Maybe. Ryan admitted to himself that this might be as false a panacea as all the others; it had never been tried, after all.
“May I make a suggestion to you?”
“Certainly,” Golovko answered.
“Let’s drop the shop talk, and you tell me about this room while I enjoy the champagne.” It’ll save us both a lot of time when we write up our contact reports tomorrow.
“Perhaps I could get you some vodka?”
“No, thanks, this bubbly stuff is great. Local?”
“Yes, from Georgia,” Golovko said proudly. “I think it is better than the French.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking a few bottles home,” Ryan allowed.
Golovko laughed, a short bark of amusement and power. “I will see to it. So. The palace was finished in 1849, at the cost of eleven million rubles, quite a sum at the time. It’s the last grand palace ever built, and, I think, the best . . .”
Ryan wasn’t the only one touring the room, of course. Most of the American delegation had never seen it. Russians bored with the reception led them around, explaining as they went. Several people from the embassy tagged along, keeping a casual eye on things.
“So, Misha, what do you think of American women?” Defense Minister Yazov asked his aide.
“Those coming this way are not unattractive, Comrade Minister,” the Colonel observed.
“But so skinny—ah, yes, I keep forgetting, your beautiful Elena was also thin. A fine woman she was, Misha.”
“Thank you for remembering, Dmitri Timofeyevich.”
“Hello, Colonel!” one of the American ladies said in Russian.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. . . .”
“Foley. We met at the hockey game last November.”
“You know this lady?” the Minister asked his aide.
“My nephew—no, my grand-nephew Mikhail, Elena’s sister’s grandson—plays junior-league hockey, and I was invited to a game. It turned out that they allowed an imperialist on the team,” he replied with a raised eyebrow.
“Your son plays well?” Marshal Yazov asked.
“He is the third-leading scorer in the league,” Mrs. Foley replied.
“Splendid! Then you must stay in our country, and your son can play for Central Army when he grows up.” Yazov grinned. He was a grandfather four times over. “What do you do here?”
“My husband works for the embassy. He’s over there, shepherding the reporters around—but the important thing is, I got to come here tonight. I’ve never seen anything like this in my whole life!” she gushed. Her glistening eyes spoke of several glasses of something. Probably champagne, the Minister thought. She looked like the champagne type, but she was attractive enough, and she had bothered to learn the language reasonably well, unusual for Americans. “These floors are so pretty, it seems a crime to walk on them. We don’t have anything like this at home.”
“You never had the czars, which was your good fortune,’ Yazov replied like a good Marxist. “But as a Russian I must admit that I am proud of their artistic sense.”
“I haven’t seen you at any other games, Colonel,” she said turning back to Misha.
“I don’t have the time.”
“But you’re good luck! The team won that night, and Eddie got a goal and an assist.”
The Colonel smiled. “All our little Misha got was two penalties for high-sticking.”
“Named for you?” the Minister asked.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have those on when I saw you.” Mrs. Pole pointed to the three gold stars on his chest.
“Perhaps I didn’t take off my topcoat—”
“He always wears them,” the Marshal assured her. “One always wears his Hero of the Soviet Union medals.”
“Is that the same as our Medal of Honor?”
“The two are roughly equivalent,” Yazov said for his aide Misha was unaccountably shy about them. “Colonel Filitov is the only man living who has ever won three in battle.”
“Really? How does someone win three?” ;
“Fighting Germans,” the Colonel said tersely.
“Killing Germans,” Yazov said even more bluntly. Why Filitov had been one of the Red Army’s brightest stars, he! been a mere lieutenant. “Misha is one of the best tank officers who ever lived.”
Colonel Filitov actually blushed at that. “I did my duty, did many soldiers in that war.”
“My father was decorated in the war, too. He led two missions to rescue people from prison camps in the Philip pines. He didn’t talk about it very much, but they gave him a bunch of medals. Do you tell your children about trios bright stars of yours?”
Filitov went rigid for a moment. Yazov answered for hint
“Colonel Filitov’s sons died some years ago.”
“Oh! Oh, Colonel, I am so sorry,” Mrs. Foley said, and she really was.
“It was long ago.” He smiled. “I remember your son well from the game, a fine young man. Love your children, dear lady, for you will not always have them. If you will excuse me for a moment.” Misha moved off in the direction of the rest rooms. Mrs. Foley looked to the Minister, anguish on her pretty face.
“Sir, I didn’t mean—”
“You could not have known. Misha lost his sons a few years apart, then his wife. I met her when I was a very young man—lovely girl, a dancer with the Kirov Ballet. So sad, but we Russians are accustomed to great sadnesses. Enough of that. What team does your son play for?” Marshal Yazov’s interest in hockey was amplified by the pretty young face.
Misha found the rest room after a minute. Americans and Russians were sent to different ones, of course, and Colonel Filitov was alone in what had been the private water closet of a prince, or perhaps a czar’s mistress. He washed his hands and looked in the gilt-edged mirror. He had but one thought: Again. Another mission. Colonel Filitov sighed and tidied himself up. A minute later he was back out in the arena.
“Excuse me,” Ryan said. Turning around, he’d bumped into an elderly gentleman in uniform. Golovko said something in Russian that Ryan didn’t catch. The officer said something to Jack that sounded polite, and walked over, Ryan saw, to the Defense Minister.
“Who’s that?” Jack asked his Russian companion. .
“The Colonel is personal aide to the Minister,” Golovko replied.
“Little old for a colonel, isn’t he?”
“He is a war hero. We do not force all such men to retire.”
“I guess that’s fair enough,” Jack commented, and turned aback to hear about this part of the room. After they had exhausted the St. George Hall, Golovko led Jack into the Adjacent St. Vladimir Hall. He expressed the hope that he and Ryan would next meet here. St. Vladimir Hall, he explained, was set aside for the signing of treaties. The two intelligence officers toasted one another on that.
The party broke up after midnight. Ryan got into the seventh limousine. Nobody talked on the ride back to the embassy. Everyone was feeling the alcohol, and you didn’t talk in cars, not in Moscow. Cars were too easy to bug. Two men fell asleep, and Ryan came close enough himself. What kept him awake was the knowledge that they’d fly out in another five hours, and if he was going to have to do that, he might as well keep tired enough to sleep on the plane, a skill he had only recently acquired. He changed his clothes and went down to the embassy’s canteen for coffee. It would be enough to keep himself going for a few hours while he made his own notes.
Things had gone amazingly well these past four days. Almost too well. Jack told himself that averages are made up of times when things went well and times they went poorly. A draft treaty was on the table. Like all draft treaties of late, it was intended by the Soviets to be more a negotiating too! than a negotiating document. Its details were already in the press, and already certain members of Congress were saying on the floor how fair a deal it was—and why don’t we just agree to it?
Why not, indeed? Jack wondered with an ironic smile. Verifiability. That was one reason. The other . . . was there another? Good question. Why had they changed their stance so much? There was evidence that General Secretary Narmonov wanted to reduce his military expenditures, but de| spite all the public perceptions to the contrary, nuclear arm| were not the place you did that. Nukes were cheap for what they did; they were a very cost-effective way of killing people. While a nuclear warhead and its missile were expensive gad] gets, they were far cheaper than the equivalent destructive? power in tanks and artillery. Did Narmonov genuinely want to reduce the threat of nuclear war? But that threat didn’t come from the weapons; as always it came from the politician! and their mistakes. Was it all a symbol? Symbols, Jack reminded himself, were far easier for Narmonov to produce than substance. If a symbol, at whom was it aimed?