Rockets' Red Glare (35 page)

“You know how many nuclear weapons we have?” Churcher retorted. “And how many
they
have?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Between us, we could blow this planet to bits a hundred times over,” Churcher went on. “What the hell’s another dozen or two?”

“Dad—You sold out your country!”

“Bull!” Churcher said, stung by the truth and trying to conceal it. “I don’t have to take this! Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

“I’m your
son
!
”
Andrew said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I believed in you. Defended you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look up to someone all your life, to try to emulate him, and then—”

“You did a lousy job,” Churcher snapped cruelly.

“I did my
best,”
Andrew replied. “And I’d always felt ashamed because I thought I’d failed. Now, I’m ashamed for trying. All these years you held yourself up as an example—Theodor Scoville Churcher: model citizen, champion of free enterprise, war hero.”

“All true.”

“All
lies
!
You were working for the Russians!”

“I was working for myself!”

“It was wrong! Dead wrong, and you know it! Why don’t you admit it?”

“Maybe it was,” Churcher mumbled defensively.

“And do something about it?” Andrew continued, not hearing him.

“I said I was wrong, dammit!” Churcher shouted. “I shouldn’t have done it!”

Andrew was taken back more by the admission than the volume. He
studied Churcher’s face as they glared at each other. Despite the anger, there was a pathetic blankness in his father’s eyes now, and his skin had a gray, waxen pallor. The old coot
looked
old, Andrew thought, old and exhausted.

“Why?” Andrew asked softly after a long silence. “Why’d you do it?”

“That’s a tough one,” Churcher replied in a subdued voice. His stamina still hadn’t returned, and the angry exchange left him weary. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never really thought about it much.”

“Well, it’s time you did.”

Churcher nodded, accepting, almost welcoming, the sudden and dramatic change in their roles. “I wish I could say it was misplaced ideals or something equally honorable,” he began. “But it comes down to greed, I guess. Greed and power. I got used to having my way, to getting what I wanted and believing that if Theodor Churcher wanted something, it was right. But I sure as hell never set out to hurt anyone.” He paused, his face softening, voice taking on a sincere timbre as he added, “I sure never wanted to hurt you, son.”

“But you did, Dad. You hurt a lot of people—me—Jake—Ed—Raina—”

“You know about her—” Churcher said flatly.

“Yes, she’s given up a lot to help you.”

“Those bastards have her?”

“Not as of two days ago. But it’s only a matter of time after what happened this morning.”

Churcher didn’t reply, but Andrew could see the thought of it pained him deeply. It had never occurred to him that his father had fallen in love. He’d always assumed his pride wouldn’t allow it.

“I’ll make amends,” Churcher said in an uncharacteristically contrite tone.

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “Start with Geneva.”

“I’m sorry son, but I can’t do that,” Churcher replied, his lips tightening in frustration. “I’ve worked too long and hard to spend the rest of my life in disgrace. I want to make up for what I’ve done, God knows I do,” he went on, anguished. “I really do. You have to believe that. But I can’t just come forward. I can’t. You understand?”

Andrew considered it for a long moment, stealing a glance at the sleeve that hung limply at Churcher’s side. His father had been a risk taker all his life, and had always gotten away with it. And if there’d been a price to be paid, somehow it had always been paid by others— but this time it had cost
him.

“Okay,” Andrew finally said, his tone indicative of his resolve. “We’ll find another way.”

Churcher nodded, relieved, and settled on a packing crate. “Ed?” he called out, waving McKendrick over.

“You two okay?” McKendrick asked as he hurried toward them from the Zhiguli.

“We worked it out,” Churcher said softly.

“Time to get back to business,” Andrew said.

McKendrick nodded in agreement, pleased that they’d made their peace. “What do you think the KGB will do with those drawings?”

“Deliver them right into Aleksei’s hands,” Churcher answered. “No doubt about it.”

“Any idea where he might keep them?” Andrew asked.

Churcher nodded emphatically. “His dacha in Zhukova.” He laughed ironically, and added, “Truth is, I know
exactly
where. We’re remarkably alike.”

“I’ll get them,” Andrew said decisively.

“Not so fast,” Churcher snapped. “For openers, the place is alarmed, and guards are posted on the grounds whenever Aleksei’s in residence. I can get you around the alarm; but to have even half a chance, you’d have to know when he won’t be there.”

“And make sure he doesn’t suddenly show up,” McKendrick added pointedly.

“I can do that,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to waste time talking about it. Where in the dacha?”

“Hold it, Drew,” McKendrick said. “You’ve been covering for me long enough. It’s time I—”

“No way,” Andrew interrupted. “You’re not a hundred percent yet; fifty, if you’re lucky. I could’ve mopped this place with you, and you know it. I’ve picked up a few things in the last six weeks.
I’m
doing this.”

In the past, Andrew would have looked to Churcher for confirmation. But it was McKendrick who did it now.

Churcher studied Andrew, deciding, then he nodded. He almost smiled.

* * * * * *

Chapter Forty-seven

That same morning in Moscow, Aleksei Deschin and the other members of the Politburo, along with government and military officials and family members, all assembled on the grounds of the Kremlin prior to burial services for the deceased Premier.

A military honor guard led the cortège through the Nikol’skiye Gate into Red Square. The group proceeded to the section of the Kremlin Wall, west of the gate, where the remains of prominent Soviet officials are entombed. Here, they joined an assembly of international representatives who were seated in front of a platform that had been constructed at the base of the Wall.

A small square of red bricks had been removed. A bronze urn that contained the Premier’s ashes stood in the opening, framed in musty blackness.

Deschin was moving toward the platform to deliver the eulogy, when a courier made his way through the throng and intercepted him. He handed the cultural minister a sealed official envelope. It contained the communiqué from Gorodin, which read:

THE SHIP HAS BEEN SALVAGED

Deschin smiled and whispered a brief instruction.

The courier hurried off.

Deschin bounded up the steps to the platform. There was a spring in his step now, a confidence that had been missing since Churcher first threatened to undermine SLOW BURN. Deschin went to the podium and began extolling Kaparov’s contributions to mankind and the Soviet state.

The Kremlin-watchers in the assembly were surprised. They’d expected that Nikolai Tikhonov, the acknowledged front-runner, would deliver the eulogy. What they’d seen as a forgone conclusion was suddenly open to speculation. A buzz spread through the crowd.

When Deschin finished speaking, a granite slab—the name
DMITRI KAPAROV
written in gold dimensional Cyrillic letters across it—was set into the opening in the Kremlin Wall.

Then, as tradition dictates, a signal went out through all of Moscow. And for the next five minutes, sirens wailed, factory whistles tooted, and ship and train horns blew in tribute.

Deschin stood at the podium, listening. The deafening cacophony sent a chill through him, and filled him with a sense of destiny.

* * * * * *

Gorodin strolled brightly through Leningrad’s Rzhevka Airport. The task had been completed, and Andrew’s movements were no longer of interest. Other things were on his mind now. Before boarding a flight to Moscow, he went to a long-distance booth in the telegraph office and made a call—a call he didn’t want to make from a KGB phone.

Pasha was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Berlin, reading
Izvestia,
the state newspaper, when he was summoned and went to the manager’s office to take Gorodin’s call.

“How is our guest getting along?” Gorodin asked.

“She’s spending a lot of time in her room.”

“I assume that means she hasn’t yet seen any of our cultural activities?”

“Only from afar. There was a death in the family, and she attended the services. I made sure she couldn’t extend her condolences personally.”

“Good work, Pasha,” Gorodin said enthusiastically. “Who knows, she may soon have the chance.”

When Aeroflot SU-1078 arrived at Vnukovo, Gorodin was met by a driver who had instructions to take him to Deschin’s apartment.

The cultural minister had gone there directly from the funeral services. He was in his study, planning the strategy he would use to succeed to the premiership. It had never been his ambition. The cultural ministry wasn’t a breeding ground for Soviet Premiers. But now that it
was within his grasp, he really wanted it. The perfectly timed success of SLOW BURN and the need for continuity at the helm were undeniable. And he would use them to overpower the coalition of wizened oligarches on the Politburo who had been pushing for Tikhonov’s ascendancy.

Deschin rose from his desk and went to the bay window. He was deep in thought when a black Chaika circling the Square caught his eye. The sedan turned into Proyezd Serova Street, and stopped directly beneath the window. Gorodin got out carrying a long cardboard mailing tube, and hurried into the building.

“Greetings, Valery!” Deschin said ebulliently as Gorodin entered the apartment.

“Greetings, Comrade Minister,” Gorodin replied, handing him the mailing tube.

Deschin smiled, and slipped on his glasses. Then he unscrewed the cap from the tube and removed the drawings, ascertaining they were, indeed, of the
Kira.

“And the source?” he asked.

“A refusenik,” Gorodin replied. “He saw the error of his ways and saved the State the cost of prosecution and imprisonment.”

Deschin beamed. “I knew I could count on you, Valery. The Service is fortunate to have a man of your caliber in its ranks.”

It most certainly is!
Gorodin thought, forcing a smile. He’d had his fill of praise. Twenty-five years of it. Twenty-five years of breaking his balls for—Well-done, Valery! And for most of them, he’d lived in Cuba, in that island armpit, and played nursemaid to SLOW BURN. Now, he’d saved it twice in a month’s time;
twice
saved the Kremlin’s key national security program, and again words—but this time he was ready.

“Ah, this is a great day for Russia, comrade,” Deschin concluded.

“Yes, sir. And for you, as well,” Gorodin replied.

“That remains to be seen,” Deschin said, assuming Gorodin was referring to the premiership. “But I
was
selected to deliver the eulogy— a good sign. Despite the long and close relationship I had with the Premier, there’d been rumors the honor would go to Tikhonov.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir; but I had something else in mind—a personal matter.”

“Personal?” Deschin replied, intrigued.

“In a manner of speaking,” Gorodin said slyly. He took Melanie’s letter from his pocket, and handed it to Deschin. “I mean, I realize everything must be seen in the light of the current political climate.”

Deschin immediately noticed that the envelope was addressed to him, bore uncancelled stamps, and had been opened. He was removing the contents when he recognized the WWII photograph—recognized himself hugging Sarah Winslow—and froze. His fingers were cold and unsteady as they slipped the four paper-clipped items fully out of the envelope. His eyes darted to Melanie’s note. The closing prior to the signature made him shudder. His heart started racing, then his face flushed and he broke out in a sweat. He took a moment to collect himself, and pulled a sleeve across his forehead. Then he read the copy of Sarah’s letter. When finished, he held Melanie’s picture to the light, contemplating it. “She’s here,” he finally said. “I saw her.”

“I know,” Gorodin replied.

Deschin flicked him a wary look, then he swept his eyes in a circle from Gorodin, to Melanie’s picture, to her note, to Sarah’s letter and WWII photograph—making an assessment of all the factors in the equation as he calculated. Then, his eyes narrowed and held Gorodin’s.

Gorodin returned the look unblinkingly; and in that moment, all was communicated. Gorodin didn’t have to say he had copied the documents—which he had—nor did he have to ask for what he wanted, or make threats to obtain it. They were givens, and Deschin knew it.

You blackmailing son of a bitch!
Deschin thought, the anger starting to boil. A Soviet Premier with American offspring? Lenin would turn over in his tomb! The Politburo would never knowingly make such a selection. Then it occurred to him that Gorodin could have taken the information to one of his adversaries—to Tvardovskiy—and he maintained his composure, and smiled at his good fortune.

“You know, Gorodin,” he said, “few men possess the qualities necessary to handle such a delicate matter as skillfully as you have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Deschin put an arm over Gorodin’s shoulders. “You’re a bachelor, aren’t you, Valkasha?” he said as he directed him across the room.

“Yes, I’m afraid, I just never found the right woman,” Gorodin replied with a shrug.

Deschin lifted a framed photograph that stood on his desk, and handed it to Gorodin. It was a print of the WWII photograph Sarah Winslow had kept on her dresser. “Even when we do,” Deschin said wistfully, “they sometimes slip away, taking everything that matters with them.”

Gorodin nodded with understanding. “You’ve served the motherland unselfishly, and with such distinction, for so long, sir,” he said. “You could rightfully consider the whole of the Soviet people your family.”

“Perhaps. But a man’s own flesh and blood—” Deschin paused reflectively, letting the sentence trail off. Then he patted Gorodin on the back, and added more brightly, “I have no doubt our people will be equally well served by
your
rise through the ranks.”

Gorodin smiled, his long sought membership in
nomenklatura
assured. “I’ll make every effort to prove worthy of your sponsorship,” he said.

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Deschin said thoughtfully. He studied him for a moment and added, “You’ll begin tonight—by bringing my daughter to Zhukova.”

* * * * * *