CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The streets were dark, covered in a newly fallen blanket of snow, the late-night traffic sparse, the sounds muffled. A street clock told Metcalfe it was one o’clock in the morning. Just up ahead lay the Krymskaya Embankment and then the imposing Krymsky bridge, spanning the Moscow River, the longest suspension bridge in all of Europe, built just two years earlier.

As Metcalfe approached, he saw a solitary figure standing in the middle of the bridge, on the pedestrian walkway. A female figure clad in an overcoat and a head scarf. It was Lana; he had no doubt. His heartbeat quickened; he couldn’t help it. He quickened his pace as well, through the frigid night air, but he could not run, not yet; his legs and rib cage ached fiercely. The ravages of the beating had only begun to subside. The wind knifed through his wretched ruined clothing, which was little more than rags.

Chief Investigator Rubashov had ordered his immediate release, all paperwork expunged. All of his possessions were returned to him, with the exception of his gun. But Metcalfe felt no sense of victory; he felt nothing but a hollowness, a numbness.

The Moscow River was still and flat, the full moon broken into a million shards along its surface. Moonlight glinted off the bridge’s silver chains and iron beams. The occasional car or truck passed over the bridge, making it tremble.

The walk seemed interminable; she seemed so far away, and he could barely get his limbs to move. Lana stood with her back to him, looking over the water, seemingly lost in thought. An hour or so earlier he had placed a call to the Bolshoi from a public telephone kiosk. When she heard his voice, she gasped,

then cried out: “My dearest, my darling, where have you been?” Terse words were exchanged, cryptic phrases employed, a rendezvous site established without revealing the specifics to anyone who might be listening in.

He was ashamed that, in a moment of weakness, he had suspected her of complicity in his arrest. It simply could not be. If she had betrayed him, then how could he believe in the immutable physics of the world? How could he believe in the law of gravity, in the existence of the sun and the moon?

She turned, saw him trudging across the bridge, and suddenly ran toward him. When she got close enough to see his face, she screamed, then threw her arms around him.

He groaned, “Hey, careful, there.”

“What have they done to you?” She loosened her embrace, held his pain-wracked body gingerly. She kissed him, and for a long time he was enveloped in her arms; he smelled her perfume, felt the warmth of her mouth. He felt oddly safe, though he knew there was nothing at all safe about being with his love in Moscow. “Your face ” Sobs convulsed her body. “Stiva, they beat you!”

“They call it persuasion. They told me the Lubyanka isn’t a spa, and I learned they’re right. But it could have been far worse. And I was lucky I survived.”

“It was the Lubyanka! I didn’t know where you’d gone I asked Ilya; he said he’d been stopped, that the police had searched the van and found you, arrested you. He said he couldn’t stop them, he didn’t know what to do. He seemed so terrified; I felt so bad for him. Friends of mine went to the police, demanded to know what had happened to you. But the police claimed not to know what I was talking about. After three days a friend went for me to Lefortovo Prison, and she was told they had no such prisoner. But everyone lies here; I didn’t know, couldn’t find out, the truth. You’ve been missing for five days! I thought you’d been sent away, maybe executed!”

“Your assistant is a stukach,” Metcalfe said, using the word for informer.

Her eyes widened, and for a long moment she did not speak. “I never suspected it, or I would never have let him go near you, Stiva, you must believe me!”

“I do believe you.”

“So many questions over the years, so many strange little details, now make sense. Things I ignored. He sometimes sells tickets on the outside, illegally, yet he never seems to be very careful about it. So many insignificant things I overlooked, when I should have taken them as clues!”

“You couldn’t have known. How long has he worked for you?”

“Several months he’s worked as my dresser and assistant, though we’ve known each other for years. He’s always been very friendly. Four or five months ago he began spending more time around me, helping me out, doing me favors. One day he said he wanted to be reassigned as my assistant during performances, if I was interested, and of course I “

“Was this after you began your relationship with von Schtis-sler?”

“Well, yes, just after, but… Yes, of course, it could be no coincidence. The authorities wanted to keep a close watch on me, and they planted Ilya on me to do that.”

“Von Schiissler’s a German diplomat, an important potential intelligence source, and you’re a nationally renowned performer. The risks and the potential were too great for the NKVD not to assign someone.”

“But Kundrov “

“He’s GRU, military intelligence a rival agency. Each wanted its own source; each works in a different way” the NKVD more covertly. But Lana listen to me. I need to ask you again; I want you to think about this seriously, because I know it’s a big decision. I want you to come with me.”

“No, Stiva. That I cannot do we’ve talked about this. I never will. I won’t leave my father, I won’t leave Russia. I can’t! You must understand!”

“Lana, it’s never going to be safe for you here.”

“This is my home, this terrible place that I love.”

“If you don’t come with me now, they’ll never let you leave.”

“No, Stiva. That’s not true. In just a few days they’re sending my troupe to Berlin on a friendship mission to perform for the top Nazi leadership. We will always be allowed to travel outside the country.”

“And you’ll still be a prisoner. Berlin is no less a prison than Moscow, Lana.”

There was the metallic click, the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety being released. Metcalfe spun toward its source. Even in the darkness, the pale eyes and blond hair were horribly familiar, as was the expression of triumph in the NKVD man’s face as he pointed his weapon at Metcalfe. He had approached stealthily, his footfalls covered by the sound of traffic rattling the bridge and by the lovers’ absorption in each other.

Metcalfe instinctually reached for his own weapon, then realized he had none. It had been confiscated in the Lubyanka.

“Hands in the air,” the NKVD man said. “Both of you.”

Metcalfe smiled. “You’re off the reservation. Or no one’s bothered to inform you. You might want to speak with your superiors before you make an idiot of yourself. Rubashov, for example “

“Silence!” roared the secret policeman. “Your lies about Beria may have intimidated a weak, cowardly careerist such as Rubashov, but fortunately, I report directly to Beria’s office. Hands up, now!”

Metcalfe and Lana both complied. “So you do intend to make an idiot of yourself,” Metcalfe said. “You persist and persist, making a personal mission out of this, refusing to accept the error of your ways. You seem to forget that you are but a lowly street agent. You know nothing about matters far above your level. It’s no longer your own career you’re destroying with your pigheadedness. Now it’s your very life.”

The Russian made a spitting sound, indicating derision and hostility. “You lie creatively, and brazenly but sloppily. I was the one who found your transmitter. Buried in the woods southwest of Moscow, near the American embassy dacha.”

Metcalfe’s expression displayed only bland, amused skepticism, but his mind reeled. Rubashov had made no mention of a transmitter! If he had known, he would have mentioned it; why had he not?

“Yes,” the gray-eyed agent resumed. “A small detail I withheld from my report to Rubashov. A fact held in reserve for later use I’ve never trusted that ass-kissing swine. But the transmitter has been examined by our special technical section, and I’ve seen the results. Constructed by the British secret service for agent field communications. Not the sort of communication needed by any businessman.” He shifted his gun a few inches, toward Lana’s chest. “But extremely useful for transmitting military intelligence obtained from the daughter of a Red Army general.”

“No, it’s not true!” sobbed Lana. “It’s a lie! I’m not conspiring against the government!”

“Step away from each other! This time, the only way either of you will leave the Lubyanka is in a pine box,” the NKVD man said.

“She’s mine,” came another voice. Metcalfe turned, saw the red-haired GRU man approaching from the other direction.

“Kundrov!” Lana shouted. She actually seemed relieved to see her GRU minder. “You watch me, you know me this monster hurls all kinds of insane accusations!”

“Yes,” Kundrov replied calmly, addressing the NKVD agent. “I know the woman. She’s been assigned to me. You know the procedures, Ivanov. This arrest is the responsibility of the GRU, as the originating agency.”

The NKVD man shifted his pistol back toward Metcalfe, the glacial expression on his cruel face wavering not a bit. “You will take the woman into custody,” he replied. “I’ll take the American spy-“

Kundrov had taken out a pistol as well and was pointing it at Lana and Metcalfe. “It’s more efficient for you to take both in at once,” he said coldly. “So long as the proper credit is assigned in the reporting documents.”

“Agreed,” said Ivanov, the NKVD man. “Credit will be divided, the arrest mutually agreed upon. The resources of both state organs will be needed, after all, to investigate the conspiracy. An American spy is the chief responsibility of NKVD, but the leaking of vital Red Army secrets is a matter for Military Intelligence.”

“Wait,” Kundrov blurted out. “This American is far too cunning, too skilled a liar. The legal process is wasted on him.”

The other Russian looked at Kundrov, a smile of understanding appearing on his face. “Wasted, yes.”

“Our rules specify the procedures to be followed when a detainee attempts to escape.”

“No!” screamed Lana, realizing what Kundrov was saying.

“Yes.” The NKVD man smiled. “The American insisted on evading arrest, as he has done repeatedly.”

There was a look of absolute resolve on Kundrov’s face as he cocked his Tokarev, the look of a man who would do what he had to do and not look back. The star on its Bakelite grip glinted in the moonlight. “Let’s finish off this troublemaker now,” he said quietly as he pulled the trigger.

Lana screamed just as Metcalfe arced his body to one side, throwing himself toward her, catapulting her to the steel surface of the bridge and out of the line of the GRU man’s fire.

Two explosions came from Kundrov’s gun, two rounds swiftly fired, but they missed, both shots! Lying on top of Lana, shielding her with his body, Metcalfe watched with incomprehension as the NKVD agent suddenly toppled backward against the low steel railing of the bridge, his lifeless body plummeting off the side of the bridge. There was a splash as the body hit the water. Kundrov had shot his NKVD comrade! He had missed them, both shots piercing the other man’s chest! How could it be?

Metcalfe stared at Kundrov, realized at that moment from the look in the GRU man’s face: It was no accident! He had not missed at all. He had aimed for Ivanov!

“There was no choice,” Kundrov said, reholstering his pistol. “His report would have done you in, Svetlana. You and your father both.”

Lana’s screams had turned into low, whimpering sobs as she, too, stared at her minder. “I don’t understand!” she whispered.

“An act of murder can be an act of kindness,” he said. “Go … now! You must get out of here at once, Svetlana Mikhailovna, before others arrive and the situation gets even more complicated. Quickly. The shots will bring others. Go on home.” There was a tenderness in the GRU man’s voice, a tenderness and, at the same time, steel.

Metcalfe got to his feet slowly, and Lana did the same. “But Stiva my Stiva what will you do with … ?”

“He must get out of Russia,” said Kundrov. “Too many are after him, and there’s no turning back now. Listen to me, now. Go. Run! You cannot stay here!”

Lana looked at Metcalfe in bewilderment.

“Yes,” Metcalfe said. “You have to go, dusya. Please.” He put his arms around her, squeezed her, kissed her firmly on the lips. Then he pulled away. “We will see each other again. Just not here, in Moscow. Run, my darling. Run.”

Still stunned, Metcalfe sat in the passenger’s seat of the GRU man’s M-l sedan. With his cruel mouth and strong nose, Kundrov seemed the picture of arrogance as he maneuvered the vehicle through the streets of the city. But his voice belied his manner: there was something cultured and even gentle about the man.

“It’s possible no one saw Ivanov’s body go into the Moscow River,” he said, “but I doubt it. We can only hope that whoever witnessed it will do the proper Soviet thing and keep their mouth shut. Fear of the authorities, fear of unintended consequences they usually convince people to mind their own business.”

“Why?” Metcalfe interrupted.

Kundrov knew what he meant. “Why did I do what I did? Perhaps because I care for Miss Baranova more than I should.”

“You could have bargained with Ivanov to let her go.”

“They never let go. This is why we call them the shchelkun-chik the nutcracker. Once they have you in their grip, they can only squeeze you harder.”

“It’s no different with you. With your people. That’s not a sufficient explanation.”

“What is the American expression, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’? This is a gift horse.”

“We have another expression, passed down from Virgil, “Beware Greeks bearing gifts.” “

“But you are not a Trojan, and I am not a Greek. You think I am the enemy because I work for the GRU.”

“It’s the reality.”

“The reality as you see it, perhaps. As an American asset placed in Moscow, you would naturally see things in such black-and-white terms.”

“Call me whatever you like. You know better.” Metcalfe noticed that they were pulling up near the train station.

“I do know better, and we have no time to argue. You imagine that those of us who work in Soviet intelligence are somehow blind to what goes on around us? That we see less than you outsiders can see? Such arrogance amuses me you are the blind ones. We who work within the black heart of the system know the truth better than anyone else. We see how things work. You see, I have no illusions. I know that I am but a screw in the great guillotine. My mother used to tell me an old Russian maxim, “Fate makes demands of flesh and blood. And what does it most often demand? Flesh, and blood.” One must never forget this. Maybe someday I will tell you my story. But for now, there is no time.”

Kundrov shut off the engine and turned to look at Metcalfe. His eyes blazed as fiercely as his red hair. “When I return to GRU

headquarters, I will compose a report stating that I shot and wounded you while you were escaping. It will be understood that when it comes to foreigners, an outright kill is considered the last resort. Therefore, you are somewhere at large. I can delay submission of my report for several hours, but after that your name will go on a border-guard watch list. For me to do anything more than that is to put myself at great risk.”

“What you’ve already done is considerable,” said Metcalfe quietly.

Kundrov glanced at his watch. “You will buy a ticket for the Leningrad train. When you arrive in Leningrad, you will be met by a very ordinary-looking peasant couple who will ask you only if you are Cousin Ruslan. You will greet them formally, shaking their hands, and they will take you to their truck. They will not want to talk to you, and you should honor their reticence.”

“Who are they?”

“Part of the underground. Good people who work on a collective farm, who have their own reasons for doing what they do.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“From time to time, and only occasionally, they serve as intermediaries in a chain of smugglers smugglers not of goods but of human cargo. People who must escape from the Soviet Union quickly and safely. They will drive you to a village very close to the border, where others will take over. Please understand: they are risking their lives to save yours. Treat them well, observe complete discretion, and do what they say. Cause them no trouble.”

“You know these people?”

“I know of them. A long while ago I came across these people, learned about their activities, and I had a choice. Add another few bodies to the pile of millions already executed … or overlook them, let them go, let brave people continue to do brave things.”

“Fighting the system you are defending,” Metcalfe goaded.

“I don’t defend the system,” Kundrov shot back. “Heroes are in short supply in the Soviet Union, and they are getting fewer by the day. We need more of them, not fewer. Now, you must go, quickly, or you will miss the train. And then there will be no saving you.”