it land.
Midnight.
I stepped into the hall, walked along to the elevators. The night clerk saw me, but that was okay. She also saw that I wasn't dressed to go out, and she already knew I was off to the bar. And that's where I went. It was old, rather gloomy; a fuzzy imitation of a British club. The room was already pretty full, and more people began to come in as I did, for Leningrad closes up around midnight, only the Western hotels, like the Astoria, staying open late — and even they were only open till two.
I sat at a table with a Danish designer of injection molds and two German patent attorneys. They were drinking "No. 1," a decent Russian white wine. I followed suit, and bought us a bottle, and after a couple of glasses it was Sven, Dieter, and Bob — I never did catch the second German's name. They all knew Leningrad well. We traded stories, compared notes. Around one o'clock, two more Germans joined us — also attorneys; there was some sort of international conference — and a few minutes later one them asked us all back to his room for a nightcap. I declined, saying I was too tired, but went with them as far as the elevators. Then I headed straight for the lobby, and two minutes later was out on the street.
No one had noticed my departure; the clerk on my floor would assume she'd just missed my return, and that I was back in my room. With luck, I wouldn't be missed till the next day.
Outside, the snow was still falling, but now, wind-driven, it fell in sharp, slanting streaks. And of course it took me a good ten minutes to find that damned alley — somehow, the world looked very different down here than it had from my window. But finally, shaking with cold, I blundered into it and found the pillowcase. Shivering, hopping about on one foot, I got into my boots, then put on the raincoat; it worked all right, though I had to cinch the belt tight to stop all the stuff I'd packed inside from slipping down to the hem.
The alley appeared to serve no purpose; there weren't even trash cans. At the far end, a spill of light glistened on the street, but there was no sign that anyone had followed me. I made my way out. Now I walked directly to my car, which was parked about two blocks away: for although this was "downtown" Leningrad, one of the great virtues of Soviet cities is that you can park virtually anywhere, anytime. Indeed, I could see only one other vehicle parked on that block. I got into mine. The cold engine coughed, pushing at the heavy weight of the oil in the crankcase, then kicked over, falling into a ragged, faltering idle. Letting it warm, and trying to warm myself, I lit a cigarette and looked down the street. At the far end there was a glow from St. Isaac's, and a block beyond this a taxi passed by, probably on its way to the Leningradskaya, another hotel just behind the Astoria. But nothing else moved; just the snow, slicing down through the glow of the streetlights. So if I was being watched, it was being done very well; and in fact I doubted that I was. Except in Moscow, there is so little traffic in Russian cities that you can't possibly follow another car without giving yourself away, and though that might be a useful intimidation tactic, Loginov had already passed on the chance to intimidate me much more directly. All the same, I knew the car was the weak link. It was too easy to trace. For the time being, I'd disappeared into thin air — but now I had to pull the same trick with it.
I turned on the headlights. The Zhiguli, a Russian Fiat, is no better than the original; with a grind and a clunk it finally agreed to go into gear. Slowly, I rolled down the street, inspecting that other car, but it was empty, the wind building a ramp of snow up its windshield. Hitting the gas, I made for the Nevsky, reached it, but quickly turned off, cutting in behind the Gostinyy Dvor. I know Leningrad like the back of my hand, and now that was no small advantage; above all, no one watching me drive — the militsia, for example — would ever have guessed that I was a foreigner. Following Kirovsky Pros-pekt, I crossed the islands that the Neva carves out as it flows into the Gulf of Finland, and then turned into Novaya Derev-nya, the old country-house district on the far side. Here, without incident, I pulled into Service Station No. 3.
A combination garage and filling station, it was fairly large, like one of those interstate truck stops you see in the West. But it was the standard Soviet type: several islands dispensing various grades of benzin, and a cinder-block building with an old woman behind a slot in the window. Snow swirled like moths in the cones of light over the pumps, and a service vehicle was hectically clearing an area at the back of the lot. Since there are only a few gas stations in Leningrad, and fewer still are open all night, they were doing good business. Cars, trucks, transports, and a couple of snowplows jockeyed for position, their engines chugging with the fat, bubbly sound that comes from low-octane gas. I got into line behind an ancient Skoda and walked up to the booth with its driver when our turn came.
"Not a good night," he said.
"If it gets any worse, I will stop in Novgorod," I replied. "At my cousin's."
"Your car is new, though. Very nice."
"Yes. But it would feel better in Italy."