Last Call for Blackford Oakes (26 page)

CHAPTER 49

Gus Windels arrived at Lindbergh Titov's large apartment at 6
P.M.
It was a select address, with a husky doorman at the entrance, and an operator who took him up in the creaky old elevator to the eighth floor. Gus emerged into a hall with three doors, but only Titov's name was posted. He rang the doorbell.

It was opened by a lanky young man, his hair in fashionable teenage disarray. He wore blue jeans, a striped sports shirt, and, on his head, an old-model aviator's cap. Hanging down from his neck, suspended on a braided cord, were an aviator's dark glasses.

His expression was bright, and his diffident smile seemed genuine. “Hello. I am Aleksei.”

“How do you do, Aleksei?” Gus extended his hand. “I have an appointment with your father.”

He was taken through a living room with a half-dozen framed posters from scientific conferences and as many oil paintings, into a study with a very large table, on which what looked like a whole library of manuscripts were piled high.

“Ah, Mr. Windels, sit down. I was incensed by what you told me. I even called Shumberg this afternoon. I said to him, ‘Shumberg, that is very interesting, suggesting to an American inquirer that I am the authority on the death—the killing—of Ursina Chadinov.
This call is simply to say that you will not get away with this ongoing deception
.'”

Gus said nothing.

“But I want to call in my wife—Nina Aleksandrovna—to hear what you have to say.”

She came to the door, Aleksei at her side.

“Alyosha,” Titov said. “Who called for you?”

“I wish to practice my English. Or”—he looked over at Gus, seated by his father's desk—“is he going to speak in Russian?”

Gus was pleased by the opportunity to say, “I was born in Kiev. I am happy to be talking in Russian, my native tongue.”

Titov knit his brows. Even his bald head seemed concentrated on the question on his mind. “Why not? Alyosha is seventeen years old. Any additional data on the intransigence of the … of the governing class will be enlightening.”

Nina upbraided her husband. “Linbek! Linbek.”

“Do not worry, Nina, the authorities know how I feel in these matters. It is only my scientific eminence that keeps them from silencing me—that, and the fact that, unlike Sakharov, I have not spoken out publicly. But sit down. Nina and Alyosha, Mr. Windels was a good friend of the late Ursina Chadinov.”

“We were saddened and perplexed by her death,” Nina said.

“We didn't know her,” Titov said. “But her mentor, Vladimir Kirov, is one of my oldest friends, and I have learned a great deal about her in recent days.”

“You knew about her intended speech to the peace forum?” Gus asked.

“There was general comment on her absence. You know, I was one of the speakers, and she was scheduled to come next after me. Did you, Mr. Windels—”

“Please, Gus.”

“—Did you, Gus, see the speech she intended to give?”

“No. But Mr. Doubleday, her … her affianced, told me before leaving for the airport that the text was, he had been given to believe, ‘incendiary.'”

“How, ‘incendiary'?”

“She apparently complained about restrictions in Soviet life.”

“One of us!” Titov said.

“Mr. Doubleday, who had to return to America for a brief period, is a friend of mine. He asked me to deliver a document to Ursina's closest friend, Rufina Ivanovna, now married to Andrei Fyodorovich Martins.”

“Did Mr. Doubleday tell you that he was concerned for her welfare?”

“No. But he did say that the culture minister had instructed her not to leave Moscow before meeting with him, after the peace forum was over. She was to explain her behavior. Did you, Dr. Titov, learn from anybody what was written in that speech?”

“We had only the rumors. And of course everyone in my institute wondered how she would be punished.”

Nina left the room and came back with vodka. “You can get some soda pop, if you wish, Alyosha.”

The boy looked up at Gus. “Were you alive, Gus—”

“
Mr. Windels,
” his mother corrected him.

“—when Charles Augustus Lindbergh flew over the Atlantic?”

“Alyosha! Were
you
alive when they stormed the Winter Palace?”

Titov laughed. “You say you were born in Kiev. When?”

“In 1958.”

“But you have seen the
Spirit of St. Louis?
” Aleksei persisted.

“Yes. It is in a museum in Washington.”

“Papa, will you take me there?”

“I promise,” Titov said. “One day.” His voice was solemn.

Gus was invited to stay for dinner. They talked more about Ursina. Titov's antipathy was plain. “I would not put it past Shumberg.”

“And yet, when Nina Aleksandrovna had her pregnancies, you entrusted her to his care, as you recounted.”

“His skills are celebrated. But my focus now is on the man, not on the obstetrician.”

After dinner, Titov spoke of a forthcoming conference of medical research scientists in Vienna. “While I am away, Nina and Alyosha will go to his grandmother in Leningrad—Nina's mother. But none of that interests you, Gus.”

“Your future interests me very much, Linbek Vissarionovich.”

“I will remember what you said. And I will keep your card. Here is mine.”

They shook hands.

In the hallway, Aleksei said, “Don't forget your promise, Mr. Gus. Though actually, it was my father's promise.”

“I won't forget,” Gus said, as the elevator door opened.

CHAPTER 50

Roman Belov, the minister of culture, was a longtime friend of Mikhail Gorbachev, going back to his election as a member of the Central Committee. It was merely weeks after Gorbachev's election as general secretary that he elevated his friend to culture minister.

Belov was by nature a sycophant, and at one point was even reprimanded. Gorbachev used plain language: “Roman Ivanovich, if you agree with
everything
I say, what is the point in my asking your opinion? Maybe I should make it impossible for you simply to agree with me. That would mean reformulating my questions to you. For instance, I could say, ‘Belov, it
would be interesting to know
what I thought of Reagan's State of the Union Address last night.'”

Belov attempted to make light of this, but he caught the rebuke, and resolved at least not to sound, in future conferences, as if he agreed automatically with Gorbachev on everything. Belov now made it a point to try to sound, at least at first, ambiguous. He reminded himself of this resolution when summoned, the Monday after the peace forum closed, into Gorbachev's sacred private office to “share impressions on the events of the past days.”

Thirty-seven years earlier, when Belov was assistant to Lavrenty Beria, he had accompanied Beria, head of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, to a meeting with Josef Stalin in this same room in which he now sat with Gorbachev. Belov had brought together data on the demographic distribution of students applying for admission to the Soviet Union's medical schools. “I am not absolutely certain what the general secretary is looking for,” Beria had instructed him, “so bring the composite files, and also bring files on particular categories he might inquire into. Be sure to look at Jewish students. And look also at which specialties are attracting the most students.”

Roman Belov remembered the sheer fright he felt on being shown through the door, in the footsteps of Beria. Stalin's greeting to Beria had been nothing more than the faintest nod of the head. Beria remained standing for an awkward few minutes, until Stalin pointed to a chair. Belov was panicked. Did this mean that he too was to sit on one of the chairs? Or was he to remain standing, unless specifically told to sit down? He would certainly need a surface on which to spread out his portfolio, when questioned.

He was standing for another five minutes before Stalin said to Beria, “Tell that icicle you brought in to sit down.” He had had to guard the stability of his voice when Stalin then called on him for a few figures, which happily he had in memory, and so did not need to spread out his package of papers. Stalin then said nothing. He looked through the space between Beria and Belov, and fiddled with his pipe on his desk. Another full five minutes went by. “That will be all, Comrade Lavrenty Pavlovich.”

The composition of the general secretary's office hadn't substantially changed, through the administrations of Bulganin and Khrushchev, Brezhnev and Andropov, Chernenko and, now, Belov's patron, Mikhail Gorbachev. Belov had been in this office briefly during the reign of Brezhnev, but, again, as a subordinate. Now he was a full minister, and Gorbachev's confidant in important matters.

He was comfortably seated in an armchair before Gorbachev said, cautiously, “What did
you
, Roman Ivanovich, think of our peace forum?”

Belov said he thought that it had been successful, and that this was largely owing to the acuity of Gorbachev in encouraging an ecumenical tone. He complimented Gorbachev on his own address to the assembly, in which he had stressed national developments, including the broadening of—Belov hesitated to say “human rights,” a term used with antagonistic forethought by the enemy. “To use your words, Mikhail Sergeyevich, our new approach to ‘the humanitarian problem' is there for all to see.”

Gorbachev closed his eyes briefly. Opening them once more, he said, “What is this I have heard about your canceling one of the welcoming speakers?”

“That was most extraordinary. A bumptious young woman, a professor—”

“Why was she invited to speak?”

“She was invited by the committee on speakers. They chose her because she was an academic, a practicing physician, and a woman.”

“What was it she was going to say?”

“I have the copy of the text I confiscated when she came to my office for clearance. It is brief, a mere two pages, but highly incendiary. I put it aside in case we proceeded to prosecution.”

“You have decided not to prosecute a citizen who sought to subvert a national purpose before seven hundred delegates?”

“Actually, Mikhail Sergeyevich, the point quickly became moot. The subversive woman died in surgery.”

Gorbachev looked up. He paused. “How did you bring that about?” But quickly he laughed, as appropriate for an amusing, incidental gibe. “Well, so much for that. Now this is the point I wish to discuss with you: a program for following up the forum's good work by alerting culturally influential people around the world—people who are capable of listening to the Soviet view of things—to the extreme dangers of the U.S. decision to proceed with an anti-missile system. We need the professoriate, the clergymen, the entertainment world, to listen to our warnings, and to use their connections in their several fields to get out the word: Resist Reagan on Star Wars!”

Belov was taking notes on a pad whisked out from his pocket. “I think it would be prudent to introduce a resolution in the United Nations exactly to that effect.”

“Yes. But we will wait a few months until our line has been assimilated by the intelligentsia. When we go to the United Nations, we must have more than the votes of Algeria and Vietnam supporting us.”

Belov laughed. “Of course, of course. And we might plan a public demonstration outside the UN, with important speakers. Kris Kristofferson was very effective here at the peace forum, as was Yoko Ono, and—”

“Well, there is plenty of time to think about all that. Meanwhile I will press on with the call for a comprehensive ban on nuclear testing. Good work, Roman Ivanovich. I will be in touch with you.”

“General Secretary, my thanks. I will continue to be guided by your star.”

“Make certain my star is not shot down by their Star Wars.”

Belov nodded slightly, and the aide standing by the door opened it for him to leave.

CHAPTER 51

It was after the close of the Vienna medical-research conference, which went forward under the banner of “Science for Welfare,” that the bomb went off. For several hours it had simmered silently. The Soviet aide who had tended for five days to Dr. Lindbergh Titov—organizing his living arrangements, escorting him to and from the assembly meetings and seminar rooms, running diverse errands—now advised him that his reservations were in order for the flight back to Moscow the next morning at 0900.

Titov nodded, routinely.

“Do you need any arrangements made for tonight, Comrade Titov?”

“No,” Titov answered. “I will stay in my hotel, perhaps dine with one or two of my colleagues. Thank you, Preshkev.”

“Very well, Comrade Titov. The car will be here for you at 0700. We will arrive early.”

The next morning, the black Mercedes, its uniformed driver, and the chunky Captain Yaroslav Preshkev were there at the Imperial Hotel's front door well ahead of time. Preshkev went into the lobby to wait. At 0700 he called up to Dr. Titov's room, but there was no answer. He must be in the elevator, Preshkev thought.

But Titov didn't emerge from the first elevator, or the next elevator. Preshkev froze. “Has Dr. Titov checked out?” he asked the desk clerk.

No, he hadn't checked out.

Should he be reported as missing?
Preshkev brought out from his pocket the book listing all 190 participants of the Science for Welfare conference. He picked out the telephone number listed for the arrangements secretary. But there was no answer. What else to expect, he hissed to himself, calling an office at that hour of the morning?

He looked for another listing, hoping that someone would answer the telephone even at that hour. But no one picked up the phone.

Dr. Alberto Angelo! The conference chairman! He too was staying at the Imperial. Preshkev all but ran to the concierge. “Please ring Dr. Angelo.”