The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Eight

January 1944

After an international flight to RAF Kinloss Airport and a train ride to Invergorden, Scotland, Mia stood wearily on the dock next to Harry Hopkins. They both stared mournfully at the Catalina flying boat rocking in the icy water in front of them. Much wider than any plane she’d ever seen, its propeller engines hung from the wings over the fuselage, and it reminded her of some vast bird of prey.

“So this is what you get when you’re not entitled to presidential treatment.”

“Afraid so. Since we don’t have air-force escort, we have to travel around North Cape, Norway, to Arkhangelsk. Worse, they’re already carrying cargo, so we’re being shoved into the machine gunner’s station in the tail.”

As soon as the hatch opened, they climbed inside. They crammed their baggage into the Plexiglas blister and crouched below the machine gun, which Mia fervently hoped would not be needed on this trip. They wore padded flight suits, but she already felt the chill of the unheated craft.

“How long is this flight?” she called out to the navigator, knowing the answer would not be welcome.

“About twenty-one hours, and most of that will be in darkness. We’re fully loaded so can’t fly at top speed. Best to sleep through the trip.”

“Sleep, sure thing,” she muttered, and stretched out the best she could, tucking her hands into her armpits and using her luggage as a pillow. The hours passed and she tried to doze, but the cold and the roar of the engines made it impossible.

Consequently, when they arrived in Moscow and landed on the Moscow River, she was dizzy with exhaustion. They clambered out onto the dock into the shock of frigid winter air.

The US ambassador to Russia, Averell Harriman, strode toward them. “Welcome to Russia. You both look like you could use a warm-up and some rest. Come on. We’ll do our best to make you comfortable at the embassy.”

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.

“The missing items are critical to the war effort. Irrespective of how you explain the deficiencies, they need to be compensated for and the original number provided immediately. Is that clear?”

Mia translated his demands without softening his tone. Hopkins stiffened in reaction, though his reply was impeccable. “Thank you for your time, Foreign Minister. In keeping with Mr. Roosevelt’s wishes, we shall endeavor to supply the Red Army with whatever it needs to fight an enemy it once trusted. You will be hearing from us at the appropriate time.” He offered his hand for a cold handshake and turned away, leading Mia from the room.

In the corridor she couldn’t resist a smirk. “Well done, Mr. Hopkins, reminding him of his own blunder in negotiating a pact with Hitler.”

Hopkins snorted faintly and tugged on his winter coat. “It was the least I could do to the little tyrant,” he murmured.

Kiril and Alexia stepped toward them, and together they marched along the corridor to the portal.

“Shall we escort you back to your embassy now?” Kiril asked.

“I suppose so,” Hopkins said. “I’m bushed.” He looked mournfully at the still-closed door, apparently not keen to venture out into the painful winter air.

“But it’s January 6,” Mia reminded him. “Orthodox Christmas Eve on the Julian calendar.”

“Is that so? I had no idea you were religious, Miss Kramer.”

“Oh, I’m not at all. But I have childhood memories of Christmas services.” She turned to Alexia. “Is it true that Christmas is now forbidden?”

“No, not at all. Communists consider religion the opiate of the people, but Stalin hasn’t forbidden it,” she said defensively.

Hopkins was not convinced. “I thought Stalin ordered all the churches closed and even destroyed the great cathedral.”

Alexia shook her head. “He did in the beginning, but last September, he met with the bishops of the church, and in return for their support he gave permission for them to open the Moscow Theological Seminary and to elect a new patriarch. After that, some other churches opened again, too.”

“So where do the Muscovites go on Christmas?” Mia got to the point. “I’d love to see a Christmas service, or part of one. I remember they were long.”

Alexia’s reaction was guarded. “All the big religious events are in the Yelokhovo Cathedral now.”

“And is there a service today?” Mia was suddenly determined.

Kiril shook his head. “There is a mass, but it’s late now. The church will be full, and you won’t find a place to stand.”

“What about tomorrow? Surely on Christmas morning…”

Hopkins tugged his fur hat down over his brow and wrapped his wool scarf twice around his face. Only his eyes were visible, and his voice seemed to come from far away. “Out of the question. We have a dinner engagement tomorrow, with Stalin and his ministers.”

Mia would not give up. “That’s in the evening. We have the morning free. If you’re not interested, I’ll go alone and be back hours before the dinner.”

Alexia was obviously not thrilled. “It starts at nine, but I don’t think my commander will agree to one of his guards attending a church service.”

“Fine. Tell him that we’re sentimental capitalist Christians, that we’ll take the embassy car and that you’ll wait outside.”

Hopkins nodded toward Kiril to finally open the portal to the icy exterior. “Do what you wish. Just take me back to the embassy now so I can warm up.”

“Are we agreed, then?” Mia looked toward Alexia. “You’ll pick me up at eight thirty?”

Alexia glanced away, then sighed. “Yes. All right.”

“Wonderful. S razhdestvom!” Mia exclaimed. “Merry Christmas.”