Rockets' Red Glare (38 page)

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 cover 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 the 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.”

“What about field agents?” Hilliard prodded. “We’ve sent enough people down there to double the population. Not one of them came up with anything?”

“Negative, again, sir.”

“Goddammit, Jake,” Hilliard exploded. It wasn’t only the bad news that irked him but also that Boulton had a way of maintaining an emotional detachment which the President couldn’t. “Phil is out of excuses, and out of tricks!” Hilliard went on. “And we’re out of time! We either have something solid when the delegates reconvene, or we’ve lost it all!”

He spun his chair on its pedestal in an angry gesture, then took a moment to settle himself.

“When the hell was that tanker recommissioned?” he asked impatiently.

“Twenty-six July, seventy-three.”

“And we’ve determined
unequivocally
that she’s been making the same circuit ever since?”

“Affirmative.”

“How many circuits per year?”

“Four max. Average of three would be—”

“—Well,” the President interrupted, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “I guess we can assume the
Kira
hasn’t been ferrying the same missile around in her bow for the last fifteen years.”

“Agreed.”

“So the
best
scenario is that there are at least forty of them out there somewhere,” the President concluded, his voice starting to rise. “Forty Soviet
Herons
aimed right down our throats! And despite all the technology and personnel at your disposal, you can’t tell me where the hell they are!”

“Affirmative.”

“Christ!” the President exclaimed, disgusted. He whirled, strode from the oval office, and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t have to ask Cathleen to call the garage.

A low sun streamed between the trees as the President walked Arlington’s hallowed fields. He stood staring at Janet Hilliard’s headstone, thinking he was failing her. The thing he wanted most was slipping away, and he felt powerless to stop it.

* * * * * *