The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Twelve

April 1944

“Come in.” Hopkins’s somewhat bored voice came through the door, and Mia let herself in.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I won’t take long.” She held out an envelope. “It’s my letter of resignation.”

He frowned consternation. “Good grief. Whatever for?” He took the envelope but held it in front of him without opening it. “Has anyone mistreated you? Is there some problem?”

“In fact, the problem is mine, sir. Not the job. I love it.”

“Then what’s the reason for this?” He laid the letter on his desk. “Unless it’s for a very grave matter, I can’t let you leave. You’re too important to the program, especially now, when I have to accompany the president on the campaign.”

Mia took a step back, unprepared for his reception. “Well, it’s precisely because of the campaign that I have to leave. You see, I was involved in an… um… indiscretion a year or so ago, before being hired. I thought it was all behind me, but it’s come back to haunt me.”

“An indiscretion. Has this anything to do with the death of your father? I thought the police had closed the case. Are you implicated in any way?”

Mia took a breath. “Not in the death. At least I don’t think so. It’s been months since my brother said the case had reopened, and no one from the police has contacted me. No, it’s a personal indiscretion.” She paused, gathering her courage. “With a woman.”

“A woman? I see.” A frown passed quickly over his face and disappeared. “But how does that affect your work here, or the campaign?”

Mia pressed her forehead, as if to push away a headache. “She’s blackmailing me, threatening to go to the newspapers. And her revelations could prove an embarrassment to the White House, particularly now.”

“Did you commit a crime?”

“No sir. Nothing like that.”

“Did you do anything violent?”

“Not at all. Quite the opposite.”

“Then the issue is your fear of public opinion?”

“Public opinion that could taint the president, yes sir.”

He leaned back and lit up a cigarette, a trick he always used to give himself a moment to think. He inhaled and blew out smoke.

“The president is more resilient than you might think. We have a number of people of your… uh… disposition on the presidential staff, and it has so far never been an issue. But if she’s threatening to make the information public, we’ll have to separate you from the White House.”

“Exactly, sir. That’s the reason for my resignation.”

“No, no. Nothing as radical as that. We need only relocate you where you will be irrelevant to the campaign. To Moscow, for example.”

She was taken aback. “Moscow? On what pretense? Weren’t we just there two months ago?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be a pretense. As you know, inventory is still disappearing mysteriously, and I’m convinced the problem is in the Russian distribution.”

“So, you want to post me to Moscow, alone, to deal again with Mr. Molotov and his complaints?”

“You wouldn’t be alone. Mr. Harriman would meet you and fill you in on the status quo. The State Department will not mind issuing another air ticket, and you already have credentials with the Kremlin and the Ministry of Armaments. You have as much expertise to deal with them as anyone.”

“And you think that’ll work. I mean, to protect the president?”

“I’m certain it will. The heads of the major newspapers aren’t interested in embarrassing Mr. Roosevelt. They’ve downplayed his paralysis for three terms, so if your blackmailing friend shows up in their offices with such accusations, the editors will come to us for confirmation, and we’ll say we have no such person working in the White House.”

It was, in fact, an elegant solution. “Thank you, sir. I hope to live up to your trust in me.”

“Never mind. Just prepare to leave in the next few days. I’ll inform Mr. Harriman of your arrival and formally request meetings with Molotov and Ustinov. I expect you to accomplish something while you’re there.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hopkins said, and dropped the unopened envelope into his trash bin. Turning back to his desk, he flicked off the long ash of the cigarette that had lain in his glass ashtray.

“The White House has been negotiating the fate of all of Europe. Does this stupid woman think we’d be thrown by a bit of sordid gossip?” He spat out a bit of air to show his contempt.

The map-room staff reported that since February, the Axis powers had lost superiority in the airspace over the Baltic through to Leningrad, and that Allied traffic had a 90 percent chance of getting through. Mia didn’t care for the remaining 10 percent, but it was the only deal on the table.

Fortunately, the Douglas DC-3 carrying Lend-Lease radio equipment encountered no enemy presence and dropped safely to a lower altitude over Leningrad, now relieved of its two-year siege. She peered through the airplane window, trying to spot anything recognizable of the city of her childhood, but could make out only the two island districts that sheltered it from the sea and the Neva River that curved north and then south into the Baltic. She searched her feelings for homesickness but found only faint nostalgia for the happy family of her early years.

It had all changed with her mother’s death from diphtheria, as if it were only his wife who had kept Fyodor’s baser nature in check. His moral squalor that alternated with religious fervor had confused and tainted her and Van.

And her involvement with Grushenka, which at first blush had seemed like romance, had been no better. Mia winced at the memory. The beautiful Grushenka, who threatened to blackmail her now, and—the irony was excruciating—who looked much too much like Alexia.

Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova. Was she still standing guard at the Kremlin, handsome and safe from the war? Or had she joined the infantry and was now slogging through mud?

The first rough bump as the aircraft touched down at Moscow Airport broke her reverie. Time to go to work. She gathered her scant luggage, the greater weight of which was created by copies of the Lend-Lease books she brought to compare with local accounts. The aircraft door slid open, and as the Russian spring air blew inside as a sort of welcome, she followed the other passengers down the stairs onto the tarmac.

Though it was April, snow had obviously fallen, and the tarmac was wet with slush.

She glanced around, searching for Averell Harriman, but saw no one. She halted, perplexed and slightly alarmed. What now?

Finally, a man broke away from the crowd and approached her, and she recognized the chauffer from the embassy. He tipped his hat and held out a hand to take her suitcase.

“Hello, Mr.… Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Dornwend,” he said, touching his cap again. “You can call me Robert. Important thing is, I know who you are. Mr. Harriman is in Kuibyshev today and asked me to pick you up. But don’t worry. Your room is ready, and the ambassador will return tomorrow or the next day.”

Mia was struck by a moment of panic at the thought of approaching Molotov alone. But she reminded herself that she was only a telegram away from Harry Hopkins. Besides, most of the people she’d have to deal with at the Kremlin were familiar with her. For heaven’s sake, they’d gotten drunk together. How difficult could it be?

The next morning, the ambassador had not yet returned from Kuibyshev, and all she had for support was Robert the chauffeur. He cheerfully dropped her off at the Spasskaya Tower entrance of the Kremlin, but she was no better prepared than when she’d left Washington.

“Thanks, Robert,” she said as he held the rear door open for her. “I don’t suppose I’ll need to go back to the embassy until later this afternoon. Say, about four? And do you have any last words of advice, by the way?”

“Well, I have had success getting in good with the Russians by offering them American cigarettes. That’s not going to work with Molotov, of course, but maybe a guard or two. You never know.”

She patted her empty coat pocket. “But I don’t smoke and so I don’t carry any around.”

“Here. I’ve got a pack of Lucky Strikes and I’ve only smoked one. Take it, courtesy of the US government.” He drew it from his shirt pocket and tucked it into her hand. Touching one finger to his cap, he climbed back into the car and started off through the slushy snow.

With cigarettes or without, Molotov kept her waiting, as she knew he would. A cheap exercise of power, she thought, though, to be fair, the foreign minister probably had other matters to deal with. In any case, she put on her best face when he admitted her.

“So, you finally have located your miscalculations?” he asked coldly. Clearly, he did not view the search for discrepancies to be a collaborative effort, and she’d have to humor him.

She laid her several loose-leaf notebooks carefully on the edge of his desk, though his cold glance down at the invasive books told her she was trespassing on his space. “I’ve returned because we feel the problem arises on this side, and I’d like to sit down with various agents along the lines of distribution to pinpoint the leaks.”

“You imply theft on the part of our transport agents?” He seemed affronted. Yet it was exactly what she was implying, and she would have to choose her words carefully.

“I suggest nothing, Mr. Molotov. But our search indicates a reliable accounting of items shipped to your ports, subtracting those lost at sea. What remains now is to examine the manifestos and receipts at each step here.”

“I understood that is what you were doing the last time you visited.” He held his cigarette to the side of his face, a foppish gesture at odds with his bullying manner. It was an American cigarette, she noted.

She maintained her tight smile. “It was only a preliminary judgment. Now that we’ve examined our own records, I need to compare them with the receipts your agents have signed.”

“I’m afraid such receipts do not reside with me. For that you must refer to the relevant agencies. You could start with Dmitriy Ustinov at the Commissariat of Armaments.” He stubbed out his cigarette, leaving a one-inch butt in the ashtray. She wondered which of his lackeys would fish it out and reclaim the remaining tobacco. “Will that be all?”

He was dismissing her after only five minutes. You bastard, she thought, but retained her composure.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir. I’ll leave you to your more important affairs and wish you good day.” She took up her loose-leaf notebooks, and as she turned away, she had the unmistakable impression that he brushed off the corner of the desk where they had lain, polluting it.

She trudged back through the wet snow toward the offices of the Commissariat of Armaments, cold moisture seeping into her boots. Grushenka, you bitch. If not for you, I’d be home in Washington doing my job.

The unexpected sight of the changing guard at the Kremlin Palace brought her to a halt. She watched as the sentries marched toward one another, saluted, executed an elaborate double about-face, and separated. Only when the relieved sentry began the return march did she recognize him. The handsome, amiable Kiril.

He marched stiffly and in step with his colleague toward the Arsenal, his ceremonial rifle on his shoulder. She couldn’t interfere with the ritual so she discreetly followed him all the way to the entrance of his barracks. Only when he relaxed his guard and signaled good-bye to his mate did she run to intercept him.

“Kiril, stop,” she called out, and caught up with him on the steps. “Do you remember me?”

He smiled warmly. “Yes, of course I do, Miss Kramer. The American lady who wanted to go to church. It’s nice to see you again. What brings you to the Kremlin? You are without escort this time.”

“Yes. This time I’m not a guest of Marshal Stalin, only an annoying secretary of Mr. Hopkins trying to get information. But I was wondering, is Alexia Vassilievna still with the Kremlin Guard? I’d love to see her again.”

“No. She was transferred shortly after you left in January. To the sniper’s school at Podolsk.” He counted on his fingers, calculating the time elapsed. “I’m sure she’s graduated by now.”

“Ah, I see. Do you know where they go after graduation?”

“I can’t say for certain, but the last report in The Red Star was that female snipers were very successful on the Novgorod front. She’s probably based somewhere around there.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“No, but she wouldn’t write to me. Her grandmother, maybe.”

“Well, thank you, Kiril. I won’t keep you any longer. Take care of yourself.” She exchanged a warm handshake and turned, twice defeated, toward the Commissariat of Armaments.

Dmitriy Ustinov was more welcoming than Molotov had been and even made room for her books on his desk. “I see you’ve been hard at work,” he said, running his finger down the summary inventory page. “Have you pinpointed where the discrepancies begin in the delivery chain?”

“Not yet, but I’m much better prepared now. I’ve spent the last two and a half months making parallel lists of the items that seem to have disappeared, and at this point, I need to see the receipts from each distribution spot.”

“Receipts. Yes, of course,” he muttered. At the sound of a door opening, he glanced up. “Oh, there you are. Miss Kramer, you remember Colonel Nazarov, my deputy?”

The stocky man she remembered from her last visit shook her hand warmly. “So glad to see you again,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten our very jolly dinner last January with the boss.”

Mia instantly liked this man. “That’s an evening I will never forget. Marshal Stalin was in top form all evening, wasn’t he?”

“He surely was.” Nazarov hooked his thumbs in his belt like some jovial grandfather.

“Colonel Nazarov has just come from a tour of various factories,” Ustinov said. “Have you found everything in order, Nazarov?”

“I was just about to make a report on that subject exactly. Yes, within normal parameters, the distribution matches the inventory given to me. If deficiencies exist, we must look elsewhere.”

“What sort of factories do you refer to, Colonel Nazarov?” Mia asked.

“The Tankograd tank factory in Chelyabinsk, another in Kovrov assembling field telephones, and the Tula rifle factory.”

“Has the food arrived as well?” Mia asked. “I mean the tons of canned meat sent along with the shipments of arms. We know that an army marches on its stomach. And so do the workers who produce their weapons.”

“Oh, yes. Plenty of Spam on hand in all three factories. Our workers are very grateful for that.”

“And front-line supplies?”

“I’m checking on them the day after tomorrow when the next supply plane goes to Novgorod.”

The door to the office opened, and all three of them turned as an adjutant stepped into the opening. “Excuse me, Colonel Nazarov. A telephone call. From General Molotov.”

“Ah, yes. Will you excuse me? A good man never finds rest, eh?” He saluted Ustinov, offered a quick handshake to Mia, and marched from the room.

Mia had a sudden idea. “General Ustinov. I’ll take your lists with me and study them this evening, but would I be able perhaps to visit the rifle factory Colonel Nazarov mentioned?”

Ustinov hesitated. “Arms factories are usually off-limits to foreigners.”

“Yes, sir. But I do represent the agency that supplies so many of your weapons and so don’t fall into the category of ‘ordinary foreigner.’ I think you could make a case that Mr. Hopkins and I are part of the Soviet munitions production.”

He scratched in front of his ear. “I see your point, Miss Kramer. All right. I’ll write a pass authorizing your visit. Fortunately, the train from Moscow passes near the factory.”

“Thank you, Commissar Ustinov.” She held out little hope that the visit would produce anything, but it would at least show Hopkins that she’d gone all the way to the end of the distribution line.

And it would certainly be interesting to see how rifles were made.

Upon her return to the embassy, she discovered Ambassador Harriman had arrived, and she joined him in the dining room.

“How did it go?” he asked, pouring her a glass of wine. Another benefit of living at the embassy, however cold and windowless it was.

“Good and bad. Molotov is still being uncooperative. He complains but does nothing to assist us. He’s such an—” She stopped as he raised a finger to his lips, and she remembered all the eavesdropping bugs.

“Soo… let me say that my main problem all day was wet feet.” She drew a pencil from her pocket and wrote on a napkin.

“Wet feet all day is dangerous. So what do you plan to do?” he replied to her small talk.

“I suppose I’ll have to look around for some rubber boots, won’t I?” She scribbled another line on the napkin.

“Well, be careful in the meantime. We don’t want you getting sick,” he said, but, taking her pencil, he wrote on the other side of the napkin.

“Thank you for that advice. You’re right, of course. Um, would you pass the wine?”

The Tula Arms Plant, Mia learned, had transported its primary manufacturing beyond the Urals during the German invasion and left only one division in local operation. Nonetheless, when she arrived at its single remaining factory, she found a storm of activity.

The plant foreman met her at the entry gate, presumably after a telephone call from Ustinov. A haggard man in need of a shave, he could have been anything between forty and sixty. He was friendly and garrulous, and seemed to relish the idea of showing her around.

“So, what do you mostly do here?”

“Everything for the front, everything for victory is our motto, though in fact, our larger guns are produced in the east. This plant makes and refurbishes small arms, that is, the SVT-40 self-loading rifle, Nagant revolvers, Tokarev pistols, and the Mosin-Nagant 91 / 30 sniper rifle.”

“I understand you receive many of the parts from the United States.”

“Yes. A lot of the steel comes from there, as well as the metal jackets for the shells.”

“Are you well supplied? I mean, do you ever have to slow production for lack of materials or a late delivery?”

“No, the parts deliveries are always sufficient and on time. The factory operates twenty-four hours a day, in three shifts, so if we ran out of a part, it would bring the whole operation to a halt. You are welcome to visit the factory floor, if you wish.”

The “floor” consisted of a seemingly endless row of tables set end-to-end, with workers on both sides assembling parts drawn from wooden crates behind them. Almost all were women and old men. The clatter of metal against metal set up a sort of white noise, pierced occasionally by someone shouting.

She approached closer and peered over the shoulder of a woman as she oiled and fitted a spring into a magazine clip for one of the rifles. The woman’s hands were bony and weathered, and every crease and fingernail was black. Mia could not see her face, but even from the rear it was obvious how gaunt the woman was. Her work smock was filthy, too, though cleanliness was probably of a very low priority in such a factory. Not to mention the scarcity of soap. Still, it made her cringe.

She returned to the foreman, who waited for her at some distance. “May I see the end of the production line, too?”

“Of course. That will be at the far side of the hall, where they attach the scope.”

Two other women, equally malnourished, worked on the scope, one attaching it and the other measuring its accuracy. She held it up to her eye and pointed it toward a cardboard grid, then handed it back for adjustment. After two or three of such adjustments, number-one woman passed it to the final table, where an old man attached a cloth strap to rings on the nozzle and stock. Then he laid the rifle in a wheeled crate next to others. When the crate was full, a young boy wheeled it away.

“It all seems very efficient, though I’m sure it’s exhausting.”

“Everything for the front, everything for victory,” he repeated. “That’s what keeps us going.”

Mia couldn’t tell how much of his reaction was genuine patriotism and how much propaganda. She knew about the sacrifices on the battlefield but had never imagined how hard life also could be in the factories.

“Can you show me the canteen?”

“If you wish,” he said, and led her along a corridor and down the stairs to a basement. She checked her watch, seven in the evening. “When do the workers get dinner?”

“A hot meal is served every eight hours, at five thirty, thirteen thirty, and twenty-one thirty. That is, at the beginning of the shift for some people and at the end of the shift for others. The food is whatever the commissariat has provided that week.”

“What does the commissariat usually provide?” She recalled an enormous shipment of Spam, powdered eggs, and sugar on the list from the depot at Arkhangelsk. It had been signed for ten days before.

“Kasha, mostly. And bread. Though the delivery is late this month. And the last delivery of flour was only half. Nobody explained why. We’ve had to cut the rations for the last three months.”

“Do you have meat?”

“A little horse sausage, but that was last month.”

“I mean the American Spam. Recently.”

“No. No. Nothing like that. Not since I’ve worked here.”

“I see. Well, thank you for taking the time to show me around. I won’t bother you any longer. I have a train to catch, so I’d better start for the station. Please, take these as a token of my thanks for your help.” She tapped out four cigarettes from her pack and presented them. For the first time, he smiled.

They shook hands and she left, suspicion crackling in her head.

Mia sat fretting on the return train to Moscow, not only about the information she had just obtained and which would surely have ramifications, but about her arrival. Robert had agreed to be at the Moscow station when the train from Tula arrived, but they had been sidelined twice while a troop train and an industrial train had claimed track priority, and now they were pulling into Moscow station over two hours late. Would he wait?

But as she descended from the train into the cold mist of the station platform, a different figure came forward to greet her.

“Colonel Nazarov? What a coincidence.” She accepted his gloved handshake and tried to look past him. “I was just about to search for my driver.”

“No need for that, Miss Kramer. The embassy car arrived some time ago, just before I did. I explained to the chauffeur that for this trip, you were under my protection and that I would see to your safe return. My car is waiting to take you to Spaso House.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, nonplussed, and followed him through the station to the street outside. It was only eight in the evening, and not yet dark, but the heavy skies had blocked sunlight all day, and the early evening atmosphere was morose.

Nazarov joined her in the backseat of the car and turned amiably toward her. “I hope you found your journey worthwhile. Did the workings of the Tula factory meet your expectations? It’s one of our more important recipients of military hardware, so we are most anxious to see they are supplied adequately.”

“Yes, it seemed so. The foreman made it clear that the parts are delivered on time and in the right quantity. Obviously, that would be critical, since a single deficiency would disrupt the whole manufacture, and the Kremlin would be involved.”

“Yes, quite so. I’m pleased you were satisfied that we’re doing our best to move the American goods along. The gaps you believe to have found are most likely bad bookkeeping at the depots in Arkhangelsk and Murmansk.”

“Yes, that’s possible. In any case, thank you for your assistance. I’ll put that in my report to Mr. Hopkins.”

Upon reaching the embassy, she shook his hand once again and hurried through the dark back into what passed for American territory.

The next morning, before breakfast, she composed the text of her cable to Harry Hopkins.

The wording seemed a bit strong. Maybe she should check with Ambassador Harriman before going on record. He’d already warned her to tread lightly.

She slid the draft to the side and realized she was hungry. All she’d gotten the night before was a quick sandwich from the embassy kitchen. A hot breakfast would do her good, and it would give her the opportunity to catch Harriman before he disappeared into his office.

As she emerged from her room into the corridor, she passed the cleaning lady, a woman whose name she didn’t know. “Good morning,” she said in passing, and let her mind drift to the thought of a cup of the embassy coffee.

“No, you can’t make direct accusations,” Harriman said. “Pilfering at that level is a major offense, and people are executed for less. I suggest you simply report what you saw, and what people said to you, and leave it to Hopkins or the White House to decide what action to take.”

Mia shrugged. “That seems to defeat the purpose of my coming, but I’ll do what you suggest. So what should I report to Molotov? He’s the one who’s always complaining about being cheated.”

“But he’s not complaining about problems at the Tula factory, is he? It was for a wide range of things that he was demanding double delivery. Missing Spam from the Tula plant was not one of his concerns.”

“But it should be one of his concerns. The Tula plant makes sniper rifles, among other things. If the workers are malnourished, they can’t be expected to produce precision weapons. Depriving them of food amounts to sabotage.”

“Perhaps so, but that’s not for you to judge.”

“It’s frustrating. This is the first theft I’ve been able to track down and have hard evidence for. The signed manifesto from the depot shows the food was shipped out. Leather, too, incidentally, for the shoulder straps, though the ones I saw were cotton. I’ve got to start someplace and show Molotov we’re taking his complaints seriously.”

“I see your point. So, why don’t you tell him verbally that the food shipment seems to have been diverted? He’ll have something to go on, assuming he wants to ‘go’ there at all, but you won’t incriminate anyone.”

“What about Hopkins? I’d like to clearly state my suspicions to him, at least. I wrote a telegram this morning that… well… named names. Cables from the embassy are secret, aren’t they?”

Harriman nodded. “Yes, once we transcribe them into code. Otherwise, I suggest you continue to gather your information without treading on toes, and then report verbally to the relevant parties. Do not leave a paper trail.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She reached for the marmalade, but it had lost its taste.

As if things could not get any worse, Molotov was not even available. At the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, his secretary announced the foreign minister was in a meeting with Marshal Stalin and had no opening during the rest of the day. Would she like to request an appointment for the next morning?

Resigned, Mia agreed. Yes, she would. In the meantime, perhaps the foreign minister might want to read her report. She handed over the slender envelope with her observations, expressed as objectively as possible, letting him draw his own conclusions.

Then she left the commissariat at a lingering pace, stopping at the Spasskaya Tower before wandering over to the corner where Robert had agreed to pick her up in two hours. What could she do in the meantime?

She hadn’t waited for more than two minutes when a GAZ-Ford limousine pulled up in front of her, and two bulky men in uniform leapt out. As they came toward her from two directions she realized, from the color on their caps, they were NKVD police. The smaller of the two laid one hand on his holster and said, “Please come with us.”