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“Thank you. Why not transmit in Moscow? My people were a bit suspicious,” said Monk.
“Because there is more, but it must be spoken.”
He began to describe what was happening that summer of 1986 inside the Politburo and the Defense Ministry in Moscow. Monk kept a straight face to prevent himself giving a long, low whistle. Solomin talked for half an hour.
“Is this true, Peter? It is really happening at last?”
“As true as I sit here. I have heard the defense minister himself confirm it.”
“It will change many things,” said Monk. “Thank you, old hunter. But I must go.”
As strangers on a park bench who have talked to each other, Monk held out his hand. Solomin stared in fascination.
“What is that?”
It was a ring. Monk did not usually wear rings, but it went with the persona of a Texan. A Navajo ring of turquoise and raw silver of the sort worn all over Texas and New Mexico. He could see that the Udegey tribesman from the Primorskiy Krai loved it. On a gesture Monk slipped it from his hand and gave it to the Siberian.
“For me?” asked Solomin.
He had never asked for money and Monk had guessed he would give offense if he offered it. From the Siberian’s expression the ring was more than recompense, a hundred dollars worth of turquoise and silver hacked from the hills of New Mexico and crafted by Ute or Navajo silversmiths.
Aware that an embrace was impossible in public, Monk turned to go. He looked back. Peter Solomin had slipped the ring onto the small finger of his left hand and was admiring it. It was the last image Monk had of the hunter from the east.
The Armenia sailed into Odessa and discharged its human cargo. Customs examined every suitcase but they were only looking for anti-Soviet printed material. Monk had been told they never did a body search of a foreign tourist unless the KGB was in charge, and that would be for a very special reason.
Monk had his rows of tiny transparencies between two layers of plaster tape adhering to one buttock With the other Americans Monk closed his suitcase and all were hustled by the Intourist guide through the formalities and onto the Moscow train.
&nbs
p; In the capital the next day Monk dropped off his consignment at the embassy, whence it would come home to Langley in the diplomatic bag, and flew back to the States. He had a very long report to write.
CHAPTER 7
“GOOD EVENING, BRITISH EMBASSY,” SAID THE OPERATOR on Sofiskaya Quay.
“Schto?” said a bewildered voice at the other end of the line.
“Dobri vecher, Angliyskoye Posolstvo,” the operator repeated in Russian.
“I want the Bolshoi Theatre ticket office,” said the voice.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number, caller,” the operator said, and hung up.
The listeners at the bank of monitors in the headquarters of FAPSI, the Russian electronic eavesdropping agency, heard the call and logged it, but otherwise thought no more of it. Wrong numbers were two a penny.
Inside the embassy the operator ignored the flashing lights of two more incoming calls, consulted a small notebook, and dialed an internal number.
“Mr. Fields?”
‘‘Yes.’’
“Switchboard here. Someone just called asking for the Bolshoi Theatre ticket office.”
“Right, thank you.”
Gracie Fields rang Jock Macdonald. Internal extensions were regularly swept by the man from the Security Service and were deemed secure.
“My friend from Moscow’s finest just called,” he said. “He used the emergency code. He needs a callback.”