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pertise and experiences to offer tradecraft they desperately
needed to meet the challenge.
 Well, Jacques said with a grin that broke the tension.  If
you weren t making this sacrifice to save freedom, democracy,
and motherhood, you d probably be out robbing banks. Have
at it.
It was old Vietnam gallows humor and we all laughed. It
was good to know we had a solid crew in Moscow, because
Jacob and I would be in and out of this grim city for months,
helping to overcome one of the toughest operational problems
the Clandestine Service had ever faced.
ON OUR LAST day in Moscow several weeks later, we celebrated
by leaving our dingy cover office early and strolling along the
Arbat among the
212 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
street vendors, then all the way to Karl Marx Prospekt on the
northwest corner of the Kremlin. The clear early afternoon
light quickly faded into the violet dusk of winter, reminding
us that Moscow lay on the same latitude as Alaska. By now,
we were equipped with fox shapkas and thick mittens.
Reaching the snowbound Alexander Gardens, we decided to
take a final  tourism stroll, ambling counterclockwise around
the medieval fortress, down to the Kremlin embankment and
along the high, two-kilometer russet perimeter walls back up
Borovitsky Hill from the river. We headed toward the candy-
striped onion domes and spires of St. Basil s Cathedral, now
emerging from a sudden snow squall. As we entered Red
Square, the enormous clock on the Spasskaya Tower inside
the Kremlin walls announced that it was five P.M., and another
horizontal band of snow almost swallowed the ruby star atop
the spire. The honor guard came goose-stepping out of the
archway and proceeded to Lenin s tomb in their hourly ritual.
Despite the harsh weather, there were lines of reverent vis-
itors snaking toward the dark granite monolith of Lenin s
mausoleum, pressed up against the Kremlin s outer walls and
dominating the center of Red Square. But aside from the sol-
diers and the faithful throngs waiting in the snow to pay
homage to Lenin s waxy cadaver, the vast square seemed
deserted.
 They must be hanging back this afternoon, Jacob muttered
from inside his muffler, now drawn up to his nose.
I hazarded a couple of clicks with my Spotmatic, confirming
the blue Zhiguli we d sighted twice on the walk had disap-
peared. That could mean almost anything. Perhaps our unusual
early departure from the embassy had tripped a half-hearted
response, with a small, low-priority team tailing us simply to
confirm if we were indeed  persons of little interest. Accord-
ing to a KGB defector, that was the term his Seventh
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 213
Chief Directorate colleagues used to describe the clerks, secret-
aries, assorted bean-counters, and  admin types responsible
for the daily housekeeping of the U.S. Mission. If so, that was
good news, indicating our weeks of living an exceptionally
dull cover had paid off.
Crossing Karl Marx Prospekt through the pedestrian tunnel,
I casually scanned the faces of people moving toward us from
the Metro stations beyond. Instinctively, I was trying to determ-
ine if any of these people appeared familiar from earlier en-
counters. I knew Jacob was doing the same, although he man-
aged to keep up a lively commentary on the performance of
Giselle we had seen the night before at the Bolshoi Ballet. True
to our established pattern, we entered the cozy mahogany-and-
brass  dollar bar on the second floor of the old National Hotel
and hung our topcoats and shapkas at a nearby booth. Vladi-
mir, the barman, was a jovial fellow who sported a borsht-
flecked necktie, emblazoned with the Courvoisier logo, prob-
ably a gift from a French salesman? or perhaps it was a French
case officer from the SDECE intelligence service working un-
dercover as a booze-peddling salesman. Had I been infected
by Moscow s paranoia? You bet. Paranoia became a part of
you in a society like this. I grew accustomed to it, as if it were
a second skin.
 Vodka juice! Vladimir exclaimed, flashing his dazzling
stainless steel teeth. Only uncultured American technicians
would think of diluting 180-proof Siberian vodka with sour,
canned Moroccan orange juice. But he accepted our five-dollar
bill for the drink and a refill with hearty good humor.  Tonight,
be-yoo-tiful Russian music, he announced, pointing toward
the dining room where a balalaika trio had launched into a
twanging set.
Jacob downed his first screwdriver and grabbed the second.
 Tonight, he replied, handing Vlad our printed American
embassy reservation card,  we re eating dinner at the Praga.
214 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
This restaurant was one of Moscow s finest, housed in the
mansion of a prerevolutionary duke, and reputedly owned,
or at least controlled, by the KGB s counterintelligence Direct-
orate. While a Muscovite had to have blat ( pull ) to land a
reservation, embassy employees were encouraged to dine
there.
 Very nice, Vlad commented, fluttering his fingers over
the invitation card as if it were a hot ticket.  Celebration?
 We re going home. I smiled.  Our work s all finished.
Tonight we take the Red Arrow to Leningrad for a few days
duty at the consulate, then it s back to the land of the big PX.
Vladimir chortled.  I know big PX from Marine Guards. All
my friends. All bring Vladimir Winston cigarettes and Ronson
lighters. When you come back?
He was making a convincing show of being a minor black
marketeer, which, of course, made for excellent cover.
 Whenever they need us, Jacob answered as we grabbed our
coats.
Leaving the National Hotel, we were confident some faceless [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]