Page 122 of Cry Havoc
“You served with him?”
“We crossed paths a few times. First met him at the old OSS headquarters at 25th and E, in Building Q. We interviewed with General Donovan the same day. Did he ever talk about it?”
“He’s kept fairly quiet about the war,” Tom said.
“That sounds like Thomas. We went through training together; the Congressional Country Club, if you can believe that, then Area A-1, ‘Shangri-La.’ They call it Camp David now.”
Tom shook his head in disbelief. The pain from the movement was not nearly as bad as it had been just a day earlier. He was making progress.
“I met you at the ranch in Colorado before you could walk, you know. Thomas asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“He did? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”
“He’s a father, and the OSS fraternity is a small one. The best way to repay an old friend was to bring you closer, under my command. When this war is over, I’ll get back out to that ranch and thank him again in person.”
“For what, sir?”
“I owe him my life. A lot of us do. Someday, I’ll tell you the story. You keep resting. Recover and pass that PT test, and I’ll do what I can to keep you in-country.”
“You got a deal, Colonel.”
CHAPTER 42
Bolshoi Theatre
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
DEPUTY DIRECTOR ANATOLY PENKOVSKYleft GRU headquarters promptly at 7:00 p.m. Tonight was one of the rare nights when he was taking time for himself. His vehicle and driver waited just past the lobby.
Tchaikovsky’sThe Voyevodawould start promptly at 7:30 p.m., and Penkovsky wanted to be there for the opening curtain. Based on the play by Alexander Ostrovsky, he had seen the three-part opera many times. Tchaikovsky had famously destroyed the manuscript only to have it reconstructed from sketches, orchestral sheet music, and vocals discovered after his death. Penkovsky found a quantum of solace in the fact that Tchaikovsky’s destruction had given way to something beautiful.
As a senior ranking member of the GRU, Penkovsky was entitled to certain perks. Even if he had his own car, he would not have had a place to park it. The 1963 GAZ-13 Chaika was a four-door convertible sedan and the pride of Gorkovsky Avtomobilny Zavod, the Soviet Gorky Automobile Plant. It was not lost on Penkovsky that he was riding in a vehicle in which its most redeeming features were undeniably American and the faults were almost entirely Soviet. Its designers had taken inspiration from the enemy. The bonnet, grille, bumper, headlights, and fenders were almost adirect copy of the 1955 Packard. From the back it more closely resembled a 1957 Pontiac. And from the side it could easily be mistaken for a 1956 Mercury. Inside, the American-style dashboard and instrument display was lifted from Chrysler. There, the similarities ended. The vehicle was large, heavy, and cumbersome, with a long wheelbase, which meant it was at its best when traveling slowly in a straight line. The Chaika only came in one color: black. It wasn’t designed for the average citizen, as no average citizen could afford it, much less have a garage or carport in which to park it. The Chaika was built for parades. Penkovsky looked at the “assist bar” between the back seat and the front seats. The bar was a handle installed to help stabilize a politician standing in back with the top down while being driven past adoring crowds in Red Square. The name was meant to compensate for its inadequacies when compared to that other titan of Soviet automotive might, the more pedestrian Volga, named for the Volga River. A Chaika was a seagull, and birds flew over rivers after all. The GRU man shook his head as the V8 pushed the vehicle through the cold night toward the city center.
The Chaika eventually lumbered to a stop at the corner of Kuznetsky Bridge Street and Petrovka Street at the edge of Sverdlov Square. Penkovsky’s driver exited the vehicle and opened the door for his boss, who stepped out into the frosty air.
While the GAZ-13 Chaika was nothing to be proud of, the architectural marvel lit up before him embodied the superiority of the motherland. The Bolshoi Theatre seemingly rose from the darkness, illuminated by lights arranged at precise angles to showcase a masterful work of artistic genius. The building’s neoclassical façade was adorned with eight towering Corinthian columns topped by a bronze quadriga sculpture—Apollo, god of music, poetry, and the arts, on a chariot drawn by four horses.
Penkovsky paused briefly in the square, adjusted his glasses, and buttoned the top collar of his thick wool overcoat. Standing there, his warm, moist breath turning to a visible cloud of mist as he exhaled into the cold airof the Moscow winter, he thought of the power exemplified by the structure before him. If only the grandeur of the Bolshoi was representative of all Soviet ventures. Unfortunately, other than caviar, vodka, gulags, and the Kalashnikov, most Soviet projects and institutions resembled the Chaika.
Penkovsky thought of his wife. She had loved the opera and had slipped her arm between his many times as they crossed this very square, taking in the same sights. She had left him following the death of their child. She held the state responsible. To her, that is what he represented. A failed system. She blamed the death of their boy on the incompetence of the Soviet state, and she would never be able to separate her husband from the system he embodied.
The child had contracted tuberculosis in the hospital, one with inadequate infection control measures. Forced to remain hospitalized for the course of therapeutic treatments that did not have the desired effect, he was then placed in a sanitarium with others suffering the same plight. They had watched him die.
He knew she was right; the state was responsible. Had their child been born in the Western Bloc, he would still be alive.
Penkovsky was an old man now, old enough to see past the splendor of the Bolshoi Theatre. The GRU man pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. He had left his hat and gloves in the car.
He walked across the square and joined the throngs of people making their way into the warm lobby. He displayed his ticket to an usher and was handed a program. He then made his way to the coat check. He removed his overcoat and passed it to the coat checker, who handed him a claim check with a number on it matching the number on the coat’s hanger.
He had changed into his black tuxedo at the office to be dressed appropriately for the evening’s performance. Some men wore their tuxedos with cummerbunds and others wore them with vests like Penkovsky. There was a scattering of dark suits. The women wore gowns and cocktail dresses for the occasion. There were even a few opera cloaks in the mix this evening.
Penkovsky purchased a glass of champagne and worked his way through the impressive foyer past red silk tapestries under lights emanating from crystal chandeliers. He shook hands with two acquaintances in passing and exchanged greetings with a few familiar operagoers before setting down his glass and entering the main auditorium. Behind him, five rows of balconies rose above the sloped main floor. Another usher glanced at his ticket and led him to his seat, stage right. He sat and looked up at the gigantic, gilded chandelier hanging from the ceiling high above. At 65 meters across and over 8 meters tall, the crystal behemoth had once been illuminated by three hundred oil lamps, though it had been converted to electricity sixty years earlier. Penkovsky always wondered how they cleaned it and changed the bulbs. He could find out but preferred it to remain a mystery. It hung beneath a ceiling adorned with paintings of Apollo and his nine muses.
He pulled a silver open-faced Molnija pocket watch from his vest. Just over five minutes until curtain time.
As Penkovsky slid the watch back into his pocket, a man about his same height and build took the seat next to him. A good decade his junior, the man had a pleasant though forgettable face. Penkovsky noticed his hair was starting to gray at the temples
“Beautiful night,” the man said.
