While they walked toward the ambassador’s car, Mia studied the man through sleep-deprived eyes. She’d corresponded with him several times on Lend-Lease matters, and he’d been one of the president’s allies moving in the background at Tehran. Now, up close, he was rather handsome, and his robustness contrasted radically with Hopkins’s bony frailty.
“How’s the embassy managing, Averell?” Hopkins asked.
“Only just. We’re down to a staff of six but still get the work done. Spaso House was damaged by bombs in ’41, and the repairs are ongoing. Fortunately, we still have telephone lines and a telegraph, and can do basic business.”
He opened the car door for her and she dropped into the rear, much relieved. Soon she could wash and eat and sleep. For once, she was glad to be only an assistant, allowed to doze in the warmth of the backseat while in the front the men talked strategy.
Spaso House, in the New Empire style, with its central portico, was a bit like a White House in miniature. Inside, the main hall and soaring domed ceiling were impressive, even to her foggy mind. Harriman noticed her perusal of the ceiling and smiled.
“Not bad, eh? It was built just before World War One for a fabulously rich merchant. Back in those tsarist days, you could be fabulously rich. You should have seen it before they took down the chandelier.”
Mia nodded appreciatively. “Is it always so chilly?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The air raids broke a lot of windows, and we can’t get glass for them. We’ve had to cover them with wooden boards, and the cold seeps through the cracks. The furnace doesn’t always work either, so we’ve installed oil stoves in the sleeping rooms. It’s a little unsightly, but we still manage to provide a luxury that is rare in Moscow these days, hot water.”
Once in her room, Mia lit her stove immediately, then unpacked her suitcase. Though the hot water in the bathroom down the hall was not sufficient for a full bath, she managed a warm wash, then hurried back to her room. The bed was fresh, and as soon as she warmed it with her body, she fell asleep.
Harriman and Hopkins were already at the table when she came downstairs, and the cook brought her breakfast. The scrambled eggs, though a bit watery, were from real eggs, but the bread was gritty and dry. The coffee was the real thing, but the absence of bacon, or any meat at all, was disappointing.
“Who are you meeting with first?” Harriman asked.
“Dmitriy Ustinov, Arms Minister.” Hopkins warmed his hands around his coffee cup.
“Oh yes, at the People’s Commissariat of Armaments, over on Gorky Street. I’d planned for Mr. Dornwend to drive you in the embassy car, but the Kremlin wants to send one over with their minders. They call it ‘security,’ as if someone might assassinate you if you were alone, but they simply want to monitor you.”
“Really? It’s gotten that bad?” Hopkins set his cup aside and lit a cigarette.
“Yes. The Kremlin is very suspicious of foreigners. But it’s not so bad. You can go most places in Moscow. You just always have a babysitter.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be here any minute.”
“I suppose we can regard them as guides,” Mia said, chewing her resistant toast.
Harriman glanced past her toward the sound of a door opening. “Ah, that must be them. Early, of course.” He downed the last of his coffee and stood up.
Two uniformed guards stood in the entryway. One was a dashing fellow over six feet tall, and the other was a stately blond woman. Mia halted in mid-step. It was the Grushenka guard she’d seen in Tehran.
“We escort you to Kremlin,” the young man said in thickly accented English.
Mia regained her composure. “It’s quite all right. You can speak Russian,” she assured him. “May I ask your name?”
“Kiril Yegorov.” Obviously relieved, the young man tipped his head in the hint of a bow. Mia turned to the young woman.
“And you are Alexia.”
The woman’s surprise was disciplined, merely a slight lifting of the brows. “How do you know that?” she asked in Russian.
“You were one of Stalin’s guards in Tehran. They told me your name.”
Alexia seemed perplexed but did not reply, and Kiril continued. “We have an official car outside, and of course we do not want to keep the Commissar for Armaments waiting.” He gestured toward the door.
Kiril sat in the front with the Kremlin driver, while Alexia, to Mia’s delight, squeezed into the rear with Hopkins and her. After a short ride in which Kiril identified the historic buildings, and Mia translated for Hopkins, the driver deposited them at the People’s Commissariat of Armaments. A single contingent of guardians recognized the Kremlin guards and let them pass. At the relevant office, the two minders waited in the corridor.
Ustinov was in full uniform, in a smartly fitting tunic with ornamented collar and three stars on his shoulder boards. Under a Hero of the Soviet Union star, he wore a row of other medals. His thick head of hair was typically Russian, as were his wide face and large mouth.
Another man stood nearby, portly and of some lower rank. “This is Major Leonid Nazarov, my assistant,” Ustinov said. “Please sit down.” He indicated the two chairs placed directly in front of his desk.
A stack of ledgers already lay there, suggesting he’d done some research. He got right to business.
“Thank you for coming to Moscow,” he said. “Rather than force you to read our Russian accounting, let me just explain the areas that are deficient.”
He pointed out the list of discrepancies, verifying them with copies of the lists his office had submitted and various ledgers that revealed what had in fact been delivered.
“We are not so obtuse that we do not recognize that men and goods are lost at sea and on the road. Our problem is that your agents at the delivery stations provide lists that do not correspond with what arrives in our factories.”
After an hour of comparing lists and figures, Hopkins drew the discussion to an end. “There is only so much we can explain here, sir. If you could provide me with a copy of your records, we can study them at greater leisure and come back to you with some sort of clarification.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Nazarov has such copies, for both you and for the Foreign Ministry, which shares our interest.”
“No doubt. We have a meeting later today with Molotov,” Hopkins said.
Nazarov produced a notebook from a shelf and presented it without speaking to Hopkins, and while all four exchanged courtesies, Ustinov led his visitors to the door.
Their two minders snapped to attention as the door opened. After a final shaking of hands, Hopkins and Mia pulled on their coats and ventured into the Russian winter again.
The much shorter meeting with Foreign Minister Molotov was not nearly so amicable. Molotov made many of the same complaints and Hopkins the same provisional explanations. Unlike his colleague, Molotov insisted the only solution was to have duplicate shipments sent for those deemed lost. “In most cases, the lost items are not vehicles or large weaponry, but smaller items: clothing, foodstuffs, medications. These are easier to ship in duplicate immediately after a claim is made.”
Hopkins’s voice was becoming hoarse. “Mr. Molotov, at the moment, I cannot provide a definitive explanation for the discrepancies. We already have the ledger from the Commissariat of Armaments to study, and if you can provide us with similar copies, from the other distribution points, we will be happy to study them as well.”
“Of course we have copies.” He snapped his fingers, and an orderly appeared with several bulging folders. Mia winced. She was going to have to read all of them.