Last Call for Blackford Oakes (15 page)

“Sure, Gus. But it does help a little that the reason we were in Moscow was to
abort
the assassination. Boris knew that, and got that message through to Viktor. The USSR isn't going to concoct a false story this time around. They might as well accuse Reagan of it. Now here's what's going to happen.”

Gus listened and made a note or two.

From his suite at the Metropol, Blackford called the hospital and got through to Ursina. He felt a tension in her voice, but she didn't let him probe. “What are you calling about, Harry?”

“I have to go back”—the change in the tone of his voice communicated to her that his language was Aesopian—“to report on developments in the cultural exhibit. I have reservations for Washington, the Tuesday Pan Am flight. I don't know the exact day that I'll be back, but—it will be very soon, Ursina.”

“I see. All right. I see.… Harry?”

“Yes?”

“The culture minister wants a copy of my welcoming remarks for the opening of the peace conference tonight.”

“That's not surprising.”

“Well, there is a problem. Because what I propose to say is very very surprising.”

Blackford wasn't alarmed. They had talked in Sevastopol about Ursina's small but prominent part in the ceremonies launching the International Peace Forum.

“You're a leading woman medical researcher and author. You're representing the Scientists' and Scholars' Union. You are welcoming to Moscow prominent visitors who are here at the invitation of the general secretary. So?” He stopped, and suddenly wondered. Was Ursina thinking to choose this moment to profess her ideological doubts? “Ursina Chadinov! I must talk to you about it. Do you have your script?”

“Yes, but I have not given … them … a copy of it.”

“When can I see it?”

“You will have to come to the hospital. Meet me at the cafeteria at twelve forty-five. Sixth floor.”

He looked at his watch. He would set out in twenty minutes. The telephone rang. He was confirmed out on Pan American to New York, connecting with Washington, arriving at 2115.

The telephone rang again. It was Gus. “Artur Ivanov, the deputy minister, wants to see you, says it's important. Says 5
P.M.
would be good. Now, Black, I haven't told anybody you're leaving tomorrow, or for how long. Is this trip off the record? I mean, if the USIA guys call wanting to see you?”

“Tell them I've been called home for a few days. And I'll see Ivanov this afternoon.”

Ursina was wearing her hospital dress. Blackford thought that it left her with the profile of an astronaut. But she smiled, illuminating her entire body. She nodded and sat down at the nearest table.

“I'm not hungry. You go over to the counter and pick out whatever you want. Here is a chit.” His profile, unlike those of most others in line, was not encumbered by an amorphous cotton uniform. She studied it as Blackford filed away toward the buffet counter. She loved it. She loved it even more when he had no clothes on at all. Harry's physique, she thought, showed how Soviet men just didn't make it, when they reached middle age. That is, once they were a few years away from Olympic fitness. Harry was still beautiful.

He was back now with stewed fruit, a roll, and a hunk of country cheese. “Well, dear Ursina, what do you have in mind for tonight to advance the theme of the conference, which is …”

“‘A Nonnuclear World for the Survival of Mankind.'”

“So can I see what you're—what you want to say?”

“Only after you finish your lunch. I don't want you wasting away in
my
hospital.” She chatted on, her usual self now, it seemed.

He had already eaten half the cheese, and he put his spoon now into the stewed fruit. “Was this a pear once?”

“A very sick pear. It died before it could receive treatment.” She smiled, the coquette, and handed him two pages of text. “We're not supposed to take more than 2.5 minutes each. There are twelve welcomers. They—we—give the welcomes representing the writers, artists, scientists, the professions. Then Gorbachev speaks. He tends to speak for a long time. I have heard him. A very long time. But I am distracting you.”

Blackford read hurriedly. He reached the third paragraph. “Uh-oh.”

It was a plainspoken criticism of repressive Soviet practices blocking foreign news, research, and literature.

Blackford pursed his lips. “What will the culture minister say to this? Ursina, he will certainly object to this paragraph.”

“Probably. I don't know. Do you think I should just eliminate it?”

“Yes! Nobody at this conference is eager for criticism of the Soviet regime, the sponsor of the conference.”

“I'll think about it. Rufina called this morning. She plans to be there. She asked if it was all right to bring Andrei. You are coming, of course, Harry?”

“I very much want to, at least for your part of the program. But I've got a meeting with Ivanov about the Gorky exhibit, and I don't know whether I will be done in time.”

“Harry. The Gorky exhibit is four months away. The peace conference is
now
. I would think you'd want to be there. I mean, I would want you to be there. Some of the introducers and Culture Ministry people will be speaking in English. And they'll have the interpreters working full time. I will leave a ticket at the box office in your name.”

“Where will you be seated?”

“Well, onstage, until after my talk. When the intermission comes, before the general secretary speaks, I'll sneak down and sit by Rufina and you.”

“Will you be required to stay for Mr. Gorbachev's address?”

“If I'm no longer onstage, maybe I can—”

“Plead a surgical appointment?”

“Yes! So. After I have spoken, you get up, shake hands with Rufina and Andrei, and go out and wait by the ticket office. I will work my way there. I will have to make an excuse later to Rufina. But she has lived with me, she knows about medical emergencies.”

“Then the next time I see you will be at the Great Kremlin Palace, at seven o'clock.”

“Harry. I will be a little nervous. Are you one of those Christians who say prayers?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Will you say one for me?”

He promised, and wafted her a kiss.

CHAPTER 27

Culture Minister Roman Belov had instructed his staff to bring to his personal attention every detail of the program for the International Peace Forum. It was very important to the general secretary that the forum should go well, and it was Belov's job to see to it that this cosmopolitan exposure of the Gorbachev government should serve its purposes.

The general secretary had been three years in power and had traveled and conferred with world leaders. But this international forum would place him in close contact with people other than world leaders. Moreover, it was not to be entirely routine. It would not be like the pro-Communist conventions the Kremlin had had a hand in a dozen times, in Paris, Rome, Frankfurt, New York. The participants here were individually invited, selected with some care, and some of them came from outside the ranks of regular Communist apologists and Moscow-firsters. What Gorbachev really wanted was a public step forward, aimed at the consolidation of sentiment among liberal internationalists against the U.S. program for an anti-missile missile.

The list included some of the usual people, but this could not very well be avoided. There was no way to ignore Armand Hammer, old warhorse pro-Soviet industrialist, so go ahead and invite him—he accepted immediately. The same for American writers Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal, and British iconoclast Graham Greene. The Soviet ambassador to Ottawa personally called on Pierre Trudeau, recently retired prime minister of Canada, to urge him to attend. He was pleased by the invitation and accepted without demur.

However, Culture Minister Belov thought it especially important to invite some new faces from cultural redoubts in England and America. He succeeded in getting American actors Gregory Peck and Kris Kristofferson, and Peter Ustinov of Great Britain. Belov reached out for Professor John Kenneth Galbraith, who was wary of cooptation by Soviet-front enterprises, but whose attention was easily attracted to any gathering that deplored military expenses. Egon Bahr, the West German Social Democratic leader, was an important political catch.

A total of seven hundred people accepted. Quarters were found for them in two hotels. Minister Belov was eager to give participants every opportunity to speak and to contribute and to express their concern for a world without nuclear weapons. He drew up a schedule with a carefully worked-out distribution of time and attention to Russian, Italian, French, British, and American speakers. The major address, of course, would come on opening night, from Comrade Gorbachev. He would be introduced at about eight thirty, after the intermission. This would follow the twelve special Soviet hosts, allotted two and a half minutes each to say their piece, welcoming the delegates on behalf of their professions.

Roman Belov had an immediate problem. Just after four in the afternoon, the opening-night program clerk called. “Comrade Belov, I need to consult with you. Professor Chadinov is in my office—you will remember she is one of the welcomers scheduled for tonight? She has filed the text of her proposed remarks.”

Ursina, seated in the clerk's office, could hear what he was saying, and clearly he intended that she should do so. “I have read the text and find it … unacceptable.… Yes, I have it right here. Professor Chadinov is in my office.… Yes it is brief, within the allotted six hundred words.… Yes, I will bring it right up.”

He turned to Ursina. “Kindly wait here, Professor.”

She felt her head flushing. Had she made a terrible mistake? How would she explain it all to Harry? What would he say about her deception at lunch, where she had shown him a different text? Harry was her sea of tranquillity. She had wanted to avoid any unpleasant disruption—keep the storm away, if she could.

“Yes,” she said, “I will wait.”

Minister Belov, with his carefully trimmed moustache, his specially made eyeglasses, his anxious desire to show off his knowledge of three foreign languages, was trained to listen patiently to different points of view. Indeed his patience was a qualification for his role as organizer of this conference. The clerk remained standing in front of the desk as the minister read. Belov put down the second page and stood up, utterly aghast. Whatever his training, he could not remain seated after reading what he had read. “Boris Danilovich, this woman will of course not appear tonight.
Exactly who is she?
”

Boris reminded the minister who Ursina Chadinov was and what her qualifications were. He thought to add, “And you specifically approved her selection,” but quickly thought better of it. Instead he said, “The program committee nominated her. Perhaps because she is an author, a woman, and she speaks perfect English. In fact I had thought of asking her to give her speech in English.”

“I'm surprised she didn't plan to give it using torches and smoke signals. Such anti-revolutionary, primitive … paleolithic talk has not been heard in the Great Kremlin Palace—ever. Ever, Boris Danilovich, ever.”

“What shall I do, Comrade Roman Ivanovich?”

The Minister of Culture did not want scandal.
Under no circumstances
, any risk of scandal. But the woman would of course have to be kept away from the rostrum. “Tell her, Boris Danilovich, that her speech has been canceled as—inappropriate. And that after the conference is over, I will summon her to my office. To discuss her situation.”

The word was relayed to Ursina.

Her voice quaked just slightly. She said, “What reason is going to be given? What will Comrade Belov say from the stage? My name is on the program. I know that, because I have seen it.”

“What problems there are, Professor, are ours to take care of. We will do so. You are cautioned not to release the text of your subversive speech to anyone. Your future is to be decided upon after you have met with the minister.”

He turned, and motioned her to the door.

When she reached her apartment, she closed the door behind her and sat down. She thought it wise to put her head down between her knees and let the blood revive her. Was pregnancy heightening her lightheadedness? The telephone rang, but she didn't answer it. She had read in one of her furtive books, by an English ex-Communist, that whenever the KGB called, the practice was just to keep on ringing for as long as four or five minutes. The heat of the caller who will not take no for an answer. She was relieved when the telephone clicked off after four rings. Yet she was exhilarated by the thrill of what she had done. Her declaration. Her affirmation. Her personal contribution to the churning faith she had denied for so many years. Never mind the imprudence of it, would Harry be proud of her?

She shook her head as if to wake herself. The telephone call! It might have been the hospital. She had told them she would be away a part of the afternoon. She picked up the phone and rang the number for the ninth floor. All calls to and from the hospital traveled through the switchboards on individual floors. “No, Dr. Chadinov, no calls to your number from here this afternoon.” She put down the phone and wondered suddenly how she should dress for tonight.

Perhaps she simply shouldn't show up.

But there was the problem of Rufina and Andrei—and Harry. Harry was to occupy one of her four seats if he could get there in time for the welcoming speeches. If not, he would meet her outside the auditorium, at the ticket office.

Would they say anything from the stage about her absence from the roster? She was to have been the sixth welcomer on the program. After speaker number five, would they go directly to number seven?

She decided against the modish green silk dress she had picked out for what she had described to Harry as “my debut at the Great Kremlin Palace.” She pulled out instead the brown pantsuit she wore for more formal meetings at the university. It was what she was wearing when Harry first laid eyes on her.