by Greg Dinallo
“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 th
ey 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.
The guard paused in midstride, cocked his head curiously, and turned around.
Andrew was hanging directly above him—like a skewered pig at a Texas barbecue, he thought, hoping it wasn’t a precursor of things to come.
That’s when the guard noticed the headlights of an approaching car and, instead of looking up, started walking toward the entrance gate.
Andrew sighed, relieved. He swung his legs down from the limb, and continued hand over hand toward the dacha. He was soon hanging above it, his feet about four feet from the roof. He had planned to just drop onto it. But the house was occupied now, and he didn’t want to make a thud when he landed. He realized that the limb and up-sloping roof were at converging angles, which meant the distance between them would diminish as he moved outward. So, he kept going—the limb bending slightly under his weight, the roof rising toward him—and finally, the waffled tips of his Reeboks scraped against the slate surface below. He inched a little farther, and let go, landing silently in a crouch.
The car that had gotten the guard’s attention pulled through the gate and crunched to a stop on the gravel next to the other vehicles.
Andrew had made his way to the center of the dacha’s roof, behind two sharply peaked dormers that concealed him. His eyes widened in amazement when first Gorodin, and then Melanie, got out of the Volga, and were ushered into the dacha by the guard.
Pasha drove off in the Volga.
The guard resumed his rounds.
Andrew crawled around to the front of one of the dormers. Two small French windows were set into the recessed facade. He slipped the blade of a pocketknife between the overlapping frames. The latch had been painted over, and it took three tries before he broke the bond and it flicked open. Despite his father’s assurances that only ground floor doors and windows were alarmed, Andrew opened these with apprehension, expecting to hear the piercing shriek at any moment. But his anxiety was unfounded.
Next, he unslung the jack and set it on the roof. It wasn’t part of his plan to get into the dacha, but into a locked room inside it. Placed horizontally across the door at lock level, the jack would easily bow the jambs the one half to three quarters of an inch necessary to expose the deadbolt, allowing the door to be opened. But now that the house was occupied, there’d be no using the jack, not with its noisey ratchet; once inside, he’d have to improvise. Andrew left the jack behind, and climbed into the attic without incident.
* * * * * *
Gorodin showed Melanie to a guest room on the second level and put her suitcase on the bed. She went to a mirror, took a brush from her purse, and began running it through her hair. En route from the airport, he had informed her of Deschin’s stake in the current political scene, and she was thinking about that now, thinking about her father becoming the Soviet Premier.
“Ready?” Gorodin asked.
She straightened her clothing, and took a moment to compose herself. “Yes,” she said nervously.
“Remember,” Gorodin warned, “Pasha and I are your father’s friends. We share his secret. But officially, you’re a representative from an American dance company, meeting the minister to arrange a tour.”
Melanie nodded, and followed Gorodin from the room.
The guard at the stone fireplace behind the house thought he had a fair-sized blaze going. But only the paper he had stuffed beneath the wood was burning, and it soon went out. He was trying to relight it when the patrolling guard arrived.
“Give me a hand with this,” the inept fire-maker said. “The minister will be out here any minute.”
“I doubt it,” the other replied. He broke into a salacious grin, adding, “And so would you, comrade, if you’d seen what just arrived.”
“Ah, he’s starting a little fire of his own.”
“Precisely. I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in yours until she leaves.”
It was a natural conclusion. The state-supplied women were dispatched here as well as to the Moscow apartment. And the guards had seen many arrive.
Gorodin showed Melanie into a large study, shutting the big wooden doors behind him as he left.
The room was ringed with chestnut wainscoting, and covered in dark floral-patterned paper. Bulky thirties furniture, and heavy draperies, gave it the gloomy feeling of Deschin’s Moscow apartment.
He was sitting in a big square armchair that swallowed him. A cigarette burned in his left hand. Smoke rose into the light that came from a reading lamp. The glow grazed the side of his face, leaving his features obscured, and sent a bold shadow across the floor in front of him.
Melanie remained where Gorodin had left her, and stood unmoving until Deschin broke the electrifying stillness.
“Sit down,” he said in a strong voice, gesturing to a chair opposite his.
Melanie smiled demurely, and sat on the edge of the cushion. Her eyes hid behind the rise of her cheekbones, flicking nervous glances at him.
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you the other day,” she said awkwardly, in a dry voice.
Deschin neither reacted nor replied, staring at her impassively for a long moment. “You couldn’t,” he finally said. “I didn’t know who you were.”
“And I was so sure that you’d gotten my letter, and were rejecting me,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“It came this afternoon,” he said.
“Oh—”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” she replied defensively, unnerved by his manner. “I don’t want anything.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I was curious about you. I wanted to know what you were like.”
“Then, that’s what you want.”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“Why now? Why at this time?”
“I didn’t know you existed until about a month ago. I found out after my mother died.”
Deschin didn’t expect that, and stiffened.
Melanie saw it, and regained some of her confidence. “You know, Gorodin told me what’s going on. I can’t believe you think I came all this way to hurt you. Why are you being so hostile?”
“You—threaten me,” he replied, surprised by her directness, which pleased him. “You always have.”
Melanie blinked in astonishment.
“Yes, I knew,” he said before she could ask. “I always thought this day would come.”
How? she wondered. “My mother’s letter was never delivered. It was sealed. I opened it.”
“And so did Military Intelligence,” he explained. “The war was almost over, and they knew our countries wouldn’t be allies much longer. When they saw my code name on the envelope, they steamed it open to examine the contents, then delivered it unsealed—a subtle way of informing me I was no longer trusted.”
“You read it, sealed it, and sent it back—”
Deschin nodded.
“Why?”
“To protect myself.”
“You mean professionally?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, and shook no. “Emotionally,” he replied. “I was devastated when your mother decided to leave Italy. We’d been through so much together. It took me a year to get over her. When I read the letter, when I saw what we could’ve had—” he paused suppressing his bitterness. “It was a way of denying it. I couldn’t allow myself any expectations.” His chest heaved, and he stubbed out the cigarette and pulled himself from the chair.
Melanie felt saddened, but her eyes flickered with anxiety as he circled behind her. She wasn’t sure what to expect until the light caught his face, and she saw that, despite it all, he was pleased she was there.
“Gorodin told me it’s been a trying quest.”
“Yes, it has.”
“I hope I prove worthy of it,” he said, holding out a hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. They were about to leave when Deschin glanced to the mailing tube that was leaning against his chair. He took it, and led the way from the study.
* * * * * *
After climbing through the dormer, Andrew had crawled across the rafters in the unfinished attic to a ceiling hatch. He eased it aside and reached through the opening into the darkness, running his hand along the ceiling. His fingers found a light fixture and tugged on the pull chain. The bare bulb came on with a loud click that made him flinch. He peered down into a utility room, where a small patch of floor was visible amidst an assortment of tools and equipment, then eased down through the opening.