Rockets' Red Glare (36 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

After leaving the abandoned pier, Andrew drove his father and McKendrick to Leningrad’s Finlyandskiy Station to catch the late morning train back to Helsinki. En route, Churcher familiarized Andrew with the grounds and layout of Deschin’s dacha and, with McKendrick’s help, worked out precisely how he would gain entry. Before getting out of the Zhiguli, Churcher took a camera from his briefcase and gave it to Andrew.

It was a simple, seventy-nine-dollar 35 mm Olympus: compact, fully automatic, built-in flash. “This might come in handy,” he said. “I smuggled the drawings out in plain sight last time,” he went on, grinning at the recollection. “Rolled them up with the plans of a processor we were developing for the Mining Ministry, and carried them on the plane in my hand. But I wasn’t planning on being that lucky twice.”

“Thanks,” Andrew said, taking the camera. It was slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and slipped neatly into his shirt pocket.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” McKendrick said. He mussed Andrew’s hair, got out of the car, and went to the trunk to get their bags.

Churcher remained for a moment. There was a look of pride and acceptance in his eyes Andrew had never seen before.

“Good luck, son,” he said softly. “I’m with you.”

Andrew nodded. “Bye, Dad. I love you.”

Churcher bit a lip, popped the door, and got out.

Andrew headed for Moscow.

Churcher and McKendrick boarded the Helsinki Express and settled into their compartment. The train was still in the station when Churcher said, “I’m going to the head.” He walked to the end of the car, but continued past the lavatory, went down the steps to the platform, and hurried off. The train had pulled out by the time McKendrick went looking for him. It was racing along the main spur when he completed his search and realized Churcher had left the train.

* * * * * *

It took Andrew almost nine hours to drive to Moscow. He parked on Zhandanova Street, a short distance from the Berlin, and went directly to Melanie’s room.

The time was 8:39
P.M.

She was packing.

“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, baffled. It was the last thing he’d expected, and it completely changed the thrust of his approach.

“I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“I found out I’m not wanted here.”

“Your father won’t see you?”

She nodded forlornly, and threw an armful of clothing into the soft travel bag on the bed.

Andrew winced. He just assumed Melanie had made contact with Deschin by now.

“He said that?” he asked.

“He didn’t say anything. Not a word,” Melanie said with evident bitterness. “Hold this, will you?” she asked. She handed him a plastic bag and started tossing toiletries into it.

“Maybe he didn’t get your letter yet?”

“I thought about that, but it’s been almost a week. And I haven’t been out of this room for days, so I know I didn’t miss his call. He got it, Andrew. I know he did. The woman at the Embassy was right. I’m an embarrassment to him.” She forced an ironic laugh at the thought of her naiveté. “I was a fool to think he’d welcome me with open arms. I romanticized the whole thing. He probably slept with every nurse he could get his grubby paws on.”

She tossed a bottle of shampoo into the plastic bag, did the twist-tie, and put it in her travel bag.

“Besides,” she went on, “I’m running out of money, and I can’t take anymore time from my job.”

“Look, you’ve come this far, and—”

“Right, and I’ve got nothing to show for it,” she interrupted. “I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even have a phone number.” She shrugged, and turned to the dresser for a few last items.

Andrew clicked on the television.

Melanie’s head snapped around in reaction as he turned up the volume and crossed the room toward her.

“
I
do,” he whispered.

“You?” she asked, puzzled.

Andrew nodded a little apprehensively.

“You mean you’ve been watching me go crazy trying to contact him, and all along you knew how?” she asked indignantly.

“No. Now, calm down, okay?” he replied. “I got the information this morning from my father.”

“I thought he was dead?”

“So did I. I’m as confused as you are, believe me.”

“Sure,” she said sarcastically, and resumed packing.

“Melanie, it’s a dangerous situation. I didn’t want to get you involved.”

“Now you do—”

Andrew nodded. “To make a long story short, my father made a—a deal with the Russians. Something that could really hurt the United States.”

“He was involved in espionage?”

“Good a word as any,” he replied, trying to hide the shame he felt. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on some documents that can turn it around—and your father has them.”

Melanie looked at him in disbelief.

“It’s important, Melanie,” Andrew went on fervently. “There’s a lot at stake. People have put their lives on the line to help me.”

“You’re asking me to risk my life?”

“I’m asking you to take your father to dinner—to the ballet, anywhere. Keep him busy for an evening, so he and his KGB watchdogs won’t get in my way.”

“Andrew—I just told you he won’t see me.”

“He will once he hears your voice.”

She shook no. “I still wouldn’t help you.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“I had a run-in with the KGB.”

“You’re kidding—”

“I wish I were. They threatened to arrest me. They still might,” she replied, her voice cracking. “I can’t take any chances. I’m afraid.”

Andrew was suddenly hearing the snap and squeak of surgical rubber, and imagined Melanie being strip-searched by the pig-eyed policewoman, or more likely her pig-eyed brother. He shuddered at the thought. “I can’t say I blame you,” he said, softening his tone.

She smiled, and leveled a tender gaze at him. “I like you, Andrew. I might even love you,” she said, thinking of the many times she’d sworn that she would never, ever again, utter those words to a man, and of her long-standing decision to avoid love affairs, to keep her emotions walled in, as a way of insuring she’d never get hurt again.

Andrew didn’t react to the remark. He didn’t know how. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said they loved him.

“I’m not sure what made me say that,” Melanie continued, amazed that having done so, having allowed the wall to crack, she was now letting it crumble. “I mean, we hardly even know each other, not to mention I’ve got fifteen years on you.”

“Fourteen,” Andrew said with a warm smile.

“I guess, if I’m honest with myself,” Melanie went on, “it’s because lately—I’ve had feelings that I haven’t had in years.” She said the last part slowly, cautiously, then paused, and shrugged vulnerably before adding, “But I don’t want to end up in Siberia, and I don’t want to die. I’ve gotten along without my father all these years. I’ll manage somehow.”

She planted a light kiss on his lips, swept the travel bag off the bed, and left the room.

Andrew let out a long breath, and sat down on the bed to collect his thoughts. His concentration was broken by applause from the television, where “Let’s Go Girls!"—a popular Soviet game show—was in progress. Three zaftig women from a dairy collective had been competing in a milking contest, and the winner had just raised her pail in triumph.

Melanie checked out of the Berlin, and took a taxi to Sheremetyevo Airport.

Andrew left Melanie’s room, went to a street corner phone box, and called Deschin’s dacha. There was no answer. He made a beeline for the Zhiguli.

A few minutes later, a Volga pulled up in front of the Hotel Berlin. Pasha got out, hurried inside, and discovered Melanie had checked out.

She was at Sheremetyvo, in the check in line for the late evening flight to London with a connection to JFK, thinking about her father, and Andrew, and having second thoughts about leaving, when she heard a voice.

“Miss Winslow—”

Melanie turned. A chill went through her when she saw Pasha approaching. She was going to be arrested by the KGB and thrown into one of those horrible prisons! And for what? She hadn’t done anything! Lucinda Bartlett’s words rang in her head: “Subject to their laws! Embassy could do little to help you!” She started backing away, terrified; then, panicking, she turned and ran through the terminal toward the street.

Pasha pursued her outside to the arrivals loop.

A black Volga roared forward and screeched to a stop next to her, blocking her way. The front passenger door popped open.

Pasha caught up with Melanie and bear-hugged her toward it. She was trying to knee him in the groin when Gorodin’s hands came from within the car and pulled her inside. Melanie whirled blindly, pummeling him, struggling to get free. Gorodin parried the blows, got hold of her wrists, and held them tightly until she recognized him.

“Gorodin!” she exclaimed.

“Your father wants to see you,” he said, relaxing his grip when she stopped struggling.

Pasha tossed her travel bag into the backseat and got in next to her.

Gorodin tromped on the accelerator.

The Volga lurched forward and roared into the night.

* * * * * *

Andrew had the Zhiguli’s gas pedal to the floor, heading down the M2 highway for Zhukova village. The paved ribbon led to a gravel road that snaked through the estate country southwest of Moscow. A low stone wall told him he was nearing Deschin’s estate. He killed the headlights and engine, coasting for about a quarter mile before pulling off the road into a grove of cottonwoods. The Zhiguli rolled to a stop behind a dense thicket of brambles that concealed it.

He slipped out of the car, went to the trunk, and removed the jack— bumper type with shoe that ratchets on a long, notched square tube. The L-shaped tire iron that doubled as a ratchet handle was affixed to the tube. Next, he unclipped the shoulder strap from the snap rings of his suitcase, and hooked one of the fasteners into each end of the tube, making a sling. After closing the trunk, he put an arm through the makeshift sling and, carrying the jack against his back like a rifle, hurried off in the darkness. The wind blew in halfhearted gusts as he came to a rise that overlooked Deschin’s dacha.

The eighteenth-century czarist mansion was surrounded by cotton-woods, and sprawled across a swale in the rolling landscape. A fieldstone
and wood facade rose in tiers beneath a steeply sloped snow roof that had deep overhangs and numerous dormers.

The ground level was comprised of two main wings: residential— dining room, library, and study—on the left; and maintainence— kitchen, servants’ quarters, garages, and storage facilities—on the right. Long corridors branched off from a two-story entrance hall connecting them. Sleeping quarters were on a second level that spanned the lower wings.

The windows were dark, and neither cars nor guards were visible as Andrew approached.

The way in—the way around the alarm system—was via the roof. But as his father had warned, the overhangs and steep slope made it inaccessible from the ground. Churcher had also told him of the big trees, and now Andrew was hurrying toward a cottonwood off to the right side of the dacha.

The huge main trunk split into three smaller ones. Andrew climbed up into the crotch, and shinnied up the trunk closest to the dacha. One of the limbs branched off and extended well over the roof. Andrew straddled it for a moment, catching his breath, then he grasped it with both hands and humped forward toward the dacha. He paused to snap off some twigs that were in his way, and saw headlights through the trees in the distance.

Two cars were winding along the approach road.

Andrew froze as Deschin’s Chaika and a KGB Volga drove through the entrance and stopped on a graveled parking area in front of the dacha.

Deschin got out carrying the mailing tube that contained the roll of
Kira
drawings. He and Uzykin were joined by the two KGB guards who were in the Volga. Deschin gave them brief instructions, then he and Uzykin went to the dacha. Deschin tapped out a code on the keypad next to the door, deactivating the alarm system, and they entered.

Andrew was straddling the limb, thinking fast—thinking that he’d continue to the roof, hide behind the dormers until morning, and make his move after Deschin and the guards left. He watched warily as one moved off across the grounds at an easy patrol pace. Then, his eyes darted to the other, who went to a stone fireplace at the rear of the house and began tossing in kindling from a woodpile next to it.

This was no time for a cookout, Andrew reasoned, and Deschin sure didn’t come all the way out here to burn garbage.
Damn!
he thought as it dawned on him,
the son of a bitch is going to burn the drawings
!
.

There’d be no waiting till morning, now. Unarmed, and one against
six, Andrew decided that stealth rather than direct confrontation was still his best chance, and he resumed his journey.

He was about halfway to the dacha when he reached a network of thick branches that blocked his way. He pulled a leg back over the limb, and turned sideways onto his stomach. Then, hands grasping the limb like a fat gymnastics bar, he eased over headfirst until he was hanging beneath it, about twenty-five feet above the ground, and began working his way hand over hand toward the roof. He’d traveled a short distance when he spotted the patrolling guard approaching on a course that would take him between the tree and the dacha—right beneath Andrew.

Andrew adjusted the position of his hands, and swung his legs up around the limb to lessen the strain on his arms and minimize his profile.

The movement dislodged a large piece of bark.

Andrew craned his neck, and watched the curved, jagged-edged square wafting toward the ground.

It was headed right for the guard, right for a three-point landing on his head. But a little gust of wind altered its course slightly. And it fell behind him—within a millimeter of grazing the back of his raincoat—as he strolled directly beneath Andrew.

It hit the ground with a little click.