At 10:45 I left the car in the square and walked across at the intersection, going up the steps to the double doors.
There is a specific time during any mission when the executive moves into prescribed hazard. The access phase for Slingshot had been dangerous but only in a general sense: the Soviet security services had become aware that one of their own military aircraft with a foreign pilot aboard was penetrating their domestic airspace with a view to photographing ground installations, and had shot it down. All that Corporal Behrendt could have told them was that it was probably a photo-recce mission. That general danger was now past and at this moment no one in the USSR knew that I was on Soviet soil and engaged in the capacity of an intelligence agent. No one.
I could live, if I had to, in the city of Yelingrad for weeks or longer, walking the streets and sharing the life of the people here and getting in nobody’s way until the time came when I made a mistake. The Finback had disintegrated and the snow had covered the parachute and it was unlikely that any search could be made until the spring. So I was in the clear and my status was neutraclass="underline" the condition we apply to an executive during the first stripes of his mission until the specific instant arrives when he becomes exposed.
That instant was now. I’d checked for surveillance on the Kirinski apartment and found none; but there could well be a permanent watch mounted at any one of the hundred windows overlooking the entrance to the Union Building, and as I climbed the steps to the double doors I had the familiar nerve-tightening sensation of walking into a spotlight.
Chapter Thirteen: LIOVA
I clumped the snow off my shoes as I walked into the hall and crossed to the iron staircase. The dezhurnaya poked her head out of the closet immediately.
“Look at my floor, comrade. I have to clean it!”
“There is no doormat,” I told her.
She took me in with a quick movement of her head, noting my shoes especially. They were good ones.
There is a mat on the steps,” she said, more in sadness than in anger. To have good shoes like mine you must have either money, power or blat.
“It’s covered in snow.” I began climbing the stairs.
“Whom do you wish to see, comrade?”
I thought this was particularly blatant. It’s the unofficial function of the dezhumayas of all the Russias to observe and inform, should anyone demand the information; but they work under the accepted cover of a concierge and they don’t often poke their noses out of it because they’re unpopular enough as it is.
“What is your name?” I asked her deliberately.
She stiffened at once. “I wished to be of assistance, comrade.”
“That is appreciated. I have official business with a resident.”
She watched me as far as the second floor, through the railings.
The fourth floor was at the top of the building and I went along the passage and stopped at the door marked B and listened for voices. The fanlight was closed and I heard nothing. There was a bell and a visiting card in a bent brass frame: Alexei R. Kirinski, Geological Engineer. This was appropriate cover in a town where there were drilling-bits stacked all over the station but of course it might not be cover alone: we’ve got an agent-in-place in Stockholm with an international reputation as an ornithologist and a man in Cadiz who charges five hundred pesetas an hour for teaching musical voice.
The door opened and a woman stood there.
“Yes?”
The smell of borscht and a wave of heat from the wood stove.
“I would like to see Comrade Kirinski.”
She studied me with large limpid eyes, taking her time and remaining perfectly still, finally throwing the dark curve of hair back from her face and asking:
“Who is it?”
“My name — ”
“Excuse me,” she broke in and turned away quickly: there were sounds of the borscht boiling over. In a moment she called from the kitchen that I should come in.
Good furniture, Chinese rugs and heavy curtains: the couch didn’t come from the State store, nor did the inlaid cabinet. Of course they might have been left to them by someone, possibly a grandparent
“What name was it?”
She came back, shaking her hair away from her high cheekbones. The camel hair sweater wasn’t from the GUM either, nor the soft suede boots. She too had money, or power, or blat. Or perhaps just Alexei R. Kirinski, Geological Engineer.
“My name is Andreyev Rashidov.”
She waited for me to produce my card, in the manner of the bourgeoisie; but I wasn’t going to do that. Now that I’d seen the jade I wanted to convey an air of discretion.
“Kirinski is not here.”
“I know.” I waited for her to take that in. “But I’d like to see him. Can you make an appointment for me?”
She went on looking at me with this stillness of hers. Her eyes were deep and her mouth was sensual, a down of dark hair shadowing the curved Slav lips; my awareness of her as a female of the species was getting in the way and I’d have to forget it because this place could be a death-trap.
“Is it an official matter?”
That didn’t mean very much: in this country almost every aspect of life is official.
“No.”
There were a dozen pieces, some of them a foot high, one of them a blue-green slab lying below the window, where it caught the light. Beyond it, through the window and through the black boughs of the trees in Union Square I could see the glitter of a headlamp reflector against the snow, and the blurred outline of the car itself. I shouldn’t have left it there, in that particular spot; but there had been no way of knowing which side of the building the apartment was situated. “Have you already met my husband?”
“No. I’m interested in minerals.”
Her eyes moved slightly to the block of jade on the massive sideboard near where we stood. “How did you come to hear of my husband?”
I turned away, noting other things while my eyes were out of sight: the number on the telephone dial, the brass-framed photograph of the woman in nurse’s uniform — From Liova, with love — and the two bolts on this side of the door where I’d come in.
“I was crossing the border,” I said and turned back in time to get her reaction, “at Zaysan, and Kirinski’s name came up in a conversation I had with some engineers who were coming through.”
This was strictly ground bait — there was jade within forty miles of the frontier in Sinkiang and the Russians had mining concessions, Kirinski was a geological engineer, his apartment was full of rough cuts so forth — but there was a lot of info coming through because she didn’t seem surprised at what I’d told her.
“Who were you talking to?” That was an easy one.
“We didn’t exchange names — there was a hold up while they were searching some vehicles.” A throwaway with a lot of top-spin: “You know what the border’s like in winter.”
She was really very good. I couldn’t tell whether she knew or not: she just went on watching me, perfectly still, while the borscht vibrated the saucepan lid in the kitchen.
“He won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“Has the snow held him up?”
That didn’t work either. She moved for the first time, going over to the mirror and reaching up, pushing her dark hair back and showing me how hard her breasts were, under the camel hair sweater. I hadn’t expected that.
“The snow didn’t start again,” she said, “until yesterday.” She was watching me in the mirror. “You’ll be glad to see him again.”
Not ground bait this time. She knew what we were talking about and I knew what we were talking about, because of the way she’d reached up like that, and the way she was watching me now.
“It’s lonely,” she said, ‘when he’s away.”