Moshenko removed his full-length black leather coat and then his hat, dropping them over the back of a chair. He stood at a corner of the desk, eyeing the frail-looking Zuyeva, trying to associate the name with files and records.
Stoyakova remained by the small table, watching Zuyeva as he pulled the movie reel from the projector then secured the loose end of film on the reel with a rubber band, finally putting it in his briefcase.
Moshenko, always the inquisitive KGB officer that he was, noticed a manila folder on the edge of the desk. He tilted his head ever so slightly, reading the name typed in block letters on the top edge of the folder. The snap of the briefcase locks drew his attention away from the folder, and he immediately pulled up a chair then sat down.
"Will there be anything else, Minister Stoyakova?" Zuyeva turned his head, seeing KGB officer Moshenko watching him with intimidating eyes. Moshenko's very presence was enough to send a nervous chill up Zuyeva's spine.
Stoyakova answered as he flicked his hand away from him, "No. I'll contact you later."
The door closed. Moshenko wouldn't inquire about Zuyeva at the present time. There had been something, though, in the way Stoyakova introduced him as being an “interpreter.” That statement Moshenko would keep in the recesses of his mind. His eyes shifted to the credenza.
"Would you like some fresh hot tea, Grigori?"
"Please," Moshenko smiled, rubbing his hands together. "The winters get colder every year, Alexei."
"Ahh, Grigori, every year our bodies get older. That is why the winters seem colder. No?"
"You don't have to remind me."
Stoyakova swung his chair around. A small double charcoal burner, called a samovar, sat on the credenza. One burner had a teapot with a very concentrated infusion of tea, while the other pot held plain hot water. He poured tea from the teapot into a traditional tulip-shaped glass then diluted it slightly with plain water.
Moshenko studied the features he knew by heart. Stoyakova seemed the typical politician, short, stocky, and stuffed into a badly fitting suit. The sleeves of his suit coat hung loosely over his knuckles. Moshenko grinned to himself as Stoyakova asked, "Sugar?"
"Da," Moshenko answered, raising an index finger.
Stoyakova handed the glass to Moshenko then leaned back in his chair, rocking it back and forth. He tapped a finger against his lips. "What do you wish to discuss, Grigori?"
Moshenko placed the glass on the edge of the desk. His eyes met the minister's. "I've been made privy to information concerning an event that could affect our government's security and well-being."
Stoyakova didn't blink. "Can you give me more than that?"
Moshenko sat back. "At this time? No."
Stoyakova breathed deeply, his barrel chest expanding. "Not even who supplied you with the information?"
"All I can tell you, Alexei, is that it was a friend, who is a very reliable source. We have worked together before." Moshenko could tell the wheels were turning inside Stoyakova's razor sharp mind. A list of names and faces were undoubtedly in the spotlight. "This is of a most urgent matter," Moshenko emphasized. He sipped at his tea then smacked his lips. "The lives of many of our comrades could be at stake."
Stoyakova sat forward in his chair, then picked up a letter opener resembling a miniature sword. He jabbed the tip repeatedly into a thick manila folder on top of his desk. Trying to appear inconspicuous, he slid the folder closer to him with the tip of the opener. Moshenko pretended not to notice.
Stoyakova asked, "Then wouldn't that be all the more reason for me to be involved?"
"Believe me," Moshenko quietly said through tight lips, "the fewer who know, the better. There could be players that still have yet to be identified."
Stoyakova rolled his chair back, then stood up and turned away from Moshenko's stare. Red velvet curtains partially covered the plate glass window. He pulled one of the curtains aside. A glow of early morning sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow on the building surrounding the courtyard. He put his hands behind his back, quietly slapping the back of one hand against the other palm. Keeping his eyes on the snow-covered courtyard, he asked, "Soon?"
Moshenko replied solemnly, "Da."
Stoyakova sat down heavily and sighed deeply. "I will give you three days, Grigori, after which I will have to report our conversation to the president. Would you be prepared for that?"
Moshenko maintained his composure, confident he and his American friends would have the matter resolved before that event occurred. "You must trust me, Alexei."
Stoyakova laughed. "I have on your past escapades, have I not?"
"This is true. But I know you are also just trying to cover your…." Moshenko cut himself short.
"Excuse me?" Stoyakova asked, his gray, bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Was there something else you wanted to add?”
"No. Nothing, nothing," Moshenko answered, side-stepping his remark. I knew it would happen one of these days! he thought.
"Now," the minister said, "what do you need? Money, I suppose."
Moshenko laughed, "Not too much, but enough."
"Go to any of the usual banks and draw what you need," Stoyakova said while he wrote a note on letterhead paper and affixed his signature to the bottom. He folded it precisely into thirds and handed it across the desk to Moshenko.
It wasn't necessary for Moshenko to read it. He simply slipped it inside his suit jacket pocket. "It's time for me to begin my work," he said at the same time he was standing up and putting on his coat.
Stoyakova leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his palm. "Remember, Grigori… three days."
Moshenko stopped by the door. Without looking back, he repeated, "Three days." He left.
Stoyakova rose from his chair, taking slow deliberate steps across the room, pausing by the rolled up projection screen. “So, Grigori, where will this adventure be taking you? Is it possible that our paths will soon be crossing?” He turned and hurried to the desk, lifting the phone from its cradle as he dialed a four-digit number. "Zuyeva? Have you had the report transcribed? Good. Bring it to me right away." He dropped the phone into its cradle before walking behind his desk and pouring another glass of tea.
Moshenko stood at his office window with the phone pressed to his ear. From his fourth floor location he had a view of Zerzhinsky's monument. He swiveled his head back and forth, watching all that was going on in the streets below, looking for anything unusual. Before he had even picked up the phone, he made a thorough sweep of his office, looking for any hidden listening devices. This was a trademark of his training as a spy and KGB officer. He sat down, waiting for a response at the other end of the line.
Finally, he heard, "Comrade Moshenko!" It was East German General Stauffenberg.
Moshenko skipped all formalities. "General, I'll get right to the point. It's my understanding that you have misplaced something of importance to both of us."
Beads of sweat appeared along the general's brow. His back stiffened. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, Comrade."
So, it's a game you want to play, Moshenko thought. "Does the name 'Eric Brennar' mean anything to you?" Moshenko heard something of a groan then quickly turned the screw tighter. "You were in charge of all the people working on the project, if I'm not mistaken, General. He was your responsibility. You allowed him to escape. I'm sure you have already given a similar speech to your subordinates."
Stauffenberg had to try and salvage whatever he could out of the situation. "We have nearly twenty people looking for him, Comrade. I anticipate that at any time I will receive a report that he has been found."
"General, I do not think that will happen."