The Red Eagles (10 page)

Amy didn’t reply. What was she doing wandering about
the town, hat or no hat? The fewer people saw her the better. She paid and walked out, feeling the looks aimed at her back.

From nine o’clock on they took turns at the window in Amy’s room. While she watched he read a well-thumbed copy of a Civil War history; when the roles were reversed she tried without success to begin a Sinclair Lewis novel. As it grew darker the depot buildings grew indistinct, but there was no sign of the lights being switched on. The yard was bereft of activity.

“I’ll have to go down there,” Joe said, putting down the field glasses.

“Wait,” she said. “It’s not quite midnight yet.” For the twentieth time she looked at Sigmund’s timetable. “Bridgeport arrive 12:15, depart 12:25.” She was just about to agree that he go down when a car pulled into the yard, passed behind the shadowy bulk of a switching shed, and stopped, its headlights illuminating the side of the depot. Through the glasses they could just make out a figure disappearing through the door. The light inside went on, and a few moments later the whole yard was suddenly bathed in a yellow glow from the yard lamps. The car, they could now see, belonged to the state police. Two men came out of the office and stood by the car. Both lit cigarettes. One roared with laughter at something the other said.

A whistle sounded in the distance, and both men looked east down the tracks. Another man got out of the car and hitched up his belt. He took two rifles out of the backseat, walked over to the others, and gave one to his partner. They could now hear the train.

A couple of minutes later it drew smoothly into the depot and stopped, letting off steam, where Joe had predicted, alongside the wooden water tower. The train looked exactly like the one in Matson’s photographs: the black engine and
tender, the single long boxcar, and the caboose. The brake-man jumped down from the caboose and joined the state troopers while the engineer and fireman manhandled the hose into the tender. Four more men emerged from behind the train, having presumably come from the boxcar. The engineer left the fireman to turn off the water and joined the others. There were nine of them now in a circle, the low murmur of their conversation barely audible above the hiss of the locomotive.

The fireman, his task finished, walked out of sight of the others and urinated against the wall of the depot. He then moved down to join them, and for several minutes they stood together some twenty yards from the rear of the train. Then the gathering broke up. The two state troopers joined the pair in the boxcar, the crew returned to the engine, the brake-man to the caboose. The car swept out of the yard; the train, blasting smoke, began to move. The depot lights went out, followed by those in the office. Amy and Joe looked at each other.

“Couldn’t be better,” he said.

Next morning Amy and Joe checked out of the hotel and drove another thirty miles down the valley to the larger town of Scottsboro. The realtor’s office was in the center of town and Amy stayed in the car while Joe conducted their business inside. She could see him through the window talking to a gray-haired man, who then disappeared and returned with a set of keys. The two men shook hands. The agent mimed the shooting of a rifle, and laughed. Boys will be boys, she thought.

“No problem,” Joe said as he climbed back into his seat. “They’re glad to have us. We’re the first this year. Probably be the only ones this year. The war’s not helping the hunting business.”

“It is now,” she murmured.

He laughed.

They took the Guntersville road along the banks of the newly created lake, another New Deal creation which Joe found unfortunate in principle but probably useful in practice. “Technology needs power,” he told her.

After ten miles or so they found their turnoff, a dirt road leading up the side of a steep ridge. They passed through two shanty towns, seemingly empty save for staring groups of children in ragged clothes. Scottsboro was only an hour behind them, but it seemed to belong to a different century.

Another hour and they’d left all signs of civilization behind. The road wound up and over the highest ridge, presenting them with a panoramic view of mountains stretching into the distance. A sign pointing drunkenly into the ground bore the legend “Jefferson Lodge.”

“Nice name,” Joe said, bumping the Buick onto a dirt track that made the one they’d left seem smooth as Pennsylvania Avenue. A quarter of a mile farther and they reached the lodge, a sprawling wooden cabin built against the ridge slope, flanked by enormous hickory trees. Above the door the skull of a deer gazed sourly down.

“It was built by some Birmingham big shot who went bust in ’29,” Joe told her. “He shot himself here. With a derringer, would you believe?”

There were six rooms and a kitchen. The furniture was minimal but clean, the kitchen adequately equipped. A large pile of logs was waiting by the stove.

“It’ll do,” Amy said, sitting down on one of the bunk beds. “But that rough road worries me. There won’t be any time for changing tyres if we run into a problem.”

“Not much we can do about that. We have a couple of spares for the car and I’ll check out the road for sharp stones.” He walked to the window, pushed back the shutters, and looked out. “Now
that’s
America,” he said.

She joined him. Far to the west the lower Tennessee
Valley could be seen, a yellow-green swath framed by the dark green slopes of the forested hills. To the north there were only mountains, ridge after ridge fading into the blue haze of the horizon. In front of the cabin the dust-coated Buick looked like a bedraggled alien spacecraft.

“Yes,” she murmured, turning away. That was one America. She didn’t understand him and didn’t want to. Though she loathed his opinions, there was something about him she found disturbingly likable, some boyish innocence that seemed far removed from the evil he represented. She took a conscious grip on herself. They were enemies, enemies at war, only that. In a few weeks he would be dead.

He went out to check the road, and she did another tour of the cabin, wondering which room the unfortunate “big shot” had killed himself in.

“Okay,” he shouted from the door. “Let’s move.”

The Buick bounced its way back to the main road, where they turned north, motoring gently downhill across the plateau. A solitary peak – McCoy Mountain, the map said – loomed in front of them, but as they approached its base the road plunged down to the right, and before the pines engulfed them Amy could see road, river, and railroad tracks sharing the narrow valley below.

They hit bottom at the small town of Lim Rock, another group of shacks seemingly devoid of inhabitants, though rather more modern than those on the mountain. Following the valley westward, they reached their destination in less than a mile. Here the road and the main railroad line pushed on toward a gap in the ridge ahead, while the stream, a spur line, and another dirt track veered north up a narrow valley.

Joe stopped the car at the point closest to where the tracks diverged and they both got out. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he told her, and she leaned back against the hood watching the road while he took the large iron key from the boot and
carried it across the tracks. She heard a click, a grunt, and a metallic thud. “No problem,” he shouted.

“Nothing coming,” she shouted back.

The noises repeated and he returned to replace the key in the boot.

“A truck,” Amy said, and they watched it approach and thunder past. The driver acknowledged Joe’s cheerful wave.

He turned the car and drove it up the dirt road and into the narrow valley. It ran straight for half a mile, then took a bend that brought them out of sight of the main road. Joe drove slowly forward as they both surveyed the area.

“This’ll do,” he said.

“The bridge will do for a marker,” she added, pointing forward to where both road and rails crossed the stream on a wooden trestle.

They continued up the valley to its head, turning the car in the space between some old abandoned mine buildings. On the way back they stopped again at the chosen spot. Visibility in each direction was about a quarter of a mile; the valley sides were covered in densely packed pines and already, in the late afternoon, the rays of the sun had departed for the day. The valley floor was no more than fifteen yards wide, leaving room for just the stream, the tracks, and the road. It was easy to imagine how dark it would be at night, even with the half-moon.

Amy took out her camera and took several pictures, making sure that at least one of them included Joe. He rolled the car forward to pick her up and they drove back to the main road.

“No problem, no problem at all,” he said contentedly.

Neither of them spoke again until they reached Scottsboro, where they checked into another hotel, this time as brother and sister.

The long drive back to Washington consumed most of Sunday, and by the time Amy reached her apartment she
wanted nothing more than an early night. She stepped out of the elevator to find Richard sitting against the wall by her door, obviously drunk.

“The lady no longer vanishes,” he said solemnly, pulling himself to his feet.

“The lady’s tired,” she said, more kindly than she felt.

“Then let’s go to bed,” he said, following her into the apartment and half-collapsing into an armchair.

She looked at him. He wasn’t given to drinking, at least not to this extent.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting down in the other chair. She knew he wanted her to make some physical gesture, but for some reason the thought of touching him filled her with revulsion.

“Nothing’s the matter. I’ve been celebrating. Why don’t you keep anything to drink?” he asked, looking around wildly.

“Stop playing the drunk,” she said acidly, “it’s not your style. I’ll make some coffee.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “I said I’ve been
celebrating
,” he said. “Don’t you want to know
what
I’m celebrating?”

“Enlighten me.” She sighed inwardly. Were all men in their late thirties just larger adolescents? “Has Jean kicked you out?” she guessed.

He laughed. “Oh no, it’s much worse than that. She’s
pregnant
. She’s locked me in,” he said, as if he was shocked by the discovery.

Amy had difficulty restraining the impulse to throw the coffee at him. “I suppose you had nothing to do with it,” she said, brushing past him as she carried the cups into the living room.

He almost ran after her, and for a second she thought he was going to hit her. But his face relaxed and he sank back into the chair. Poor Richard, she thought, you can’t even make it as a full-fledged bastard.

They sat for several minutes in silence. There had been a time, she thought, when this would have mattered to her, a time when she’d even flirted with the idea of giving up everything for him. It hadn’t been for long, just a couple of weeks after they’d come together, when his kindness – and, she had to admit, his imagination in bed – had concealed his lack of character. But the romantic glow had soon disappeared as if it had never been, and she had settled for the sex, safe in the knowledge that Richard had nothing else to offer. Now she just wanted to be rid of him.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asked without looking up.

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked angrily.

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“Amy, I love you. I—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know the meaning of the word.” She felt angry, angrier than she wanted to be. She ought to be showing him that she didn’t gave a damn about Jean’s pregnancy.

It was too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Look, I’ll sort it out. I do love you. I don’t love her. It’s as—”

“No – no – no,” she shouted. He looked at her with astonishment. “Richard,” she said, her eyes closed, her fists clenched on her thighs, “will you just go?”

He didn’t move. “Look, I’ve said I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Just go.”

“Is there someone else?”

“What?” She couldn’t believe it.

“You heard.”

She laughed. “You come here, tell me you’ve gotten your wife pregnant, and then ask me if there’s someone else?”

“Is there? I need to know.” He was looking straight at her, his voice completely calm. He might have been asking
someone the time. She suddenly realized that he was holding himself together only by a thread.

“No,” she said softly. “Satisfied?”

He smiled, an utterly meaningless smile. “Of course.” He looked at his watch. “Time I was getting back,” he said, and without another word walked out of Amy’s apartment.

Kuznetsky lowered himself through the hatch and dropped nimbly onto American territory. After almost four days in the air, frequently punctuated by stops at godforsaken airstrips in the middle of the Siberian wilderness, his mind felt like running a hundred-yard sprint, his body like collapsing in an exhausted heap. He compromised, leaning against the Antonov’s wing and surveying the Alaskan landscape.

For a minute he thought they’d landed at the wrong location, then remembered what he’d been told about Ladd Field, that it was built underground. Above ground there were only the gaunt hangars and a few offices, and it was to one of these that the pilot led him. Inside, a flight of stairs led down into a brightly lit tunnel. “It’s five miles long, in a circle,” Brelikov told him. He tried to look suitably impressed.

“Welcome home, Jack,” he murmured to himself as Brelikov led him along the tunnel toward the Soviet pilots’ mess.

It was hard to believe they were in America; the only non-Russian speakers were conversing in Uzbek. The mess hall was crowded with fifty or so Soviet pilots, most of them washing down hamburgers with bottles of Coca-Cola. Kuznetsky asked an officer the way to Anisimov’s office, and was coldly pointed farther down the tunnel. The local boss was apparently not popular with the masses.

It didn’t take Kuznetsky long to understand why. Alexei
Anisimov, the Soviet head of the Lend-Lease Purchasing Commission, was a prime example of a particular NKVD stereotype – slightly built, elegant, with a supercilious air and an ascetic’s face. He was probably younger than Kuznetsky, but the way he said “Welcome, Colonel” was nicely judged to emphasize his superior rank. Kuznetsky replied in kind, passing over his First Priority credentials with a condescending smile and making himself comfortable in the seat he hadn’t yet been offered.

“Yes, Colonel,” Anisimov said, offering him an American cigarette and lighting it with a contraption bearing a portrait of Mickey Mouse. “I cannot see any difficulties. I have of course been given advance warning of your requirements, but there is really nothing to it. We’ve been sending men into the United States for three years now without any trouble. They just hop off the plane at the Lend-Lease staging post in Great Falls, Montana, and catch a taxi to the railway station. No one has ever been stopped.” He smiled contemptuously and carefully scraped the ash from his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray. “I sometimes think we could land a platoon of T-34s and they’d be halfway to Washington before the Americans delivered a mild protest.”

Then any fool could do your job, Kuznetsky thought. But there was no point in antagonizing Anisimov, no point at all. “What about the return journey?” he asked. “There’s still no inspection of outbound planes?”

“None whatsoever. Well, there was one incident in January. The American in charge at Great Falls, Major Jordan, took it into his head one night to inspect one load, and he found quite a lot of … well, to call it diplomatic baggage was stretching the usual meaning of the term. Jordan was quite upset. He raced off to Washington and kicked up a fuss. Nobody took any notice of him. In fact we received an apology from the State Department, here …” He pointed out a framed letter on the wall behind him. “Since then, no
more inspections. We could probably bring out the Statue of Liberty.”

Kuznetsky was glad that he’d already heard much the same in Moscow; Anisimov’s complacency wouldn’t have been very convincing on its own. Still, everything seemed okay.

“This First Priority business,” Anisimov said cordially, “it must be of extraordinary importance.”

“It is. I regret that I can tell you no more. Now I would like to get some sleep …”

Anisimov hid his disappointment well. “Of course. You’ll be on a plane at ten in the morning, if that is satisfactory?”

Kuznetsky nodded.

Kuznetsky might have been tired, but sleep refused to come. He hadn’t found it easy to fall asleep since leaving the forest. And Nadezhda. He’d had no idea how much he’d miss her; he still didn’t understand it. Little things, like the way she put her hand on his shoulder and leaned against him …

In Moscow there hadn’t been time to think. For two weeks he’d been submerged in the affairs of his native country, memorizing political events, reading newspapers, watching Hollywood movies, reading radio scripts and comics. “Smooching” was the new dating game. “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty” was what the “drools” were saying to the “meatballs.” In Florida they’d just built a drive-in church; the congregation listened through huge loudspeakers and honked their car horns, once for “amen” and twice for “hallelujah.” Everyone was worried about Roosevelt’s health, and the whole country had gone mad on vitamins. Most of the top baseball stars had been drafted and basketball had suddenly become popular. There was a national shortage of bobby pins!

If Nadezhda had a bobby pin, she’d probably stick it in a German. But after the war … he’d get her one, shortage or no shortage, a piece of America for his girl …

He was awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Comrade Anisimov wants you,” a voice said. He opened his eyes and saw the man who’d shown him to his room. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“I believe it’s urgent, Comrade Colonel.”

“That’s why I said minutes.”

The messenger retreated. Kuznetsky looked at himself in the minuscule mirror above the washbasin. He’d shave first, if only to keep Anisimov waiting. No, he wasn’t worth it. Why was he feeling so petty?

There was another colonel in Anisimov’s office whom Kuznetsky knew by name but not by sight. Colonel Kotikov was nominally in charge of the Soviet operation at Great Falls, though the real authority lay with Anisimov’s NKVD surrogate, one Sergeant Vinogradsky. Kotikov was almost Anisimov’s opposite in appearance – a big burly man with a wide smile; in years gone by he’d have been a prosperous Ukrainian kulak. Kuznetsky could see that he’d get on with the Americans, who’d fall for the hearty exterior and put down the bullying side to language difficulties. A real Russian, they’d think. Our gallant allies! Anisimov, on the other hand, would seem like a well-bred snake wherever you put him. These tunnels seemed ideal.

He did not, however, look so disgustingly self-possessed as he had the previous night. “We have a problem, Colonel,” he explained between taking jerky puffs on his cigarette. “Colonel Kotikov will explain,” he added, in a tone that implied his own blamelessness.

Kotikov shook hands with Kuznetsky and leaned back wearily in his seat. “I left Great Falls on Friday evening,” he said. “I’m afraid the Americans have had another brainstorm. Comrade Anisimov tells me that you have already been informed of the nonexistent security … Well, three days ago there was a meeting at the State Department in Washington. The FBI, Military Intelligence, Customs,
everyone. They intend to call a meeting with our embassy people and to inform them that in future the border and customs regulations regarding us will be strictly enforced.”

Kuznetsky looked at Anisimov, who looked at the ceiling. “Of course this may be nothing but words,” he said stiffly. He obviously found the whole business thoroughly embarrassing.

“That may be,” Kotikov continued unperturbed, “and what the Americans know about security could be written on the edge of a kopek … but I have expected this for some time. Ever since the January episode. And since Jordan left, the atmosphere has changed considerably. On Friday the new liaison man made a point of showing me around the rooms reserved for the new inspection unit. Sooner or later the bastards are going to start checking everyone and everything going out. It may be later, but I don’t think we can depend on that.”

“No,” Kuznetsky said thoughtfully. “How about entry? Will I have any trouble getting in?”

“Nothing is certain, but I will be very surprised if the Americans act that fast.”

“Very well.” He turned to Anisimov. “I presume you have already written a full report for Moscow. It must go direct to Comrade Sheslakov at Frunze Street, First Priority, and as fast as is humanly possible. I shall go in as planned.”

The flight to Great Falls took the best part of two days, each stretch of mountain or tundra culminating in an hour spent stretching his limbs at some small settlement airstrip. The American pilot fed the guardians of these lonely outposts with conversation, and Kuznetsky walked around examining the pinups of Betty Grable and listening to the vast Canadian silence. As far as the pilot knew, he spoke no English, and as such was treated as no more than a mobile piece of cargo whom it was necessary to feed but not to recognize as a fellow human being.

Great Falls was sighted soon after nine on Wednesday morning, a small but sprawling town where rivers and railroads converged. The airstrip, Gore Field, was perched high above the town on a plateau. Alongside the one lengthy runway Kuznetsky could see scores of fighters awaiting delivery to the Soviet Union, each one already adorned with its gleaming red stars.

He was met by Colonel Kotikov’s wife, a petite, nervous-looking woman in her mid-thirties whom Kuznetsky would have thought more suited to Anisimov. She took him to the living quarters above her husband’s office, provided a welcome breakfast, and left him to eat it in peace. He’d not yet seen an American, much less been challenged by one.

She came back as he was finishing his coffee, poured him another cup, sat down. “I suggest we make the switch between here and the station,” she said. “I have a suitcase full of American clothes” – she pointed it out – “and there’s an eastbound train at five this evening. You have to change several times, but it’s all written out here. In English.”

He inspected the paper. Minot, Fargo, Minneapolis. Familiar names.

“There’s some newspapers here,” she said. “Out of date of course. And there’s the radio. Jack Benny’s on at eleven. He makes $17,000 a program,” she said wistfully. “Of course,” she added quickly, “after the war our radio will be just as good.”

“I doubt it,” Kuznetsky said calmly. “There are some things Americans do well. Fortunately they’re mostly things that don’t matter very much.”

“I’ll leave you to rest then,” she said, reverting to her nervous expression. She wasn’t sure how to deal with this man. She wasn’t even sure which nationality he really was.

“Thank you,” he called after her.

At four they drove out of the airfield and down toward the town. The American guards on the gate merely saluted, and halfway down the mountain they stopped for Kuznetsky to change clothes. Kotikov’s wife left him waiting at the station, sitting on his suitcase, leaning against the wall of the depot. The train was late, only an hour the clerk said, but Kuznetsky doubted it. He took out the copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
that he’d found and pocketed in the plane from Fairbanks. He’d never heard of the writer, but he’d just seen the film in Moscow and been grudgingly impressed.

A car turned into the station yard and two men got out. One pointed in his direction, and they walked slowly across until they were standing looking down at him. “What’s your name?” one barked out in Russian.

“Uh?” Kuznetsky said, shielding his eyes against the sun as he looked up at them. “I don’t get your drift, fella.”

They looked at each other. The dapper-looking one smiled at him. “You’re not a Russian, then?” he asked innocently.

“You a coupla smart guys? What’s the game?”

The bulky one intervened. “Maybe we’ve made a mistake, mister. Do you have any means of identification?”

“No. Yes. Driver’s license.” He pulled the card from his inside pocket.

“Jack Tillotson. St. Cloud, Minnesota. Is that where you’re heading?”

Kuznetsky showed him the ticket. “Who are you?” he asked. “Cops?”

“Something like that.”

He snatched the ticket back. “Hey, this is a free country. Who the hell are you?”

The bulky one showed him a card. Military Intelligence.

“Okay. Why pick on me?”

The dapper one smiled again. “Because you left Gore
Field with the Russian chief’s wife, that’s why, Mr. Tillotson. Or is it Tillotsky?”

“You’re crazy. I’m as American as you are.”

“So how come you seem so cozy with the Russians?”

“She gave me a lift, that’s all. I didn’t know she was Russian till I got in the car. They’re our
allies
, aren’t they?”

“Sure. How did you come to be up there?”

“I got a lift from Edmonton on a plane. One of the pilots is a friend of mine.”

“Name?”

“Bob Simpson.” Kuznetsky hoped that Simpson was on his way back to Fairbanks by this time. “Check at the airfield.”

“What were you doing in Edmonton?”

“Visiting my sister. She married an oilman – they’re prospecting up there.”

“Close family, eh.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“No. Would you mind if we checked your suitcase?”

“Would it make any difference if I did?”

“Nope.”

They rummaged through the clothes, found nothing, and asked him to turn out his pockets. Kuznetsky blessed the inspiration that had told him to destroy Kolikova’s note.

The bulky one looked relieved, the dapper one chagrined. “Okay, Mr. Tillotson, sorry to have troubled you. There’s been a lot of Russians slipping into the U.S. of A. with trouble in mind. We have to be careful.”

“Okay,” Kuznetsky said, “sorry I got a bit ticked.”

They started to walk away, then the dapper one said “Good-bye” over his shoulder in Russian. Nice try, Kuznetsky thought to himself. They’d obviously seen the same movie.

When Kuznetsky woke the next morning the mountains were gone, the sun was rising, and the train was clanking into Minot, North Dakota. He was supposed to make a connection here for Fargo and St. Cloud, but after the business of the evening before with the American counterintelligence agents he had decided to wait for the through train from Moose Jaw to Minneapolis. If Simpson hadn’t left, someone might be waiting for him in St. Cloud.

It was a slower train, and for most of the day it chugged across the plains passing through no towns of any size. On either side of the tracks the yellow-green, treeless country stretched toward a flat horizon, and every twenty miles or so a road would cross the tracks and arrow away into the distance. Occasional farms and occasional stations, dwarfed by grain silos, were all that broke the monotony.