Rockets' Red Glare (28 page)

“You okay?” Lowell inquired intensely, as he helped him over the side.

“Yeah,” Arnsbarger grunted, flopping next to him like a boated tuna.

“Nice jumping.”

“Thanks. I spotted a welcoming committee coming this way just before I went in.”

“Great,” Lowell replied. “This thing’s going like clockwork.”

“That was the easy part,” Arnsbarger said. “Wait and see what kind of welcome we get if they catch us looking for those damned missiles.”

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirty-nine

The fifth floor hall attendant in the Hotel Berlin was a pudgy middle-aged woman who had learned a bit of English from the hotel’s business clientele. It was mid-morning when she glanced down the corridor and saw Melanie approaching in her springy splayfooted walk.

The prior evening Melanie and Andrew whetted their appetites and promised to satisfy them soon. She laid awake thinking about that—about how long it had been since she felt a rush at the thought of being with someone, since she allowed herself such a feeling. She enjoyed it, but she didn’t trust it. Events of extreme intensity had brought them together, and she thought perhaps they were the reason. The feeling gave way to an uneasy awareness of where she was and why, and she fell asleep thinking about the need to become acclimated and to plan a course of action.

On waking, she did just that, and as always, the first step was the phone book. But she couldn’t find one in her room, so she went to the hall attendant, who not only keeps the keys but also takes messages, calls taxis, and serves as general advisor to her charges.

“Dobraeoota,” Melanie said hesitantly, trying out one of the four Russian words she had memorized that morning as part of her plan.

“Good morning,” the attendant said. She pointed to Melanie’s feet, their turned-out position confirming what her walk suggested, and added, “You’re a dancer.”

“Yes, yes I am,” Melanie said.

“I love ballet. But it’s so expensive, and—” The hall attendant heard the elevator opening, and before seeing who exited, she cut off the sentence, and got back to business. “May I help you, now?” she asked.

“Oh sure,” Melanie said, seeing her uneasiness but not understanding it. “I’m looking for a phone book.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” the attendant said blankly, ignoring a nod from a maid who had gotten out of the elevator.

“Tye-lye-fon-niy spra-vach-neek?”
Melanie said, resorting to the words she had memorized.

“Tyelyefoniy spravachneek?”
the attendant said, still without comprehension.

“It’s okay. I’ll ask downstairs,” Melanie said, trying to exit gracefully. She gave the attendant her room key in exchange for her hotel pass, and exhausting her Russian vocabulary, said, “Spaseeba.” Then she smiled and headed down the corridor.

As soon as Melanie stepped into the elevator, the hall attendant took a small journal from the drawer of her key desk, and made a notation.

* * * * * *

Earlier that morning, Andrew departed for Tersk from Vnukovo, the domestic terminal south of Moscow. Two hours later, Aeroflot SU-1209 landed in Mineral’nye Vody, a resort area below the foothills of the Caucasus. An Intourist car and driver were waiting for him.

The battered Moskvich station wagon headed south on a narrow concrete ribbon that climbed gradually toward the towering mountain range in the distance.

Yosef, the driver, spoke no English and smiled at everything Andrew said. His pulpy jowls shimmied along with the Moskvich, which rattled despite the smooth road. He was flabby, simpleminded, and wholly un-threatening. Too much so, Andrew thought, deciding Yosef had to be KGB—which he was.

After about fifty miles, the road forked west into the Olkhovka Valley. Here, the flat terrain gave way to Tersk’s gently rolling pastures and bubbling springs that provide the nutritious bluegrass and rich mineral water on which Soviet Arabians are raised.

Nikolai Dovzhenko, Tersk stud manager, greeted Andrew with a hug and heartfelt sympathy. Theodor Churcher had been literally his first international client, and the depth of Nikolai’s sorrow was testimony to their long friendship. The burly Russian directed Andrew to a pavilion—crowded with buyers—that overlooked a lush paddock and rows of barns beyond. The sounds, the smells, the long wait for the auctioneer
to call the first Arabian to the block while attendants primed the buyers with caviar and chilled vodka, were all as Andrew remembered.

More than three hours and countless vodkas later, twenty-five horses had been sold—eight to Churchco Equestrian. A murmur went through the group as the stableman led another Arabian into the paddock.

“Perkha,” Dovzhenko said, announcing the name of the magnificently conformed stallion.

The purebred’s rippling muscles gave its alabaster coat the look of undulating stone. Its hooves lifted the instant they touched the soil, barely leaving an imprint. The stableman stopped walking. The Arabian did the same—without command and without allowing the tether to slacken—and stood unmoving like a breathing Michelangelo.

The auctioneer opened the bidding at 250,000 dollars, setting 25,000 as the minimum increase.

Andrew knew that Perkha was the franchise maker he sought, and bid 300,000 right off. The price quickly escalated to 600,000. Andrew had just made it 625 when someone called out, “I challenge that!”

Andrew whirled in his seat. He was stunned, not by the remark, but by the voice.

Raina Maiskaya strode forward commandingly. She had arrived after the auction had begun, and remained silent and unseen at the rear of the pavilion.

“Challenge it?” Dovzhenko asked, perturbed.

“Indeed,” Raina snapped, fixing Andrew with an angry stare. “Mr. Churcher is acting as a broker here. And I for one would like assurances that those he represents have authorized such extravagant bids, and have deposited currency to cover them in one of our banks as prescribed by law.”

“This is most unusual, Madame Maiskaya,” Dovzhenko replied. “For years Theodor Churcher was one of our—”

“We’re no longer dealing with
Theodor
Churcher,” Raina interrupted. “How do we know
he
is worthy of the trust and respect earned by his father?”

“You’re unjustly impugning this man’s integrity,” Dovzhenko said, referring to Andrew.

Andrew was puzzled by Raina’s attack. It tempered his delight at seeing her alive and whole, and made him wonder if her abductors had turned her. Had she been brainwashed into working for them? Or was that what she’d been doing all along? Regardless, he decided he had no choice but to respond to her challenge. “Thank you, Nikolai. I agree,”
he said, and, glaring at Raina, added, “But, as
my father
would say, I have the cards, and I’d like to play them.”

“If that means you have the documentation,” Raina said sharply, “I’d very much like to see it.”

“You shall,” Andrew said.

“Good.” Then shifting her look to Dovzhenko, she prompted, “I’m sure there’s an office we can use to settle this matter privately.”

“Of course,” Dovzhenko replied. “We’ll suspend bidding for a short time.” He gestured the attendants pour vodka for the other buyers, then led Andrew and Raina from the pavilion. They crossed the grounds—passing the graveled parking area—and approached a dacha that served as an administration building. Nikolai opened the door, directed them inside, and started walking back toward the pavilion.

The moment he was out of sight, Yosef got out the Moskvich and hurried toward the dacha.

* * * * * *

“A phone book?” the desk clerk in the Hotel Berlin said somewhat incredulously.

“That’s correct,” Melanie replied. “I’d like to see a telephone directory.”

The clerk shook his head no. “Nowhere in Moscow is there such a book.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, this is not kidding.”

“All right,” Melanie said, perplexed. “Is there a number I can call for information?”

“The Intourist Service Bureau can give you information about museums, restaurants, ballets, tours.”

“No, no, telephone information. I mean, suppose I knew your name and wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number. What number do I call to get it?”

“You mean enquiries,” he said. “Not in Moscow. Only in Leningrad is there such a number.”

“I don’t understand. How do you get a person’s phone number or address if you don’t have it?”

“From the person you want to call. If I want you to have my number or address, I’ll give them to you, won’t I?” he said slyly.

Melanie studied him for a moment thinking that in any western city a hotel desk clerk would have been flirting with her by now, suggesting it was really
his
phone number and address that she wanted.

“Look, suppose, just suppose,” she pressed on, “you didn’t know I wanted to call you,
but
you would really want me to, if you knew I did. Then what?”

“Well, there are the
spravkas
—the kiosks you see in the street. Some will
sell
you phone numbers, but
private
ones are very difficult.” He splayed his hands. “You’re familiar with baseball?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little impatiently.

“I think you just made strike three.”

“I get the point,” she said, opening her bag and removing her mother’s letter and the WWII photograph. “You have a copying machine here I can use?”

He recoiled as if she had said something vulgar. “No copying machine,” he said coldly.

“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Melanie said. “I’m asking you because there aren’t any phone books. If there were, I’d look under
copying
and there’d be a list of shops, and I’d find one close to the hotel and go there. Maybe you could tell me where the nearest one is?”

“We don’t have such places. All duplicating equipment is under State control. It’s against the law for private citizens to have it.”

“A crime to have a copying machine—” She said it flatly, with disbelief.

“Shussh,”
he said, and whispering, explained, “Only those involved in
samizdat
—underground literature—have them, but they will be arrested.”

“Oh—” Melanie said, almost to herself. “Well, thank you for explaining it to me.” She turned from the desk and began walking across the lobby, trying to comprehend the idea that there were no phone books and no copying services in Moscow.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice called out.

Melanie turned to see a three-piece suit, wing tips, attaché, and Burberry coming toward her—
an American businessman,
she thought. The rumpled fellow had been standing at the far end of the desk, hurriedly going through papers in his attaché. “I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, in a soft Southern drawl, “but I couldn’t help overhearing some of that. Have you tried our Embassy? They might be able to help you.”

“No, I haven’t, but I will. Thanks.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, starting to move off. “I’m running late. I never get used to the time change. Hang in there. Nothing here is easy.”

The Embassy—it had never occurred to her. It had been less than a day since she learned who Aleksei Deschin was and where to find him.
And her departure for Moscow had been sudden and traumatic. She wasn’t prepared. Despite her planning that morning, she hadn’t really stopped to think. She decided the lapse was due to what she called “the curse of creative people,” who, by nature, invent new ways to do things even when perfectly serviceable ones exist.

She crossed back toward the desk.

“Hi—”

The clerk eyed her apprehensively.

“Got an easy one for you.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the United States Embassy?” she asked, quickly adding, “And don’t tell me there isn’t one.”

She figured her luck had changed when he smiled.

* * * * * *

Yosef, the flabby KGB man, moved down the main corridor of the dacha with surprising quickness and stealth. The first office was open and empty. He heard the
snap-snap-snap
of a typewriter coming from another across the corridor. The upper half of the wall was windowed. The blinds were lowered; the slats open slightly. Yosef peeked through them and glimpsed a woman’s hands moving over the keyboard. He assumed it was a secretary at work, and continued down the corridor listening for Raina and Andrew’s voices.

But the hands Yosef saw were Raina’s. She was typing—“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country”—in Russian, typing it repeatedly to keep up the noise and the deception. She’d just finished explaining to Andrew that her challenge had been a cover, a way to buy them some time alone; and though still a little uneasy, he had decided to follow her lead.

“My driver,” he whispered, indicating the rotund shadow moving across the blinds. “I thought he was KGB. Now, I’m positive.”

“I’ve no doubt of it.”

“This whole thing feels like a setup.”

“It’s possible. You want to forget it?”

Andrew shook his head no. “We’ll just have to be careful. I mean, why else would they let you go?”

“Because they had no proof. I stuck to my story, and told them nothing. Besides,” she sighed forlornly, “they can arrest me whenever they want, now. They’ve taken my passport. I can’t leave the country.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, pacing nervously to the other side of the desk. “Raina, I have to find that man in Leningrad,” he went on. “How do I—”

“Pardon me?” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, you must stay on this side, my right ear has not come back.”

“Bastards,” he said, moving around her. “The refusenik you told me about. How do I find him?”

“His name is Mordechai Stvinov,” Raina replied. “He lives on Vasil’yevskiy Island. The shipyards are there. Number Thirty-Seven Denyeka Street.”

Andrew took a pad and pencil from the desk.

“No, it’s all here,” she said, indicating she was typing the information amidst the other sentences. “When will you go to Leningrad?”

“As soon as I can. But I have to get there without a watchdog. They’ll know if I fly or take the train. And if I hire a car, they’ll stick me with another KGB driver.”

“Then drive yourself,” Raina suggested. “There are checkpoints along the way, but no schedule. In between, you could take hours or days. They have no way of knowing. They lose track of you, then.”

Andrew shook no emphatically. “Intourist is the only place I can rent a car. They’ll notify the KGB. They probably
are
the KGB.”

“Most of them,” she replied. “You’ll take my car.”