by Greg Dinallo
Melanie and Deschin had crossed the entry hall and were walking down one of the corridors toward the maintenance wing. Deschin detoured to an alcove where a door that opened onto the rear of the dacha was located, and peered outside. The fireplace was unattended. A few lazy flames were licking at the charred stone. He snapped his fingers several times, and the guard came running.
“What’s the problem?” Deschin asked in Russian.
“We thought you’d—prefer to wait, sir,” the guard replied, flicking a nervous look to Melanie.
“I asked you to build a fire, comrade. I expect it to be done. Notify me when it is.”
The guard nodded stiffly and hurried off.
Deschin closed the door and shook his head in disgust. “Something I’d hope to have accomplished before you arrived,” he said to Melanie as they moved off down the corridor.
In the utility room, Andrew was completing his descent, taking care not to dislodge anything that would make a noise. He had barely touched down when he heard footsteps in the corridor on the other side of the door. He stood on his toes, stretched to the light fixture, and unscrewed the bulb a few turns to shut it off.
The footsteps came closer and closer.
Andrew turned the knob gingerly and opened the door a crack.
Deschin and Melanie walked right past him and turned a corner at the far end of the corridor.
Andrew slipped out of the utility room and followed. He laid back and peered around the corner, watching as they continued to a heavy wooden door.
Deschin took keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and swung it open, gesturing to Melanie to enter first.
She stepped tentatively into the darkened space.
The glimmer of a pale moon came through a wire glass skylight, silhouetting what appeared to be an immense winged insect overhead.
Deschin followed, closing and bolting the door. “You said you wanted to know me—” he said, letting the sentence trail off as he turned on the lights.
The room exploded with brilliance and color.
Picasso’s incendiary “Three Women” was directly opposite the entry. A huge Calder mobile hung beneath the skylight. Each wall displayed great works of art from the Hermitage and Pushkin: Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Renoir, Monet, among them. Deschin’s gallery was no match for Churcher’s museum, but the contents would more than hold their own—these were original works.
Melanie was stunned, as Deschin had anticipated.
“Venture about,” he said with a pleased smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Melanie nodded, her eyes darting from the Picasso to Cézanne’s “Woman in Blue” on an adjacent wall.
Deschin went to a workroom within the gallery where paintings were stored and crated. He paused in the door and stole a glance at Melanie, watching her for a moment. A proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Then he entered the room, put the mailing tube on a table, and went to a cabinet. The package Gorodin had stolen from Churcher’s museum was on the top shelf. Deschin put it on the table next to the mailing tube, and returned to the gallery.
Andrew was in the corridor right outside the gallery now. He pulled some crumpled rubles from his jeans, and tore the corner off one of them. Next, he wet his thumb and forefinger with saliva, rolled the paper between them, and forced the tiny spitball into the keyhole in the gallery door, then hurried back down the corridor to the utility room.
Melanie was standing in front of a Degas when Deschin rejoined her. The tiny masterpiece was from the lyrical series of ballet dancers that the Impressionist had painted near the end of his life.
Deschin looked from the painting to Melanie’s splayed stance, and smiled knowingly.
“My mother danced,” he said.
Melanie turned to him, her face suddenly aglow.
“Oh—” she exclaimed in a fulfilled whisper. “I always knew it came from somewhere.”
“Your grandmother’s name was Tatiana. Tatiana Chinovya,” he said, pleased at the effect of his remark.
“Where did she dance?”
“With the Bolshoi,” he said proudly.
“My God—” Melanie said, awestruck.
“In the ensemble,” he added, tempering his answer but not her reaction. “When I was a child,” he went on reflectively, “I would slip backstage and watch her perform. I was always so fascinated, and felt such pride.”
He paused, and touched Melanie’s cheek with his fingertips.
“We both have her face; but you have her fine bones, and no doubt her talent. A man couldn’t ask for more in a daughter. You’re all I have, you know.”
Melanie’s face flushed with warmth.
“Was Sarah happy?” he asked somewhat suddenly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good,” he said, trying to sound detached.
Melanie sensed his wistfulness, despite it. “But I always had the feeling her life wasn’t—complete,” she went on for his sake.
Deschin felt his eyes getting misty.
“Your grandfather was in the military,” he said brightly to get past the moment. “He cut quite a handsome figure in his uniform. I have pictures of him—and many of your grandmother dancing.”
Her expression told him he didn’t have to ask if she wanted to see them. He led the way from the gallery, turned off the lights, closed the door, and inserted the key into the lock. But it wouldn’t turn. He removed it, checking that he had the right one.
As Andrew had planned, the key had pushed the spitball to the rear of the keyhole. The speck of paper was only a few millimeters thick, and the key appeared to be fully inserted despite the fact that it wasn’t. Nevertheless, the offset was enough to keep the key’s ridges from properly engaging the pin tumblers—just enough to prevent the lock from turning.
Deschin inserted the key again, with the same result. He shrugged, assuming something in the mechanism had broken, and headed off with Melanie.
Andrew heard them pass the utility room. He waited a few moments, then slipped into the corridor and entered the gallery.
Melanie and Deschin returned to the study. He went to a desk and pressed a button on the phone, then removed a photo album from the book shelves behind him, and brought it to Melanie. They settled side by side on a sofa and began looking through the pictures.
A few moments later, Uzykin came from his quarters in response to the buzz. He opened the door to the study, waiting until Deschin beckoned before entering.
“I couldn’t lock the gallery,” Deschin said, giving him his keys. “See what you can do with it.”
Andrew had made his way to the gallery workroom and found the package and mailing tube on the table. Heart pounding, fingers shaking, he unscrewed the cap, slipped the drawings from the tube, and flattened them on the table. He was reaching to his pocket for the camera when the lights in the gallery came on. His head snapped around at the brightness. He hurried to the workroom door and peered into the gallery.
Uzykin had opened the door, stabbed the key into the lock, and was trying to turn it. He stood on the far side of the door, which opened inward and blocked his view of the gallery. He pushed the key in and out of the lock repeatedly, twisting and jiggling it to get it to turn—and then all of a sudden it did. His machinations had mashed the spitball against the metal back plate, mushrooming the paper out, around the tip of the key; thereby allowing him to push it all the way into the cylinder, and turn it.
Andrew heard it; heard the unmistakable rotation of the tumbler and thrust of the deadbolt. He realized he was about to be locked in and was starting to feel panicky when he heard the sound again, and then again.
Uzykin was turning the key back and forth repeatedly now, watching the deadbolt go in and out to make certain it was working properly.
Andrew took the package of drawings addressed to Boulton, slipped it into his waistband against the small of his back, and hurried into the gallery. He slid along the wall, timing his steps to the sound of the lock to cov
er any noise.
Uzykin stopped working the key.
Andrew froze a distance from the door. The Riffian warrior of Matisse’s “Moroccan In Green” stared impassively over his shoulder. Uzykin was about to close the door, and lock it. Three fast strides put Andrew directly behind it. On the fourth, he smashed the sole of his shoe into the hardwood frame. It caught Uzykin square in the face with a loud thud. He let out a groan, and went sprawling across the floor.
Andrew scooted around the door, into the corridor.
Uzykin got to his feet and staggered after him.
Andrew was hurrying down the corridor in search of the alcove where the door that led to the rear patio was located, when he heard Uzykin shouting for help.
Deschin and Melanie were in the study, looking through the photo album, when they heard the sound and exchanged uncertain glances. The gallery was in the maintenance wing at the opposite end of the dacha, and the distance and heavy wooden doors on the study had muffled Uzykin’s shout.
Gorodin, however, was in the kitchen getting something to eat. He heard it clearly, and headed for the corridor.
Andrew had almost reached the alcove when he heard Gorodin opening the kitchen door up ahead. He reversed direction, and bounded up a flight of stairs.
Gorodin had just entered the corridor when Uzykin stumbled around the corner. “The gallery!” he gasped. “Someone was in the gallery!”
Andrew was hurrying down a second-floor corridor, opening doors in search of Melanie’s room. When he saw her travel bag on the bed he knew that he’d found it. He slipped inside, took the package from his waistband, and scribbled a message across the label beneath Boulton’s address.
He figured his chances of getting out of the dacha with the package were fifty-fifty, but had no hope of getting out of the country with it. His father’s score with Deschin would have to go unsettled. The game in Geneva, on the other hand, could still be won—if he could get the package to the U.S. Embassy. But the KGB would have every street and entrance blanketed with agents by the time he got there. He’d never get near the place, let alone inside. Melanie would have a far better chance.
He put the package of drawings into her travel bag, pushing it down beneath the clothes, then zipped it and left the room, hurrying down the corridor.
Gorodin realized Andrew had to have taken the stairs. “Stay here,” he ordered, stationing Uzykin at the base of the staircase. The only way Andrew could get out of the dacha now was by going out a window onto the roof, and Gorodin would be outside waiting for him. He ran down the corridor toward the entry hall.
Curiosity had gotten the best of Deschin. He left Melanie in the study and was crossing the entry hall, when Gorodin arrived.
“Andrew Churcher,” Gorodin said sharply as he hurried past him. And that’s all he had to say. Deschin blanched and took off for the gallery.
Gorodin charged out the front door into the night, calling out for the two KGB guards. The one who had been working on the fire was coming to the door to inform Deschin he had it going. Gorodin almost ran right past him. “The roof!” he said. “Look for someone on the roof!”
Andrew had slipped out a window, and was crouching behind the dormers. He spotted them, scurried across the slate surface in the opposite direction to the edge, and made the long jump to the ground in the darkness. He landed with a loud, jarring thump.
Gorodin heard it and ran toward the sound.
Andrew was coming around the corner of the dacha to the front of the grounds. Gorodin and the guard were running right toward him. He stopped suddenly, feet skidding in the gravel, and reversed direction.
The patrolling guard had been at the opposite end of the grounds when Gorodin called out. He was heading for the front of the dacha when he saw Andrew running toward the rear. He pulled his gun and settled into a two-handed stance, tracking him.
Andrew charged down the gravel driveway, legs churning, arms pumping, lungs gasping for air. He glanced back to see Gorodin and the other guard coming around the corner of the dacha behind him. There was a blaze in the fireplace now. He yanked a piece of kindling from it as he ran past.
The patrolling guard squeezed off a shot. The round whistled past Andrew’s head and shattered one of the stones in the fireplace.
Andrew whirled, on the run, and tossed the flaming stick in the direction of his pursuers. It pinwheeled through the air, and landed right on target—right on the long snowy drift of cottonwood pookh that had blown against the rocks which edged the drive. The volatile fuzz ignited right in front of Gorodin and the two guards in an explosive whoosh. They recoiled at the brilliant flash. It had the effect of a thousand strobes, so tightly constricting their pupils that they couldn’t see, and went stumbling about in the dark.
Andrew dashed headlong between the cottonwoods, across the field, and over the rise to the Zhiguli. He jumped inside, chest still heaving, hand stabbing the key at the dash, wishing he had left it in the ignition. Finally, the engine roared to life, and the car exploded from the thicket.
“After him! Hurry! Hurry!” Gorodin shouted when he heard it. The two KGB guards searched the darkness for their Volga, and took off after the Zhiguli.
Gorodin ran back into the dacha, rejoining Deschin and Uzykin. “He got away!” he exclaimed.
“With the drawings!” Deschin said angrily as they dashed down the corridor toward the study.
Melanie had gone to the window in response to the commotion outside. She whirled, startled, as the door blasted open, and they hurried past her to the desk.
Gorodin and Deschin each grabbed a phone, and dialed frantically.
“Traffic police!” Gorodin barked in Russian. “Fugitive alert to all units!” he went on when the connection was made. “Andrew Churcher. American. Driving black Zhiguli, plate number MSK6254. Apprehend at all costs!”
Deschin was on the line with Tvardovskiy. “Yes, yes, the drawings, Sergei! He got away with the drawings!”
“You didn’t destroy them?” the KGB chief angrily replied.
“I was preparing to do just that when they were taken,” Deschin shouted, realizing Tvardovskiy had him on the defensive, positioning him to take the blame. “Internal security is your responsibility, Sergei, not mine,” he countered in an ominous tone. “SLOW BURN has been jeopardized because your people let Andrew Churcher outsmart them.”
“You’re forgetting there’s GRU involvement here.”
“Indeed, there is.” Deschin exploded. “There’d be no SLOW BURN without GRU! Maybe we should turn over internal security to them, too.”
Gorodin let out a relieved breath. He’d finished his call, and was listening to Deschin, concerned he would hold him responsible.
“It’s your problem, Sergei,” Deschin went on. “Get it solved.” He hung up, took a moment to settle, and crossed to Melanie.
“This is a regrettable turn of events,” he said.
“There’s no need to apologize,” she replied, unnerved. She hadn’t been able to understand the phone conversations, but she heard “Churcher” mentioned repeatedly amidst the Russian, and heard the running and the gunshot. And she could see both men were shaken. She knew what had happened. “I think I should leave you two alone,” she concluded.
“Stay a moment,” Deschin said sharply. It was a command, not a request.
Melanie was already leaning forward in the chair to stand. She remained that way.
“Gorodin tells me that you made the acquaintance of a young man named Andrew Churcher,” Deschin said. “Have you seen much of him?”
“No. Just a few times, casually,” she replied, thinking Deschin had suddenly reverted to the distant, wary person she’d encountered earlier.
“Three times since arriving in Moscow,” Gorodin said. “The most recent being this evening on his return from Leningrad. The hall attendant at the Berlin noted the time was eight forty-two.”
Melanie flicked him a glance, trying to appear annoyed rather than intimidated by t
he surveillance.
“What did he want?” Deschin asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, feigning ignorance of all Andrew had told her. “I think he was going to suggest we have dinner, but I was packing when he arrived, and I left for the airport almost immediately.”
“Did he say anything to you about what he was doing here?” Deschin asked.
“Yes, he said he was buying horses.”
“Indeed, many of them. Perhaps, he introduced you to other friends or acquaintances in Moscow? People he might stay with, for example?”
“No, he didn’t,” she replied. “Why?”
“It’s not your concern. It’s a government matter. Unfortunately, I must deal with it.”
Melanie nodded that she understood. “Good night,” she said with a nervous smile. She touched his hand awkwardly, and walked toward the door, taking the photo album with her.
Deschin watched after her for a thoughtful moment, then gestured to Uzykin that he should accompany her.
He caught up with Melanie in the corridor, ushered her through the entry hall, and up the stairs. “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he said as they approached the guest room.
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Melanie replied as she entered and closed the door. The simple pine furniture and dormered ceiling gave the room a homey feeling she hadn’t noticed earlier. She moved her travel bag aside and sat on the bed, absentmindedly turning the pages of the photo album. Her eyes saw the snapshots of her grandmother dancing with the Bolshoi, but her mind kept drifting to Andrew, to thoughts of him being hunted by the KGB.
* * * * * *
Chapter Forty-nine
At about the same time the KGB was starting its manhunt for Andrew, President Hilliard sat with Jake Boulton in the Oval Office.
“Negative, sir,” Boulton reported on CIA efforts to confirm the existence of the Soviet missile base in Nicaragua. “KH-11 sat-pix are negative. High altitude SR-71 Blackbird reconnaissance, as well as low-level runs by private pilots, same result.”