"Yes, sir," Rylev replied. "The American pianist is still at her dacha, according to my latest information."
Volnikov grinned. "Maybe he's moving in," he suggested. "Maybe he's defecting."
Rylev smiled. "I doubt it, sir. The pianist strikes me as being a little smarter than that."
"Perhaps. Do we know what they talked about?"
"Only when they were inside the dacha. And there they did very little talking at all."
"Too bad. Is she supposed to be at the institute today?"
"I believe so."
"If she's late, or if she doesn't show up at all, give her hell. It was nice of you to allow her to take yesterday off. Now she is trying our patience. We can't allow her to consort with the enemy."
Rylev nodded. "A most irresponsible girl. Shall I tell her that we know what she was doing?"
"Hint, Comrade, hint. Always let them worry about exactly how much you know—that way, they will assume you know everything."
"Yes, sir."
Volnikov made a gesture of dismissal. Rylev saluted smartly and left the office.
Volnikov stared at the report. Yes, Rylev was a good man. It was so pleasant to deal with people who were responsible, dependable, predictable. Valentina Borisova, on the other hand...
Volnikov had originally studied to be a mechanical engineer, and something of the engineer still clung to him after all these years. He liked it when operations were simple and direct, when the people in them acted like parts of an engine. Threaten most people with death or the gulag, and they will do what you tell them, just as a spark plug ignites gasoline. This was not being simple-minded about his work—it was, after all, a very Marxist way of looking at things. Valentina Borisova, unfortunately, was not like most people. She was, in fact, unlike anyone in the Soviet Union, as far as his people could determine, and perhaps unlike anyone in the world. And that, of course, made her immensely valuable, even as it made his job more difficult.
Volnikov was, however, capable of handling Valentina Borisova, and all the complexities that her case presented. Just as he was capable of obtaining the formula for the drug the CIA had produced and using it to bring America to its knees, as well as anyone else who needed to be defeated. Just as he was capable of ruling the Soviet Union, once the Politburo saw his triumphs, once all its members were forced to admit that his way was better than Grigoriev's.
He knew that Grigoriev thought he was just a thickheaded muzhik, a boor who got where he was by luck and terror. Grigoriev was wrong, however, as he was wrong about so many things, and that miscalculation would be his undoing.
Grigoriev was an intellectual, a tinkerer. A little capitalism here, a little freedom there. And a lot of disarmament. Like many others before him, he believed that what Russia needed was to become less Russian. If only we can be enough like the West, we will survive. But how does Russia survive, if in the process it stops being Russian? Russians didn't care about democracy, they didn't want freedom; they wanted strength, and it was precisely this that Grigoriev was bent on denying them.
Volnikov was determined not to let Grigoriev succeed, and he believed he was well on his way to his goal. Grigoriev's own hankering after democracy would do him in, in the end. And that would only be fitting.
Volnikov closed the report on Valentina Borisova and poured himself some more coffee. He had a long day ahead of him. They would all be long days now, until the summit.
Chapter 24
Fulton opened his eyes. Valentina was there, lying in the crook of his shoulder, her fine blond hair brushing against his cheek. The night had not been a dream.
She was still asleep. He ran a finger along the line of her jaw. She stirred, but did not awaken. She looked very young, and very happy.
He gently moved his arm from beneath her head and got up. It was a bright sunny day. He put on his slacks and shirt and went to the outhouse. Afterward, he stood and gazed at the path leading into the mysterious Russian woods. He had been inside them and come out again. Would he be able to bring Valentina out? He had to. Nothing mattered more.
"Daniel?" She came out of the dacha and joined him. She took his hand and leaned against him, and for a few moments they stood in silence, listening to the birdsong. "When I awoke, and you weren't there," she said after a while, "I wasn't frightened. I knew you would not leave me."
"I don't understand this," he said. "But I guess I'm not supposed to. If only—three years ago—"
"Perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps we have both grown wiser."
"I'm no closer to wisdom than I ever was. But at least I know one thing now: I have to get you to America."
"How will you do it?"
"I have no idea. I'll be talking to someone from the CIA before I leave. I assume he'll know how to go about it. Don't worry."
But of course she would worry. She would be foolish not to. He put his arm around her and held her close. "We can't stay here today, can we?" she murmured.
"I don't think it would be a good idea. I'm sure people are already looking for me—and maybe for you too. I've taken a big risk just talking openly about this; we could both be bugged. No sense taking any more risks."
She nodded. "No. No more risks. But how shall I find out what to do?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting place or something."
She considered. "I shall be in the Komsomol Square metro station every evening at eight until I hear from you. Will that be all right?"
"I guess so. But I don't know for sure. I'm not a spy. I wish I were."
"Do not become a spy. I love you as you are, Daniel Fulton."
He kissed the top of her head. It seemed so strange. He had spent three years thinking about Valentina Borisova, but had spent less than a day with her. And now his life had changed irrevocably. She loved him; did he love her? He didn't know enough about life to be sure. But it didn't matter; he knew what he had to do. "We'd better go," he whispered.
But they could not bear to move. Instead they stood there in each other's arms, on the edge of the dark woods, just a while longer.
* * *
Hershohn was talking to a couple of people from the American embassy when Fulton walked into the small lobby of the National Hotel. He was unshaven; his clothes were rumpled; he looked exhausted. The American officials spotted Fulton at the same time Hershohn did, and he didn't have a chance to head them off.
"Mr. Fulton, I'm John McEvoy from the American embassy, and this is Mike Thornton. It's a real pleasure meeting you, sir."
Hershohn grimaced as they each gave Fulton's hand a hearty American shake.
"Mr. Fulton," Thornton said, "we understand that you're going to be leaving the Soviet Union tomorrow, and we would count it a great honor if you'd drop by the embassy before you go. We've tentatively scheduled a little reception in your honor at six o'clock this evening, but of course we can change that if it's not convenient."
Fulton stared at the two men. Hershohn awaited the explosion; he had a feeling that one reception had been plenty for Fulton. "Six o'clock would be fine," Fulton replied.
"That's terrific," McEvoy said.
"We'll send a car around for you at a quarter of," Thornton said.
"I'm looking forward to it," Fulton said.
The two Americans shook his hand again and left the hotel. Fulton looked over at Hershohn. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," Hershohn replied. "Glad to see you're still alive."
"Glad to be alive."
Hershohn didn't want to know where Fulton had been. He didn't want to know why he had accepted the invitation to the American embassy so readily. Right now all he wanted to do was go home and get Fulton home safely with him. "Is there anything you need, Daniel?"
"Just some rest." He paused for a moment. "It was a pretty good recital, wasn't it, Charles?"
Hershohn smiled. "Yes. It was pretty good."
Fulton stood there for another moment, and then headed for the elevator.
* * *
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Fulton had been at the reception only a short while before he spotted Lawrence Hill standing in the midst of the crowd in the elegant embassy ballroom. He was relieved and excited. Hill was a professional. Hill would be in charge now, and he would make it all turn out right.
There were a few minutes of autographing and chitchat, and then Fulton was prevailed upon to play something. The Steinway was not quite in tune, and the acoustics were execrable, but he obliged. He gave them the Mephisto Waltz and a couple of Joplin rags, and everyone seemed pleased. Hill approached him as the applause died. "Go to the bathroom," he murmured, smiling.
Fulton chatted a while longer, then asked to be excused. Hill was waiting for him outside the ballroom. "This way," he said. "Quickly."
Hill took him down a narrow corridor, then into an elevator that brought them up to the third floor. From there they went into a cramped, windowless room, sparsely furnished with several office chairs around a long table with an imitation wood top. "This is the only place in the embassy we can be reasonably sure is free of bugs," Hill said. "It's a room built inside another room. The walls are lined with metal to shield it from any listening devices in the building's structural supports. And it's swept twice a day, just to be sure."
"Oh," was all Fulton could say. There were so many things to think about.
They sat down on opposite sides of the table. "Sorry to put you through another reception," Hill said, "but we needed an excuse that would get you here without making the Soviets suspicious. We assume they know you spent yesterday with Borisova."
"So you know it too," Fulton said.
Hill nodded. "Of course. But we don't know what happened. How did you make out?"
"She's willing to defect," Fulton said. "But she won't do for you what she's doing for the Russians. It's killing her. She'll let you talk to her and maybe test her, that's all." She hadn't made any conditions, of course, but Fulton felt he had to make them for her.
Hill broke into a broad grin. "That's perfectly acceptable. Congratulations, Daniel."
Fulton shrugged. "So how does she defect?"
"Well, the Soviet Union isn't the easiest place to get anyone out of. But we're in luck. We've been informed that her next job is going to take place in London. Things should be much easier there."
"I'd like to be involved."
Hill shook his head. "Not possible, Daniel. Never mind that it will be dangerous. The Soviets will be suspicious of you now. They'll be extra careful if they find out you're in the same city as Borisova. The same thing is true of me, by the way. They know me too well, so I'll have to stay away."
It made sense. But still, he didn't want to leave Valentina totally in the CIA's hands. "She needs to know what to do next," he said. "She and I agreed she'd be in the Komsomol Square metro station every night at eight. That's the only time an approach should be made."
Hill nodded. "We can handle that."
"She wants to talk to me," Fulton said.
"But see, that's the same—"
"She won't trust you if I don't talk to her again," Fulton interrupted. He was making it up, but it felt right. "She's a lonely, scared girl who believes in me and nothing else. Don't ask too much of her."
"It's too great a risk having you see her again," Hill said. "The KGB is bound to be keeping an even closer eye on her now. What if the operation in London is canceled because they don't think they can trust her outside the USSR?"
Fulton considered. He looked at his watch. "I think there might be a way," he said.
* * *
Valentina looked at her watch. It was quarter past eight. If she were waiting for a Russian, she wouldn't have considered leaving. But Americans were prompt, she knew. If they were coming, they would have been here by now.
A couple of Red Army soldiers stumbled off the long escalator, trying not to look drunk. They stared at her appraisingly, but apparently decided that vodka was more appealing. A weary woman in a shapeless coat hurried past, her string bag filled with groceries. Valentina too was tired, but she couldn't rest yet. Had she been followed? Was she being watched? She had tried to come here by a roundabout route, but she wasn't a professional; she was sure they could track her if they wanted to. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea. Perhaps she should leave.
She decided to give it a few more minutes. She looked up at the mosaic on the ceiling of the station. It showed the parade in Red Square celebrating the victory over the Fascists in 1945. As they did on all ceremonial occasions, the Soviet leaders stood atop Lenin's tomb, watching as the Fascist banners were piled in front of them. The faces of most of the leaders had been whited out, having fallen victim to the judgment of history. What a strange country she lived in, Valentina thought: always trying to rewrite its past, mistrusting its own citizens, pretending it was on the march toward some ever-receding Utopia, while in the meantime people lived more or less as they had always lived—badly, in fear, with little hope of change. Grigoriev seemed to be trying, but he wouldn't succeed, any more than the occasional reform-minded tsar had succeeded in the old days. No matter how much they rewrote it, the past still existed, and it was too strong to overcome.
Eight-twenty. Would America be any better? You never knew how much of the propaganda to believe: Russia rewrote the present as well as the past. But surely in America there was crime and poverty and racism and a mindless obsession with wealth. What good is freedom if you are too poor, or too afraid, to enjoy it? What good is freedom if you use it only to oppress your fellow man?
And could there ever be freedom for someone like her, whose mind was a weapon that nations could not hope to duplicate?
It didn't matter, of course. Russia, America, Mars. All that mattered was being with Daniel. He was an American; that meant she would become an American too. She could still feel the pressure of his body, see his wondrous smile, smell his exotic mixture of American scents: deodorant, shaving cream, cologne. How could the abstractions of patriotism compare with his reality?
Eight-twenty-five. An old woman was berating a leather-jacketed teenager for pushing past her. A train roared through the station. Two little girls wearing Pioneer kerchiefs skipped by, holding hands, while a mother trailed them. She should leave; nothing was going to happen tonight.
Valentina headed for the exit. An old man was getting off the down escalator. It was not very cold out, but he was wearing a large overcoat, a fur hat, and gloves. He leaned heavily on his cane. She was about to walk past him when he stepped into her path. "Excuse me," he whispered in raspy English. "Is this the train for Carnegie Hall?"
Valentina tried desperately not to laugh, not to embrace this man with the white eyebrows and sunken cheeks and rheumy eyes. She shook her head. "You can't get to Carnegie Hall from here," she whispered.
"Yes you can," Fulton replied. "You're going to London. Will you be staying at the embassy?"
She nodded. "I think so."
"All right. While you're there, try to go for a walk—preferably after dark. It doesn't matter if you're guarded, just get out of the embassy. Understand?"
"Yes. Will you be there?"
He shook his head. "Too risky. They thought this was a risk too."
"It is. I got a strong lecture today at the institute. I am not supposed to see you again."
"When you see me again, Valentina, it'll be in America. Good luck."
"I love you, Daniel."
He smiled at her briefly, and then hobbled off toward the trains. Valentina waited a moment, wondering if she could risk a look back at him, then decided against it. No more risks. She would do what she was told, and she would go to London, and somehow she would get out of the embassy. That was all she had to do. And then, perhaps, her life could begin.
She got on the up escalator and left the station.
Chapter 25
Bill Sullivan read everything he could get his hands on about Daniel Fulton's trip to Moscow. His recital, according to the reviews, had been a triumph; his encounters with the press ha
d been cordial; his Soviet hosts had been, naturally, delighted with him. It was a success for everyone—except the United States, which had to sit by while the eyes of the world were on the Soviet Union and its Peace Festival.
Of course, Fulton could have been secretly working for United States intelligence while he was in Moscow. He could have set up the defection of a vitally important Soviet citizen, following a plan developed by one William Sullivan, a nondescript career government employee currently toiling in an obscure position in the Directorate of Intelligence. In that case, the United States would have been the big winner, no matter how much of a propaganda victory the Soviet Union had scored.
But William Sullivan had no way of finding out if his plan was being used, no way of knowing if Fulton had made contact with Valentina Borisova, or if Borisova had let her infatuation with the pianist overcome her loyalty to her country. He had no need to know, and so he wasn't told. The Peace Festival ended, Fulton returned to the United States, and life went on as usual at CIA headquarters.
There was one source of information available to Sullivan, however: Vladimir Osipov, and through him, Doctor Olga Chukova. It was Sullivan's job to find out what Doctor Chukova knew, and no one stopped him from doing his job.
A few days after Fulton returned to America, a report came in from Moscow station. Preparations were complete for the operation in London. Chukova was excited—it was her first trip outside the Soviet Union—but Borisova seemed remarkably calm, almost happy. Still no information on the target.
Sullivan stared at the brief report for a long time after he read it. In this sort of job, you never have enough information, and you get used to reading a lot between the lines. Borisova would not have been in a good mood unless she had met with Fulton, he decided. The defection would take place in London.
What a stroke of luck that she was leaving the country so soon after Fulton's approach to her! Sullivan's plan had been vague on the details of the actual defection—a flaw that people had been quick to point out to him. In London, the operation still wouldn't be easy, but at least it would be possible—if the president was willing to risk an international incident on the eve of the summit. It was worth it, Sullivan thought; the chance might not come again. But no one was asking his opinion.
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