Rockets' Red Glare (33 page)

Chapter Forty-four

The queue for Lenin’s Tomb moved—as Muscovites say—“slower than the frozen Moskva.”

Melanie had been inching forward for well over two hours, concerned that the Politburo members would be gone by the time she got inside. Finally, she walked between the two Red Army guards flanking the bronze doors at Sentry Post Number 1 and entered the vestibule. The line turned left and down a flight of granite steps that led to the feldspar-walled viewing chamber.

The queue entered the severe space from behind the catafalque, which was centered on a black marble platform where the official mourners were seated. The Premier’s angular coffin lay open and tilted slightly to afford a better view of its occupant. The line circled six deep along a marble railing that ringed the platform.

At first, Melanie’s view of the official group was obscured by the blankets of flowers that covered the base of the catafalque. Gradually her sight line moved around it, and one by one, the weighted faces came into view: Gromyko, impassive with button eyes; Tikhonov, austere and openly presumptuous; Dobrinyn, a kindly grandfather’s countenance; Yeletsev, affable, with a trace of impatience; Tvardovskiy, bellicose and clearly bored; Mrs. Kaparov; and then—Deschin.

Melanie’s heart rate soared at the sight of him. The resemblance
was
strong, she thought; and he still had the pride and quiet intelligence she
had seen in her mother’s photograph. The line seemed to be moving much too fast now. Melanie kept hanging back, fighting to hold her place along the marble railing. Others in the line bumped and shoved her as they passed, their eyes riveted on the Politburo’s hardened faces rather than the waxen countenance of their deceased Premier.

Pasha, who was a short distance behind, became concerned and left the queue.

Melanie was trying to catch Deschin’s eye when she felt a hard poke atop her shoulder. She turned to see one of the Red Army guards towering above her.

“Move along, madam” he hissed in Russian, using several sharp jerks of his head for emphasis.

Melanie nodded that she’d comply, and stole a last glance at the official mourners. The guard’s arrival had attracted some attention. Deschin was looking right at her. She locked her eyes onto his, and broke into a hopeful smile. It had been four days since she mailed the letter. Certainly, he’d received it, and would recognize her from the picture she included. She stood her ground against the guard’s presence, waiting for Deschin to acknowledge her—a smile, a nod, a signal of some kind that would indicate he was reaching out—but it never came. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of acceptance in his eyes, only contempt for the disturbance she had caused.

The guard’s fist tightened around her arm. He directed her out of the line forcefully, and ushered her aside to an alcove where Pasha was waiting.

“Why didn’t you keep moving?” Pasha demanded as the guard moved off. He wore a black raincoat and the peaked cap; and his eyes were veiled by green-tinted prescription lenses. He spoke in Russian at low volume but with an intensity that frightened her.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie said. “I don’t understand.”

“Passport,” he said in English, condescendingly.

Melanie took it from her bag and handed it to him.

Pasha’s eyes flicked from her face to the photo. Then he removed a black leather notebook from his coat.

“Oh, and my visa,” she said, assuming he was KGB, and would relent on seeing the green seal.

“Your name and passport number are sufficient,” Pasha replied, copying the information in bold strokes.

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Berlin.”

Pasha noted it. “We don’t tolerate public disturbances,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I had—”

“Do you understand?” he interrupted.

“Yes, I do.”

He nodded crisply and returned her passport. “You’re not a Soviet citizen, so I won’t detain you, now. But this will be reported,” Pasha threatened. “My superiors will decide if you should be arrested and charged with hooliganism. I suggest you avoid such behavior in the meantime.” He directed her to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured she leave.

Melanie hurried into the narrow alley that was shrouded in late afternoon darkness. She followed it back to Red Square, frightened by Pasha’s threat, and depressed over what had happened with Deschin. Maybe he wanted to acknowledge her, she thought, but couldn’t, under the circumstances. Then again, maybe he
hadn’t
gotten the letter, and assumed she was a troublesome Muscovite. Either way, he was her father, and his disdainful glare made her feel small and rejected.

* * * * * *

Spring hadn’t come yet to the barren plains three hundred miles north of Moscow. The temperature in the concrete cell had plunged along with the sun.

Andrew’s fear had given way to a preoccupation with keeping warm. “When do they turn on the heat in this place?” he asked his bruised cellmate, who had introduced himself in English as Viktor, explaining he once taught languages in an elementary school.

“Wait,” Viktor replied with a knowing smile, “we still have warmth from the lights. They’re turned off exactly ten minutes after dinner, and then—” He was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.

It was the pig-eyed guard. She threw two mattresses and two blankets into the cell, and slammed the door.

Viktor kicked the bedding across the cell in disgust. “They did this because you’re here,” he said. “They don’t want you to go back to your country and tell of our barbaric jails.”

“Incredible,” Andrew muttered, amazed that they thought he’d consider the threadbare blankets and thin, lumpy mattresses a humanitarian gesture.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Viktor wondered as they arranged the bedding on the floor. “I thought Americans vacationed in Disneyland and Las Vegas.”

“Business,” Andrew replied with an amused smile. “I decided to stay and visit Leningrad. I hear it’s really beautiful.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Viktor said wistfully. “How did you end up in here?”

“They got me on a driving technicality. What about you?” he asked, stealing a glance at Viktor’s bruises.

“I’m what they call a dissident.”

“You mean you don’t agree with the way the government’s running things.”

“No, no,” Viktor replied, amused at the thought. “The entire population would be branded dissidents if that were the case. No, Andrew, the difference is, I want to do something about it. And that is where they draw the line. They can’t allow organized opposition. You see,” he went on, lowering his voice, “we have a network—we duplicate and distribute literature; we hide political criminals; we help people who want to leave.” He removed his shattered glasses and rubbed the cut on his nose. “They wanted me to name refuseniks who are in our group—Jews who wish to emigrate and have been turned down,” he added in explanation.

“Yes, I know—about them,” Andrew said, catching himself in mid-sentence. He empathized with Viktor and was inclined to confide in him. He almost said “Yes, I know a refusenik in Leningrad.” But he remembered his warning to Melanie, and it gave him pause. “For what it’s worth,” he went on, “your cause has a lot of support in the West.”

“So I’ve heard,” Viktor said in a subdued tone. He glanced at Andrew obliquely, deciding something. “I know I have no right to ask this, Andrew,” he said uncomfortably, “but my family is in Leningrad, and my wife doesn’t know I’ve been arrested. Perhaps you could get a message to her for me when you arrive?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Andrew replied, taken by surprise. “I’m in enough hot water as it is.”

“Just a phone call,” Viktor pleaded. “I’ll give you the location of a safe public box. You say, Viktor is in Novogorod Prison, and hang up. That’s all. My Lidiya’s English is much better than mine,” he added with husbandly pride.

Andrew thought about it for a moment. He heard the desperation in Viktor’s voice, and felt guilty for hesitating. “Okay—If I ever get out of here.”

“Don’t worry,” Viktor said. “Traffic violations aren’t that serious.
You will soon be—” He was interrupted by a metallic clunk as a guard slid back the hatch that covered the slot in the steel door.

Viktor leaped up and took the two bowls the guard pushed through. The soup was lukewarm at best; but the air was so cold that wisps of steam rose from the oily surface. Two chunks of bread came through the slot and bounced on the floor.

Andrew picked them up.

Viktor gave a bowl to Andrew, grabbed a piece of bread, and settled on the mattress scooping the soup into his eager mouth.

Andrew plopped opposite him, and stared at his bowl glumly, sickened at the odor of boiled cabbage. Of the few foods he disliked, boiled cabbage was the one he detested. It literally made him gag.

“Eat,” Viktor said, gesturing to the lights to remind him. “It’s hard to eat soup in the dark.”

Andrew tried a spoonful and made a face.

Viktor chuckled. “
Now
you are in hot water.”

Andrew avoided the bits of chopped cabbage, and sipped the broth slowly. Each spoonful made him shudder, and left grit on his teeth. Mercifully, he thought, the lights went out well before he could finish.

They sat in the darkness and talked into the night, finally falling asleep on the lumpy mattresses.

Andrew tossed and turned fitfully. It seemed as if he’d just dozed off when the lights went on and he heard the clang of the steel door.

The pig-eyed woman and another guard entered. They grabbed Viktor beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet. He had been sound asleep, and was startled and confused and resisted them. They slapped him awake, and dragged him out of the cell.

The door slammed loudly.

Andrew flinched at the sound. He sat on the mattress, stunned, and huddled against the cold, watching his breath rising in front of his face.

Valery Gorodin was in an office down the corridor. He stood at a window that overlooked a barren field.

“I’m wasting my time,” Viktor announced as he entered. His voice had an edge that Andrew never heard. The vulnerability was gone from his face, and he stood tall with military bearing.

The pig-eyed guard was right behind him. She helped him into his police greatcoat to warm him, and handed him a mug of steaming coffee.

“You’re sure?” Gorodin asked.

“Positive. I tried every angle,” Viktor replied disgusted. “He’s very
cautious. He danced around any reference to dissidents, or refuseniks, no matter how I came at him.”

“Then, we were right,” Gorodin said thoughtfully. He had assumed Andrew’s contact would most likely be someone on the dissatisfied fringes of Soviet society. It was always that way in such cases.

“Definitely,” Viktor said. “But he’ll never divulge who. I see no reason for me to spend another second in that meat locker with him.”

“Nor do I,” Gorodin replied. “You think he’ll make the call?”

“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “He hesitated when I asked, and felt quite guilty about it.”

“Good,” Gorodin said. “Then we’ll simply resume our original plan.” He looked to the pig-eyed guard, and said, “Release him.”

The hard-packed woman left the office and took Andrew from his cell to the interrogation room. He had no idea why, until she returned his shoulder bag, and said, “Pay your fine, and you’re free to go.”

“Fine?”

“It covers the cost of food and lodging. One hundred dollars, American.”

Andrew winced, and gave her the cash.

She pocketed it—in a way which told him she would keep it—and led him outside to the Zhiguli.

“This is a new day,” she said. “Remember, no more than five hundred kilometers.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Andrew replied. “You made the point painfully clear.”

He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and roared off, thinking about Mordechai Stvinov and the package of drawings, and getting the hell out of Russia as soon as possible.

But he drove cautiously, glancing often at the rearview mirror, and scrupulously observing the 60 km speed limit. The whomp of a helicopter rose above the sounds of the Zhiguli. Andrew had been driving over an hour, and thought he’d heard it several times before. A coincidence? Were they following him? Where was it headed? Unable to spot it, he rolled down the window, grasped the side-view mirror, and, tilting it at various angles, finally found the chopper directly overhead. He decided he would ditch the car when he got to Leningrad and travel by Metro as a precaution. The city had just appeared on the horizon when it started raining.

The slick road slowed the Zhiguli’s progress, but soon it was moving north on Moskovskiy, the showcase boulevard of Peter the Great’s
grand dream; and in the misty rain, Andrew thought Leningrad resembled one.

He turned off Moskovskiy well before reaching the heart of the city. The rain had intensified by the time he found a place to park on Dobrisky, a crooked street behind the Mir Hotel. He put on a slicker, left the car, and walked the glistening streets to the phone box Viktor had designated on the corner of Ligovskiy.

The green kiosk was unoccupied.

Andrew glanced about cautiously before entering, then lifted the receiver, pushed two kopeks into the slot, and dialed.

“Allo, kto eta?”
a woman’s soft voice said.

“Viktor is in Novogorod Prison,” Andrew said slowly, envisioning a young, vulnerable woman relieved to know her husband was at least alive. “He’s doing okay.” He hung up, wondering how families like Viktor’s don’t lose hope. He had no idea Viktor was KGB, and the number was an extension at local headquarters. Nor, despite his precaution, did Andrew see the two men in black raincoats and fedoras who had staked out the phone box, and followed him through Victory Park to the Metro station on Moskovskiy.

Andrew took the Red Line to the Nevskiy Prospekt station, transferring to the Blue for Vasil’yevskiy Island, the large delta at the mouth of the Neva which flows around it to the Gulf of Finland. It was late afternoon when the train came through the tunnel beneath the river and stopped at the station on Sredniy Prospekt. Andrew climbed the steps to the street. The rain had settled into a steady drizzle. He took the typed page from his wallet and checked Mordechai Stvinov’s address. Dey-neka Street was on the waterfront. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his slicker and headed west on Sredniy.