The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Twenty-two

“I must say, I’m stupefied.” Ambassador Harriman stood up as she entered his office late the next morning. “Although I should have been ready for anything.” He shook her hand warmly and guided her to a chair next to his desk. “According to Mr. Molotov, you were dead, then possibly alive, then dead again. Possibly.”

She sat down as comfortably as her protruding cast would allow. “What did he tell you? I’m curious to know. And then I’ll tell you the truth.”

“He said at first that you had identified some suspects in the theft, and that you decided—on very short notice and without informing me—to go with one of the distribution planes to the front. I found that hard to believe but was not in a position to call him a liar. Then he announced that the plane had gone off course and been shot down. You were presumed lost, along with the crew and cargo.”

“That was it? I was dead?”

“No, a few days later he reported that you’d survived the crash, that the cargo had arrived in Soviet hands, and that as soon as you recovered from your injuries, you would be sent back to Moscow, where he would see to your safety.”

She scratched along her neck where the cast was itching. “And then?”

“And then they seem to have lost you again. I got a call for a meeting about a month ago in which Mr. Molotov was in rather good spirits, considering his final report was that you had been killed by enemy fire on the way to the hospital at Novgorod. Of course I informed Mr. Hopkins.” He sat back and clapped his hands on the armrests of his chair. “And yet, out of the blue, you reappear, alive, though slightly dented.”

He stood up and gestured toward the door. “So now we will take a little walk outside. It’s rather nice today, so all you’ll need is this.” He tossed her a woolen scarf that could serve as a shawl.

They stepped outside into the late-morning sunshine. The garden surrounding Spaso House was a bit sad. In the October air, the leaves had dropped from the trees and shrubbery, and lay in piles here and there. The embassy presumably had no staff to rake them up. Nonetheless, the autumn air was clear, and after weeks in the hospital, Mia savored the simple pleasure of strolling, unaided and unthreatened.

She took a deep inhalation. “Well, I have to admit, Molotov is a crafty politician, and certain shards of his stories are true. You’ll recall I had some suspects, but he was one of them, along with Ustinov and his assistant Nazarov. Nazarov, for sure, because I caught him in an outright lie. But Molotov had to be involved since he was willing to have me killed to cover the story.”

“Killed? But how?”

“Well…” And during the leisurely amble over the lawns, she told the story of her last five months.

Harriman was silent throughout except for an occasional grunt of surprise.

“So that’s it.” She concluded her story.

He slowed his pace. “I wonder how Molotov found out what you knew and that you were about to report your suspicions to the White House.”

Slightly chilled, Mia pulled the scarf over her exposed shoulder. “I think I know. I had all my suspicions laid out in a draft letter, the one you advised me not to send, and I didn’t. But it was lying on my night table that morning, uncoded, of course, and when I left my room to see you, I passed your cleaning woman. I didn’t think about it at the time, but it’s possible she photographed it. Or memorized it.”

“Cleaning woman? That would have been Svetlana, who has keys to all the guest rooms. Curious. She never misses a day, but today she didn’t show up for work.”

“That could mean she’s the Kremlin’s eyes in the embassy, while their bugs do the listening. So, where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know, frankly. Offhand, my advice is still to not burden the White House with the accusation, given the negotiations going on about world issues. Not to mention that the president is campaigning for reelection. Molotov is a very big fish, and much too close to Stalin.” They walked in silence another twenty paces.

“I think you should go ahead and make out your report to Harry, but not treat it as a demand for justice. I believe you, and Harry will believe you, but—at least for the kidnapping and murder attempt—you have no proof. I suspect Harry will set it aside, since his primary concern is keeping communication open between the president and Stalin. A scandal of this magnitude would be a serious embarrassment to Stalin, but also a major problem for us.”

“For Molotov, too, wouldn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t Stalin solve it by eliminating him? He’s done that to men for far less.”

“That’s a good possibility. And knowing that gives you an advantage.”

Mia halted and let the morning sun warm her face, then refocused her thoughts. “Speaking of the bugs in the house, do you suppose word has gotten back to the Kremlin that I’m here? By now most of the staff knows it, including Svetlana.”

“I’d say it’s a near certainty,” Harriman said. “Are you ready to go back inside and talk about more trivial things?”

“You mean our chat for the Kremlin? Yes, I am. Then we’ll see who telephones and wants to talk.”

Back in the ambassador’s office, they took up the positions they’d left shortly before. The walk had been refreshing, but Mia was glad to be sitting again. She resumed scratching the back of her neck where the plaster cast chafed.

“How’s the shoulder? Sorry. I should have asked sooner. Do you need further treatment? I can get a doctor in, if you want.”

“No. The cast seems adequate. I don’t know how long it takes a clavicle and shoulder blade to heal, but I’m managing.”

“Well then, congratulations. You did your job and found your suspects. Write up your report, and otherwise have a good rest. You can stay at the embassy until you receive orders from the White House.”

Hardly had the ambassador finished his talking when a knock sounded at the door. “Yes? Come in?”

The corporal’s head appeared at the edge of the door. “A telephone call, sir. From the Kremlin. Mr. Molotov, sir.”

Harriman and Mia exchanged glances. “Thank you, Corporal. Would you put the call through?”

Mia stood up to leave and grant him some privacy, but he raised a hand to stop her. “No, please stay. This concerns you, I’m sure,” he said, picking up the handset at the sound of the buzz.

After the initial polite exchanges, the ambassador’s side of the conversation was succinct. “Yes, yes. Of course. I quite understand. Certainly. It will be my pleasure. Shall we say tomorrow at four o’clock? All right then. Good-bye.”

The ambassador leaned back in his chair. “He knows and can’t wait to come and discuss you.”

“So, the ball is in your court.”

“Yours, actually. Yours and Harry Hopkins’s. Now that you’re under the shelter of the embassy—” He drew out a pad and pencil from his desk drawer. After a moment of scribbling, he slid it toward her.

Your information could conceivably purge Mr. Molotov from the Kremlin, not to say from the earth. You are in a very strong bargaining position. Consider what you want from him, but don’t go too far.

Mia nodded, thought for a moment, then said out loud, “I know what I want.”

“Good, and in the meantime, I’m going to call Dr. Kuznetsov, a doctor who treats the staff on occasion. I want him to take a look at that cast. It seems awfully heavy, and since you’ve worn it for over a month, maybe he can replace it with something less dramatic.”

Portly and with a full drooping mustache and thick hairy eyebrows, Dr. Kuznetsov reminded Mia of Friedrich Nietzsche, or at least of a sketch of him she’d seen. He examined Mia’s cast, asked a few questions, then stood back smiling.

“You have to admit, if you give our military hospitals the supplies they need, they are extremely thorough. That cast would hold a horse’s leg in place.” He knocked on it for emphasis, the almost imperceptible thud suggesting a great deal of plaster had gone into its making. “You say you’ve worn this for a month?”

“More than that. And for that long I haven’t had a good night’s sleep.”

“Well, I’m afraid you still won’t after I remove it and immobilize your shoulder with a bandage. Quite the opposite. You’ll feel some pain if you lean on it. But you’ll have less weight to carry around, and you can put a shirt on. A big shirt, of course, using only one sleeve.”

From his bag, he drew out a tiny circular saw attached to an electric wire and bent over to plug it into the wall. When he approached her, she eyed the little machine with suspicion.

“You’re going to slice through the plaster with that? How do you know how deep to saw? I mean, there’s me inside.”

He chuckled softly, and she realized he probably heard the same protest from every patient about to lose a cast. “Don’t worry. The radius of the blade is less than the thickness of the cast, and the bottom layer is fiber. Never slashed anyone yet. Now rest your elbow here on the back of this chair.” With that, he stepped behind her and began with a vertical slice up the length of the plaster on her back.

It was nerve-racking to hear the buzz of the saw so close to her ear—and skin, and she couldn’t help but flinch each time he forced it into the cast wall. Finally he cut away a portion of the rear support, and her arm dropped about an inch onto the chair back. She felt a painful tug on her shoulder muscles.

Docile and patient, she grimaced through the remaining slices, none of which produced any bloodshed. Finally he set his saw to the side. Then, gripping the edges of the plaster segments, he tugged them apart, tearing the final layer of gauze that covered her skin.

“Now you must hold very still while I put it into the right position and bandage it again.”

With her arm still bent at the elbow and supported by the chair back, all she felt was the cold air across her newly exposed skin. The whole limb felt frail and weightless, and it itched, but she dared not scratch it.

He palpated the area around her clavicle gently, eliciting a grunt of pain from her, then stopped. “Now I’m going to move your arm down. Your stiff shoulder muscles won’t like the new movement, but it will be all right.”

With that he lowered her elbow gently to her side, then laid her forearm across her midsection. “Hold it here with your other hand while I bandage it,” he ordered. The injured parts of her neck and back began to ache as he wrapped several rolls of bandage around her upper arm and shoulder. A third layer around her midriff and forearm fixed the arm in place.

“There you have it. Keep it wrapped for another week at least, ideally longer. Would you like a souvenir?” he asked, holding up a piece of the cast.

“No, thank you. The pain is souvenir enough.”

“Very good.” Leaving the plaster fragments for the embassy to dispose of, he packed up his circular saw and snapped his bag shut. After a handshake to her good hand, he strode from the room. She heard him exchange a few words with the ambassador and then the sound of the closing door.

As she drew on her shirt, Harriman appeared in the doorway. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you. Um… he knew I’d been in a military hospital. What did you tell him about me?”

“Very little. I said you were a journalist and were injured while photographing a battle at the front. I don’t think he believed me, but he knew that was all he would get from me. If his people tell him something else later, no matter.”

“I suppose you’re right. Anyhow, this feels better.” She patted her arm. “I didn’t want to confront Molotov looking like a scarecrow waiting for a crow. I can also almost wear a shirt now. See?” She buttoned the shirt under the bulge of her forearm. Her shoulder and neck were aching badly from the movement, but it felt good to be more or less dressed.

“So, have you decided what you’re going to say to him? Molotov, I mean,” Harriman asked.

“I’d like to tell him to go to hell, but don’t worry. I won’t.”

The ambassador’s expression suggested he felt the same way.

At four o’clock precisely, a black limousine drew up in front of the Spaso House portico carrying the foreign minister. Mia watched from the window, recalling the way she herself had arrived two nights earlier, a fugitive in rags, and in the sidecar of a motorcycle. Now, the balance had shifted.

A driver climbed out and opened the car door for him. Molotov stepped out and marched to the door of the embassy. Mia backed away from the window to watch the door open from the inside. The guard was the same corporal who had admitted her, though this time, of course, he was more servile.

Ambassador Harriman shook hands with him, and only after the exchange of formalities did Molotov notice her standing off to the side.

“Ah, Miss Kramer. I am pleased to see you are alive and well. I trust your injury is not causing you much trouble.” His smile was wooden.

“Thank you for asking, Foreign Minister. None of consequence. But I believe you have business with the ambassador. We can speak later.”

With a slight tilt of the head, the foreign minister followed Harriman into his office, and the corporal shut the door behind them. Mia took a seat in one of the stiff ornamental chairs in the lobby. The official meeting, during which Molotov would stitch together some explanation of her disappearance, couldn’t possibly last long.

So this is what smug feels like, she thought. To catch someone in a lie. In a cat-and-mouse game, to finally be the cat. It was a good feeling.

Scarcely fifteen minutes later, the door opened again, and the two men stepped out. Harriman gestured toward the front door and said the words she was waiting for. “I believe you and Miss Kramer have some business to discuss, and the air in the garden is quite fresh this time of year.”

The corporal opened the door again, and Molotov marched expressionless through the doorway. Seeing the foreign minister emerge, the driver stepped out of the car again, but Molotov waved him back in. He was going for a walk.

Mia fell in step next to him, and they traced virtually the same path she had already walked with the ambassador the day before. Like a boxer waiting for the match to start, she considered her opponent.

She knew whom she was up against. Molotov had weathered the revolution, Stalin’s several purges, and four years of war—and he was as unpredictable as a cobra. But she had the weight of the White House on her side and the benefit of not being terrified of her head of state, while he was on his own. When they were halfway around the circle of the garden, he spoke first, and his voice was pure oil.

“I understand you were wounded at the front. Unnecessary, but courageous.”

Mia was in no mood for small talk. She halted and faced him. “You ordered me killed.”

He looked hurt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I simply sent you on one of your own deliveries. If the Luftwaffe attacked you, that is one of the unfortunate hazards of being in the midst of a war.”

“That fairy tale might have worked with Stalin, but not with me. Your own NKVD man told me what his job was. And he would have carried it out if we hadn’t been shot down just at that moment. Yevgeny survived the crash, too, by the way, and was very brave. The Germans tortured him, but he gave nothing away, so they shot him.”

Molotov snorted. “No one will believe that absurd tale now, since there’s only you to tell it.”

“The ambassador believes me. And Harry Hopkins will, too. More importantly, they will believe that I discovered who’s responsible for the theft of so much Lend-Lease material. Not the big war materials, the jeeps and airplane parts, but the little things that you can conceal and then sell on the black market.”

He jammed his fists in his coat pockets, and for a moment she feared he carried a gun. But it was just a gesture of frustration. “You stupid girl. Whatever story you invented to tell your ambassador will carry no weight. It’s the hysterical imaginings of a secretary against the word and reputation of a foreign minister. I don’t need to remind you that the most powerful men of this century are about to negotiate the fate of half the globe. Before the force of history, your tale of what you saw in a single visit to an arms factory will amount to the buzzing of a mosquito, an irritant and an embarrassment.”

“Perhaps so, but you, too, will be an irritant and an embarrassment. All Stalin has to do is suspect you might be stealing, and he’ll sweep you away. You of all people know how he disposes of men who are of no use to him. One telephone call from Harry Hopkins to put the idea in his head, and you’d be liquidated the same afternoon.”

The foreign minister was silent and began walking again, slowly, obviously collecting his thoughts. He had called her a stupid girl, but it was he who had arrived unprepared.

He halted, clearly ready to deal. “We will explain the material losses as an error on our side. Then I can guarantee you safe passage home on an American plane. No flights over enemy territory. Medical assistance for your arm, an exit visa, and a friendly escort to the airport, together with your ambassador, if you wish. Just go home and leave us to conduct our business, which is outside your area of competence.” He pivoted around as if to return to the embassy, the deal done.

She spoke to his back. “Oh, Mr. Molotov. You haven’t been paying attention. You evidently missed the part about our informing Marshal Stalin about your indiscretion. I’ll be the one who states the terms.”

He stopped and turned, and his cold glance stunned her. It was the look of a man who had already once organized the starvation of a million peasants. If he could have shot her on the spot with no consequences to himself, he’d have done it in an instant. But he couldn’t. Through his wireless glasses she could actually see him blink.

“What do you want?” he asked softly.

She took a breath.

“Everything you mentioned, and more. One, that you send for Senior Corporal Alexia Mazarova of the 109th Rifle Division and deliver her to Moscow. Two, that you provide whatever documentation is necessary to permit her to travel to the United States.”

“To the United States?! What wild fantasies you have. In fact, we have already investigated the 109th Rifle Division, or what’s left of it. Senior Corporal Alexia Mazarova was transferred to a penal battalion.”

Mia could feel her face redden with rage. Penal battalion. A death sentence.

“Then you are about to fall as well. This discussion is over.” She brushed past him to return to the embassy.

He let her go five steps, then called out. “Wait.”

She halted and turned slowly toward him, now as coldhearted as he. She wanted nothing more at that moment than for his own tyrannical government to humiliate and then execute him.

“I can contact the head of the battalion. If she’s still alive, I’ll have her transferred back here. But only if you maintain complete silence and drop the whole investigation. Tell Mr. Hopkins it was bad bookkeeping. Tell him anything.”

“Complete silence. That’s what you’ll get. But only so long as I am sure Corporal Mazarova is safe. If, at any moment, I learn that she has been killed, or imprisoned, or harmed in any way, your trashy little scandal will go first to President Roosevelt and then to The New York Times. I understand Marshal Stalin has The New York Times read to him every morning over his breakfast tray.”

“Assuming I can arrange her transfer and subsequent exit, what do you plan to do with her?”

“That’s none of your business. Until then I have the entire story written out with dates and names. I reside in the White House so can hand it personally to the president. As soon as Corporal Mazarova arrives here at the embassy, I will turn it over to you.”

“That’s a promise that only an extremely naïve person would accept. How can I trust that you won’t simply write it again?”

“I don’t know what kind of betrayals you are used to, but that is not my way. I actually keep my word. Your fall from grace, or liquidation, if it came to that, would be of no benefit to me.”

“And Ambassador Harriman? Of what benefit could it be to him?”

“He knows only bits and pieces of the story, and as a diplomat trying to keep communication and goodwill between our governments, such a scandal would not benefit him either. In any case, he has left the entire matter in my hands.”

He glanced away, and she could see his jaw moving slightly. It amused her to think he might be grinding his teeth. “All right. I will look into the status of Corporal Mazarova and send word tomorrow morning.”

Dry leaves crackled under his feet as he marched away.

Harriman joined her in the garden later. “I’m glad you’re giving Molotov a taste of his own medicine, but do you have a master plan? If so, I need to know it.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been playing this whole thing too much by ear, and I know that diplomats don’t have that luxury.”

“True. But diplomats are not usually kidnapped to be murdered for uncovering a scandal. So you have my complete sympathy. But when you spoke with Molotov, you made a deal not to expose him if he met your conditions. What were those conditions?”

“I’ll give you some background. When I was shot at Pskov, a soldier who was also a personal friend saved my life by dragging me out of the line of fire. She had to leave her post to do it, and for that she was arrested for desertion. As a result, she was put in a penal battalion, where, as you know, the fatality rate is very high. They are sent out to walk through minefields, for example, to set off the mines before the other troops pass. That sort of thing. I said I’d hand over my report to him if he removed her from the penal battalion and had her brought to Moscow, and then here.”

“Here? I can see wanting to save her, but why can’t she go back to her own unit?”

“Because she also knows about Molotov’s dirty deeds. And her association with me puts her in the same danger that I’m in. I think the only way to save her is to take her out of Russia.”

“Out of Russia? You mean defect.” He took a step back. “Miss Kramer, have you thought this out? What if she doesn’t want to? And if she does, what can she do in the United States, a woman who speaks only Russian and has killed scores of men?”

“She can learn English, the same way millions of immigrants have done, and as for the body count, thousands of young American men are also going home from this war with the blood of dead Germans on their hands. Why would it be different for her?”

Harriman frowned slightly in what looked like agreement. Still, his question was a fair one.

“Of course, we have to ask her what she wants to do. But if she does defect, I can think of at least one job that would fit. When Major Pavlichenko was in Washington on her lecture tour, Georgetown University offered her a position teaching Russian. She turned it down, but Lorena Hickok told me they do have a Russian department and always need staff.”

“Well, that’s plausible. All of this would have to be done with extreme discretion, without embarrassment to either the White House or the Kremlin. And if it blows up, you’re on your own.”

“Ambassador, I won’t be any more on my own than I was crashing on the battlefield in Belarus and stealing the identity of a dying soldier.”

As promised, the news arrived the next morning in a letter delivered by motorcycle currier. Corporal Mazarova was still alive, and orders had been sent for her immediate transfer to Moscow.

“Immediate” was a frustratingly indefinite term, and while she waited, Mia paced the corridors of the embassy like a specter. So many issues could not be resolved until she had spoken with Alexia herself. What if she had completely misjudged her? What if Alexia was bitter and blamed her arrest on Mia? The thought was excruciating. And would she defect? What if Mia’s entire extortion scheme was for nothing, and Alexia remained a loyal Soviet patriot, prepared to die, even in a penal battalion, for the motherland?

She rubbed her forehead with her good hand, as if it could soothe her tormented conscience. But it simply allowed her anxiety to shift to another set of questions. If Alexia did want to defect, just how would they do that? On what plane? With whose permission? Mia herself had come to Russia on behalf of the White House, so the ambassador had the authority to put her on an American military plane home. But did that include a Soviet defector?

And, dear Lord, what would Alexia think of Washington? Mia loved to imagine the two of them curled up in her bed at the White House, but that was clearly a childish fantasy. In practical terms, a defector at the White House would present considerable embarrassment to a president.

She dropped onto her bed and hugged her pillow in despair. Jesus. What had she done?