Rockets' Red Glare (31 page)

“You have to try some of this,” Arnsbarger said, fetching a cup for Lowell.

“Yeah, maybe it’ll help me crash.”

“Crash?” the Russian wondered.

“Sleep, I haven’t been able to get to sleep.”

The Russian’s eyes widened in alarm. He shifted his look to Arnsbarger. Lowell didn’t understand the reaction, but Arnsbarger did. Not fifteen minutes earlier he’d said Lowell was sound asleep. Now, he knew the Russian was thinking about that—thinking that Arnsbarger had lied.

“What do you call this stuff, again?” Arnsbarger asked, trying to bluff past it. “Kivowitz?”

The Russian didn’t answer. He had stepped to Lowell’s slicker and was running a fingertip through the drops of seawater which told him Lowell had been to the bow—which confirmed his suspicion Arnsbarger’s lie was a cover—which meant the Americans were up to no good. He looked at them accusingly, and for a brief instant, all three froze in anticipation. Then the Russian bolted from the cabin and ran down the passageway.

“Shit!” Arnsbarger said. A look of terror flicked between him and Lowell—neither would leave the
Kira
alive if the Russian revealed what he knew.

Arnsbarger grabbed the bottle of slivovitz and shoved it at Lowell. “Hang on to this!” he said as he ran past him into the passageway after the Russian, and, calling back, added, “And go barf on the deck!”

He was thinking, he’d catch the Russian and throw him into the sea. They’d empty the slivovitz, plant the bottle in the lookout station, and return to the cabin. At watch change, the Russian would be reported missing and the bottle and the vomit would be found, leading the captain to assume that he’d been drinking on duty, stumbled to the side to vomit, and fell overboard.

The Russian ran down the companionway onto the main deck. Arnsbarger came out the hatch onto the landing and jumped over the railing onto his back. They both went sprawling across the deck. Arnsbarger got to his feet. The Russian charged into his midsection, driving him backwards into the railing—and over it.

Arnsbarger caught one of the pipe rail posts in the crook of an elbow as he went over. He was dangling high above the sea, clawing at the deck with his other hand to get back up. The Russian slammed a foot into his wrist. Arnsbarger lunged, wrapped an arm around his legs, and tried to yank him into the sea.

The Russian went sliding feet first beneath the steel cable that ran between the pipe rail posts. Both hands grasped it as he went under. He came to an abrupt stop hanging over the side, his arms fully extended, his back against the hull.

The abrupt action had torn Arnsbarger’s arm loose from the post. His fingers hooked the edge of the deck, stopping his fall. For an instant, the two hung there side by side, their faces inches apart, glaring at each other. The Russian was just starting to pull himself up when Arnsbarger lost his grip and clawed at him frantically, trying to get a handhold as he fell. His fingers shredded the Russian’s shirt and hooked behind his belt. The shock of the sudden stop and the added weight caused the cable to begin cutting into the Russian’s hands. He started kicking at Arnsbarger to knock him loose.

Lowell was coming down the companionway with the bottle of liquor when the two went over the side. He ran to the railing, flattened himself on the deck, and reached down past the Russian, groping for Arnsbarger.

Arnsbarger tightened his grasp on the Russian’s belt and pulled himself upward. Then, holding his position with one hand, he released the
other and reached for Lowell’s. Their fingertips inched closer and closer together, finally touching, their hands now tantalizingly close to grasping.

Lowell was about to make a lunge for Arnsbarger’s wrist when a few crewmen who had heard the noise arrived next to him.

Arnsbarger’s eyes widened when he saw them. There was only one way to prevent the Russian from being rescued or shouting out what he had heard.

Lowell saw Arnsbarger’s reaction, and was thinking,
No! Dammit, no!
when Arnsbarger withdrew his hand and making a fist smashed it into the Russian’s groin. The seaman bellowed, and let go of the cable.

Lowell watched helplessly as the two men dropped out of sight into the darkness, and into the sea.

* * * * * *

Chapter Forty-two

The morning after Melanie mailed the letter to Deschin, she took a map from the Intourist desk in the Berlin’s lobby and told herself she was going sight-seeing. Most tourists head directly for Red Square. Melanie made a beeline for Number 10 Kuybysheva Street, but the numeral was nowhere to be found. The street was lined with mundane government buildings. Each had a sign, and indeed, one read Ministry of Culture. But which one? Like all signs in Moscow, they were written in Cyrillic, which bears little resemblance to the Roman alphabet. The few characters that do are unrelated in sound:
B
is pronounced as “V,”
E
as “Y,”
H
as “N,”
P
as “R,”
X
as “K,” which made communicating next to impossible.

Melanie passed the building a half dozen times before a passerby finally identified it for her. She stared at the severe monolith thinking Deschin was in there somewhere and wondering if her letter had been delivered yet. Chauffeured black Chaikas and Volgas arrived and departed through gates patrolled by Red Army guards, giving rise to hopes that she might glimpse him. But to Melanie’s dismay the passengers were always tucked in the corner of the backseat, shrunken into turned-up collars, faces obscured by
borsalinos
and newspapers, as if hiding from someone, or something, she thought. Her hopes swiftly faded.

* * * * * *

Aeroflot SU-1247 from Tersk arrived at Vnukovo at 12:56
A.M.
The
flight was nearly empty, and at that hour, the taxi stand in front of the terminal was deserted. Andrew approached with shoulder bag and carry on. A black Volga sedan—engine running, lights on—was parked a short distance down the arrivals loop. The driver had no trouble recognizing the rangy young American. He drove forward and pulled to a stop next to him. Andrew saw the large letter
T
set against a checkered background on the door that identified it as a taxi, tossed his bag into the backseat, and got in.

“Hotel Berlin, please,” he said.

The driver grunted and pulled away, heading for the M2 highway. The taxicab’s radio was set to MAYAK, Moscow’s state radio station. Shostakovich’s fiery Symphony No. 7, written in 1941 during the German siege of Leningrad, overwhelmed the tiny speaker.

Andrew had spent four days in Tersk. They were extremely successful ones for Churchco Equestrian. He had filled all his clients’ orders—acquiring the franchise-maker for $825,000—and purchased breeding stock for his own stable as well. The stud farm threw a post-auction bash to celebrate forty million dollars in sales; then Yosef drove Andrew back to Mineral’nye Vody, where he caught the last flight to Moscow.

The cab was turning off the M2 into the Sadovaya outer ring road when the symphony suddenly faded. A long silence was followed by a somber Chopin dirge.

The Chopin better suited Andrew’s mood. Despite his success in Tersk, he was unable to relax and savor it. Raina had left for Moscow immediately after their “altercation” to make arrangements for his trip to Leningrad. And he was preoccupied with the upcoming drive, and how he would go about making contact with refusenik Mordechai Stvinov.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi had ringed the city, and was driving south on Zhadanova, approaching the Hotel Berlin, when the Chopin segued to the score from
Boris Godunov,
Mussorgsky’s sorrowful opera.

“Ah,” the cabdriver said, nodding as if something he had been wondering about had just been confirmed.
“Y’hero myortviy oonyevo.”

“Pardon me?” Andrew asked.

“Groosvniy, groosvniy,”
the driver said, drawing out the vowels mournfully. He pointed to the radio to indicate he was referring to the sad tone of the music.
“Kermanska Dmitrievitch Kaparov myortviy.”

“Your Premier has died?” Andrew asked.

“
Da
,
da
,
died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrew said, realizing there had been no Russian spoken on the radio, no news report. The sudden change in the nature of music
was
clearly the message.
Odd
,
he thought,
in this brusque blue-collar nation, that the government announced the death of the Premier to its workers so gently, in such subtle highbrow fashion.
He decided it went hand in hand with a self-proclaimed godless society living in cities packed with cathedrals and churches—over 150 in Moscow alone.

The cab arrived at the Hotel Berlin. Andrew paid the driver and got out. The cab pulled away. Andrew was putting the change into his wallet when he noticed the slip of paper amongst the rubles the driver had given him. He picked up his
propoosk
from the doorman and hurried into the hotel. The hall attendant was in a chatty mood, and was slow to exchange it for his room key. Once inside, he locked the door, sorted through the currency, and found a note—it outlined when and where Raina would meet him with her car, how to get there, and exactly how to proceed on arriving.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Melanie stood in her bathtub in the Hotel Berlin—the plastic flowered curtain pulled around her in a little circle—taking a shower. The water was lukewarm, and came in a limp rain from the old shower head. But she hardly noticed. She was just feeling good—a little anxious perhaps, but very optimistic. She closed her eyes, the water running over her lithe body, and thought about Andrew. He was due back, and she was anxious to tell him about the letter she’d sent to her father. The fact that she wanted to share things with Andrew, and hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind the last four days, caused her to start trusting her feelings.

The shower suddenly got hotter. Melanie arched her torso, letting the water wash the soap from her long hair. When finished, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in one of the huge bath towels. She was thinking Russian girth must have dictated their size, when she heard the knock. The hall attendant with a message from her father? Could it be
him
? Whoever it was knocked again as she hurried, barefoot, across the worn runner to the door.

“Yes?”

“Melanie? It’s Andrew.”

Her apprehension turned to elation, as she unlocked the door and opened it.

Andrew stood there for a moment and stared at Melanie, almost as if seeing her for the first time. They had spent barely twelve hours together; tense, hectic ones. And he’d never really just stopped and
looked at her. The fresh scrubbed rawness he saw made her all the more appealing to him.

“Good morning,” he said with a little smile.

“I agree,” she said as he entered and closed the door. He reached to embrace her, and she opened the towel and pressed her naked body against him, enfolding them both in the yards of coarse terry cloth.

Andrew buried his hands in her wet hair, his head filling with the clean scent that made him desire her all the more, and kissed her passionately.

They fell back onto the bed, their hunger for each other surging undeniably now; and soon, his lean body was naked and sliding against hers. She shuddered and arched her tiny frame, her breaths quickening as his tongue gently circled her breast, spiraling toward its center while his fingers, tracing down across the smooth planes of her torso, found the slick wetness they sought. Melanie moaned softly at their touch and dissolved into a sultry liquid haze, surrendering to the overwhelming rush. She felt no compulsion to be in control, no need to suppress her emotions; he was consuming her, and she was pleasureably surprised to learn that she could allow it, indeed enjoy it. He kissed her deeply, then slipped between her thighs, setting off a chorus of blissful sighs. Soon, he had found the slow, rolling rhythm that brought her, achingly, closer and closer. And then, as if suspended in time, they were adrift in the romantic ether until, deliriously inflamed, they were overcome by wave after wave of blinding passion, and lay embracing in the afterglow.

“Hello—” Melanie finally purred, her face radiant. “You free for breakfast?”

“I wish,” Andrew whispered in a tone that left no doubt he wasn’t.

“Why not?”

He shook his head no mysteriously, and put his finger to her lips. “Let’s take a walk,” he said softly.

She nodded, and, lingering in his arms for a few moments, told him about the mystifying lack of phone books and copying services, and sending the letter to Deschin. “I thought it was my father at the door when you knocked,” she concluded.

“Now I know why you were so disappointed when you saw it was me.”

Melanie laughed. “All I could think of was, I’m wearing a towel, and look like a drowned rat.”

“A
middle-aged
drowned rat,” Andrew teased, covering the strangeness he felt talking about Deschin. He wanted to confide in her, but decided it wasn’t necessary; and even if it was, this wasn’t the time.

The city was awash with colorless northern light as they came from the hotel and crossed Karl Marx Prospekt to the little park that connects the Moskva and Metropole hotels.

“I’m leaving again,” he said.

“For where?”

“Leningrad.”

“Business?”

“In a manner of speaking. Better if I don’t tell you. You understand?”

“No, but it’s okay. When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” He paused briefly, thinking if things went well in Leningrad and he got the package of drawings, he’d be on the next flight to Helsinki, and added, “I may not be returning to Moscow.”

Melanie’s eyes fell in disappointment. They continued walking in silence beneath the cottonwoods. “When do you go?” she finally asked.

He stopped and looked at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes. “We’ll see each other again,” he said. “Here or back home. We will.”

She stared at him vulnerably, and nodded. He kissed her; then backed away and hurried across the grass sprinkled with snowy pookh that fell from the trees.

A park attendant had raked some into a little pile. He tossed a match into it as Andrew passed, and with a
whoosh
, the white mound flashed brightly and vanished into wispy smoke.

The beverage vendor at the north end of the park sold fruit juices, various mineral waters, and kvass. A group of men were gathered around the stand, chatting. Pasha was sipping a large glass of pulpy apricot juice. Gorodin was savoring his first mug of the malty kvass since his return. He turned his back and tilted his head to be certain the fedora concealed him as Andrew hurried past on the far side of the beverage stand. Pasha flicked him a look, and went for a walk in the park where Melanie lingered. Gorodin drained the last drops of kvass, and followed Andrew.

* * * * * *

Raina Maiskaya’s apartment was in a subdivided eighteenth-century mansion overlooking the Moskva River in southwestern Moscow—a charming quarter that had once been the enclave of the nobility. She pulled her black Zhiguli sedan out of the garage and headed east along the river on Kropotinskya Street.

Raina had purchased a Zhiguli because of its reputation for starting reliably in subzero weather. And it did. The “Zhig” had only one problem as far as Raina was concerned—it was black, and had a funereal
quality; every speck of dirt showed, and she hated it. But today black would have its uses.

Raina drove with one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. She worked her way across Kalinin Prospect and into central Moscow’s streets that were always crowded with vehicles at this hour, mostly black ones. And she knew the congestion of fast-moving Volgas, Moskviches, and Zhigulis would make hers inconspicuous and difficult to follow.

But Raina couldn’t see the gray panel truck that had been parked around the corner, nor the KGB driver, expert in such matters, who waited until the Zhiguli was well underway before following.

* * * * * *

As Raina had outlined, Andrew left the park, walked through the Alex-androv Gardens that parallel the west Kremlin wall, and past Trinity Gate to the main Metro station next to the Lenin Library on the corner of Frunze. The platforms beneath the barrel-vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers were crowded with early morning commuters—one of whom was Gorodin.

Andrew deciphered the color-coded legend, found the Kirov-Frunze line, and took it four stops to Komosomol Square. The immense plaza northeast of the outer ring is bordered by three major railway stations, the Leningrad Hotel, international post office, and acres of parking lots. Andrew rode the escalator from the Metro platform to street level. It was Saturday, and the square was a frenzied bustle of vehicles and pedestrians. Gorodin tailed him to the parking lot east of the Kazan Station, and watched from a distance as Andrew made his way between the tightly spaced cars, counting the aisles as he walked.

Raina’s Zhiguli was parked in one of the spots in aisle seven of the crowded lot. She was sitting behind the wheel, and watched Andrew approach and walk past. She waited briefly to see if anyone was following him before pulling out. Andrew heard the car approaching from behind, but kept walking until it came to a fast stop next to him. Raina popped the driver’s door, and slid across to the passenger seat. Andrew quickly slipped behind the wheel and pulled the door closed.

“Hi. Where do I—go?” Andrew asked, a little taken aback when he saw her. The European high fashion had given way to plain, almost mannish, clothing, and for an instant he wasn’t even sure it was her.

“Circle the lot and make a right into the square,” Raina replied, and, seeing his expression, explained, “I thought it best to play down the change of drivers—just in case.” She opened the glove box and removed some documents. “I need your driver’s license.”

“In my wallet,” he replied, indicating his shoulder bag on the seat between them.

Raina found Andrew’s international license and affixed an official Russian insert. “Now you are a legal driver,” she said; then referring to the other documents, added, “Vehicle registration, ownership papers, route map,
and
your Intourist itinerary.”