The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Five

On the way to Tehran, November 1943

Mia was slightly disoriented by the rapidly changing locations, time zones, and events.

The voyage on the Battleship Iowa on the surging Atlantic had already been a test of endurance, and the days in Cairo, where they’d picked up Prime Minister Churchill, had brought little rest. She’d been on duty eighteen hours every day, taking notes and the occasional dictation from Hopkins. To her great regret, the schedule had left no time for her to make the trip to Giza to see the pyramids.

But against all odds—polluted water, strange food, sleepless nights—she was in good physical shape, and it took only the most casual glance to see that both Hopkins and the president were not. Hopkins, who sat in the aisle seat beside her so as to stretch out his long legs, had been plagued with stomach problems for the entire trip.

The president, spread out over two seats a few rows behind them in discussion with Churchill, was also subdued. The prime minister’s brusque voice dominated the discussion, as the smell of his cigar dominated the air of the plane.

She respected Churchill, even admired him for his ability to bolster the British during catastrophic times, but she couldn’t say she liked him. He was dismissive of her, a bit seedy in dress and manner, prone to outbursts, and he smelled of tobacco.

Hopkins suddenly leaned past her and peered through the porthole of the plane.

“Look down there. See that long row of what looks like ants? That truck convoy is us. Along with the Trans-Iranian Railroad, they’re transporting our Lend-Lease supplies to Basra and on to the USSR.”

It was a revelation. “Oh, my. What a difference between reading the lists on a ledger sheet and seeing the actual supply convoys making their way to Russia. Makes me proud.”

Half an hour later, as the plane began to lose altitude, Hopkins peered out the window again.

“Looks like we’re almost at Qaleh Morgi.” He snickered, and when he surrendered the window, she glanced down to see why. An enormous red star was painted across the runway.

“I guess Stalin wants to make sure everyone knows who’s in charge, eh?” she remarked.

“Yes, and that’s going to be half the battle here,” Hopkins said.

“Do you think Mr. Roosevelt can handle Stalin?”

Hopkins straightened his tie. “That’s why we’re here. To make sure he can.”

A cold wind hit them as they made their way down the stairs from the plane at Qaleh Morgi airport. Though some two dozen Soviet soldiers were lined up to form a corridor leading to the terminal, only one man walked out onto the field to meet them.

The Russian bowed in a hint of a military salute. “Dmitri Arkadiev,” he said with a slight nod, first to her, then to Hopkins. “Marshal Stalin arrived yesterday evening and has arranged for you to have Soviet security.” His English was heavily accented but clear and correct.

“That’s very kind of Marshal Stalin,” Hopkins said. “But the president has his own security staff, headed by Mr. Reilly.”

Arkadiev ignored the remark and simply moved aside as others came down the stairway. In fact, Michael Reilly was the next person to step off the metal steps, and he offered his hand, in turn, to the Russian security man. Their handshake was stiff, perfunctory, and Mia smiled inwardly at the image of the two security forces in competition. More of the delegation poured out of the aircraft: the president’s doctor, US ambassador to Russia Averell Harriman, the chief of staff, and finally, two burly men carrying the president carefully down the stairs in a chair.

Arkadiev was stone-faced, and Mia was certain that he and everyone else waiting at the airfield was stunned to see the president of the United States carried across the tarmac and lifted into an American car.

After the unmarked presidential car took off, carrying only Roosevelt and his bodyguard, Hopkins, Mia, and Reilly followed in one of the other vehicles. As they rode through the city, she glanced through the window at the land called Persia, disappointed.

The main streets were paved, but the sidewalks were not, and the dust stirred up by people walking seemed to cover the house fronts. Most of the street traffic seemed to consist of horse-drawn wagons and carriages, and she caught sight of only one bus, a wretched, rickety thing, full to bursting and without a door. Through the closed windows, she could still detect the smell of sewage.

At the American Embassy, an escort led them into a reception room where the US ambassador to Iran was already sitting with the president. When the entire delegation had arrived, the ambassador gave a brief welcoming speech. While porters led the other guests in order of rank and importance to their respective accommodations, the ambassador drew Hopkins, Harriman, and Roosevelt to one side.

“Mr. President, the Soviets have some very disquieting news.”

As if on cue, the door to the anteroom opened, and a bland little man with a mustache strode in. He was slightly pudgy, and his wide head swelled above a receding hairline. Rimless glasses, similar to those the president wore, gave him a benign headmaster look, but Mia recognized him from newspaper photos. Molotov, the thug Eleanor Roosevelt had described. Had he brought his private pistol to Tehran?

The man stopped before Roosevelt and offered his hand. “Welcome, Mr. President. Forgive me for this intrusion, but our head of security informs us that German agents are plotting to capture or kill any of the three leaders of the conference. They’ve already parachute-dropped automatic rifles and grenades at locations around the city.”

Molotov had addressed the president, but Reilly responded. “Have any of these agents been captured?”

“Yes, most. But it appears that perhaps half a dozen are still at large, and they have radio transmitters. The Soviet and British embassies are across from one another in the city and can be cordoned off together, but your embassy is far outside of Tehran.”

“Your solution?” Reilly was succinct.

Molotov smiled a kindly, schoolmaster smile. “That Mr. Roosevelt move to the Soviet Embassy. You’d have some measure of independence yet still be well protected. The rest of the delegation, both political and military, can remain here.”

“That’s fine with me,” the president said, preempting his security chief. “Thank you, Mr. Molotov. Please convey our acceptance of Marshal Stalin’s offer.”

When the transfer was finally executed, it was pure theater. A cavalcade of US and Soviet troops marched out to accompany the presidential car along the main thoroughfare into Tehran. Inside the car, an American security agent posed as Roosevelt, complete with cigarette holder clenched in his teeth. Wearing the president’s felt hat he waved presidentially through the window, while in a dusty, unmarked car, accompanied by a single jeep, Roosevelt himself bumped along dusty back streets.

Mia sat between two men in the rear of one of the “official” cars, listening to the remarks of the president’s protectors.

“You know that every room, sofa, and toilet will be bugged in that place,” Hopkins grumbled. “It’s going to be nigh-on impossible to have a private conversation.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Reilly said. “If the president needs to discuss matters away from Stalin’s ears, he’ll have to do it at the British Embassy.”

“Do you think they’ll find the agents still on the loose?” Mia peered out at the countless dark alleyways.

Hopkins nodded. “If I know the Russians, Tehran will be teeming with NKVD and Soviet troops. Stalin doesn’t go anywhere outside Moscow without an army of protection, and now it covers us as well. I’m sure that’s why the president accepted their offer.”

Reilly agreed. “It was probably wise. I’ve hardly more than a dozen men under my authority while the Soviets can offer hundreds. Besides, if anything happens to the president in the Soviet compound, our secret service will lose their jobs, but the Russian secret-service men will be dead before nightfall.”

They pulled into the compound and were directed toward a building at the far end where an entire floor of rooms was turned over to the US visitors. Mia deposited her suitcase in a cubbyhole room down the hall from the more stately one assigned to Hopkins. A suite with sitting room and private bath had been set aside for the president.

After an ad hoc lunch prepared by the embassy cook, Roosevelt and his immediate entourage met in the president’s sitting room to discuss scheduling, and the lack of strategy surprised Mia. It seemed that the president planned to use goodwill and charm to win Stalin over rather than an agreed-upon discussion schedule.

But before anyone could speak, a Soviet officer entered, followed by ten uniformed guards and Joseph Stalin. The guards, both male and female, took up positions along the wall on both sides of the door, automatic rifles across their chests.

Stalin ambled toward the president, obviously in an excellent mood, perhaps because the installation of the Roosevelt party in the Soviet Embassy was a show of strength for him. The “father of the Russians” could spread his protective cloak around the American president, too.

He was shorter than the press photos had led her to believe. His coarse square face was heavily lined and pockmarked, but his wide mustache and full, thick hair combed straight back gave him an air of bullish virility glaringly absent in both Hopkins and the president. Thank God that, in the twentieth century, it took more than bullish virility to hold power.

Stalin bent forward and shook Roosevelt’s hand vigorously. “I am so glad to finally meet you,” he said through his interpreter, who stood at his side.

He drew up a chair and began a lighthearted banter, about flying and the unpleasantness of having to travel far from home. His Georgian accent was conspicuous. Roosevelt omitted mentioning that his host had flown fifteen hundred miles while he himself, in a wheelchair, had traveled over six thousand.

Instead he politely asked how the Soviet troops were faring, and Stalin admitted candidly that the Red Army was bogged down on most fronts. Roosevelt said the United States was doing its best to draw off some of the Wehrmacht into Italy and North Africa, though Stalin’s cool expression made it clear that the strategy was not enough. Not nearly enough.

Sitting behind Hopkins, Mia scribbled notes as inconspicuously as possible, glad for the delay that using an interpreter caused in the dialogue. Once she’d slipped into the flow of the conversation and used initials and symbols in place of words, it went quickly, and she had the leisure to look up occasionally at the dictator and his guards. The Russians seemed to glower across the room at Roosevelt’s guards, who, in turn, glowered back at them. Even the plain-clothes security forces watched each other with suspicion. Never were two world leaders better guarded than in that room on that day.

The Russian guards who stood with their automatic rifles across their chests had surely been chosen for their beauty as much as for their prowess. The eight broad-chested men, with distinct Slavic faces, were as virile as their leader, and the two women were tall and handsome.

One of them, in fact, was stunning. A pale blonde with full lips, wide cheekbones, and slightly hooded eyes seemed familiar, and with a jolt Mia realized why. It could have been the sister of Grushenka, a taller, nobler, fully armed Grushenka.

She tore her eyes away, realizing she had missed a remark by Stalin, and hoped it was something trivial. But just then he stood up, and it was clear that his visit had been a courtesy, a way to show camaraderie with Roosevelt before Churchill entered the mix. With another series of handshakes, he left, once again followed by the splendid beasts of his military guard.

At ten o’clock, the first official meeting of the Big Three leaders began in the main part of the Soviet Embassy. Roosevelt sat with Hopkins, the admiral who headed the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and representatives of the navy and air force. She made a note to learn all their names.

Winston Churchill entered, having just come from the British Embassy across the street. As he passed her, Mia noted the familiar odors of cigars and whiskey. He took his place, along with Foreign Minister Eden, an admiral, and an RAF officer.

The door opened again and Stalin entered, followed by Molotov and the guards, and the room fell silent. As if compelled by some vast magnet, all those who were sitting stood up. Only Roosevelt, in his wheelchair, remained seated, and his sly smile suggested he enjoyed being exempt from the general obeisance.

Mia readied her fountain pen for note-taking but allowed herself a final lingering look at Stalin’s personal guard. The men, she supposed, were the same as before, but all Mia really cared about was… ah, yes, she was there, second from the end, the splendid “Grushenka” guard.

Mia’s attention was drawn back to her work as Stalin welcomed everyone with general pleasantries. Churchill followed, reminding his audience they were the greatest concentration of power the world had ever seen and that together they directed armies of some twenty million men.

Mia scribbled for the next two hours, then after a break, for two hours more, recording the discussions, agreements, and disagreements about the running of the war. By the end of the afternoon, all she could think of were her slowly cramping fingers and dinner.

In fact, the Americans hosted the first formal dinner of the conference. The presidential cook, together with kitchen staff from the US Embassy, produced a banquet that ought to have impressed their Russian hosts, although the endless obligatory toasts were made with bourbon rather than vodka.

Off duty, Mia could observe Stalin’s guards at her leisure. Once it even seemed the “Grushenka” guard glanced back at her, but it was probably her imagination. Her foolish, lonely, starved imagination.

The second day of the conference began as intense and wearying as the first, with negotiations over Poland’s postwar boundaries, the dividing up of Germany, and the formation of a United Nations Assembly.

Inevitably, Stalin brought the discussion around to the demand that the Western allies open a second front to draw off some of the German force in the East. Roosevelt announced a rough date for an invasion, called Operation Overlord. It would be headed by Dwight Eisenhower and would occur—and here both Molotov and Stalin scowled—in the spring of 1944.

“Why not sooner?” Stalin demanded to know. “Every day you wait, a river of Russian blood is being shed.”

Churchill reiterated, “The English Channel, with its winds, storms, and currents, is simply unsuitable for military operations before May. It’s much too dangerous for our landing craft.”

Stalin leaned forward and pointed with the stem of his pipe. “The Red Army has weathered far worse conditions for two years, and we have just lost nearly a million men at Stalingrad.”

The truth of the remark brought a tense silence to the room. It was mercifully alleviated when Churchill signaled someone at the door, and a British honor guard entered wheeling a large wooden case on a handcart.

Churchill stood up from the table, strode toward the mysterious case, and opened it. With a flourish, he withdrew a huge, jewel-encrusted Crusader’s sword in a scarlet scabbard and presented it to Stalin. “We in the West acknowledge the tragedy of Stalingrad. Therefore, in the name of our King, George VI, we offer this Sword of Stalingrad in recognition of the bravery of the men fallen in defense of that great city.”

Obviously surprised, and with much of his anger assuaged, Stalin took the sword, kissed the blade, and handed it to Voroshilov, who stood next to him. It was perhaps a bad omen that Voroshilov took hold of it so clumsily that the blade slipped out of the scabbard and fell to the floor.

Dinner on the second evening was at the British Embassy, and at seven o’clock, the Soviets arrived in force. Stalin was accompanied by Molotov, Voroshilov, and the man whom she now recognized was Beria, head of the NKVD. Pale, pasty men, lacking completely the statuesque beauty of the honor guard that followed directly behind them.

Another contingent—it must have been fifty—of ordinary soldiers streamed in behind them and took up position at every door and window within sight and, presumably, within the entire building. The only way the leader of the Soviet Union could have been attacked that evening would have been by bombardment from above. The Grushenka guard didn’t glance her way this time, but Mia seemed to sense an awareness radiating from her.

Dinner once again was awash in liquor, and she shared in the toasts saluting the various armies, air forces, navies, cultures, ancestors, courage, and miscellaneous manly virtues. The alcohol made her dizzy, but it also fueled her courage. At the end of the dinner, she threaded her way among the British guests toward the Russian security chief who stood a few feet from Stalin. She tugged on his sleeve and he turned around, startled.

“Excuse me, but can you tell me the names of the honor guard?”

He seemed as surprised to hear Russian from an American as he was puzzled by the question. “Why do you want to know? Have they behaved badly?”

“Oh, no. Mr. Hopkins, the president’s aide, wants me to record the events of the evening, and I was so impressed by the guard detachment I thought it would be nice to record their names. For posterity.”

It sounded lame, she knew, and she could see by his frown that, even if he knew them, he would not tell her. She searched for a way to backpedal.

“Perhaps just the two women. We have no such women in our military, and I personally admire their inclusion. But if it is contrary to protocol, I apologize for asking.”

He seemed to weigh the risk of giving personal information against the requirements of hospitality. “I do not know their full names,” he said. “But the dark-haired one is Tatyana, and the blonde is Alexia. Will that be enough for your report?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mia backed away, pacing carefully and gripping the backs of chairs to keep her equilibrium. Alexia. She pronounced the name as she walked. It seemed as splendidly Russian as the woman herself.

The next day, though slightly hung over, she joined Hopkins as they filed into the conference room for the summation meeting. When it was adjourned and she gathered her notes, Stalin announced that there would be a photo session outside of the embassy.

“Newspaper photographers?” she asked Hopkins. “I thought the entire conference was a secret.”

“Military photographers. The president will announce the results of the conference when he returns, and we’ll use the photographs then.” He wheeled Roosevelt out before the portico and helped him onto a chair. Churchill sat, slouched and grumpy, at his left in the tunic of an air commodore of the RAF. Stalin took his seat at the president’s right, looking dour in his usual military tunic, with a single decoration, the gold star of the Hero of the Soviet Union. Roosevelt twisted slightly toward him and crossed one leg over the other. Only someone who looked very closely could see the outline of steel braces under his black socks.

The army photographers took a series of photos, with various military and political retinues in the background, and then the show was over. As soon as the cameras were out of sight, Roosevelt’s personal assistants helped him onto his wheelchair, and the final handshakes, bons mots, backslaps, half lies, and promises marked the end of the conference.

Departure the next morning at Qaleh Morgi airport was anticlimactic. Stalin accompanied the president to his plane, striding alongside the wheelchair. His heavily armed guards marching in two lines, flanked them both.

When the departure formalities were done and the president was safely inside the Air Force C 54 transport, Mia mounted the steps behind Hopkins. Before entering the plane, she glanced back at the Russians, not at Stalin, the Man of Steel, but at the splendid woman of flesh and blood standing at attention.