premier of the Soviet Union, would, with many other officials, generals, and party officers, be gathering in a few hours to speak at the fiftieth-anniversary celebration of the first defeat of Hitler's army in the city.
From the square in front of Prince Dolgoruki's statue, on a wooden platform that had been erected over the past two days, the speakers would be able to point to the granite in the large archways between numbers 9 and 11 on Gorky Street, granite that the Nazis had brought in from Finland to erect a victory memorial.
And Yakov Krivonos had what was undoubtedly the best seat for the coming festivities. He was seated in an almost empty room at the top of the Moscow Soviet facing Gorky Street. Access to the building had been as easy as Jerold had said it would be. Yakov had shown his photograph and identification as Yakov Shechedrin to the guard at the door, adjusted his glasses with great seriousness, and had been allowed to pass carrying his rather large briefcase.
Ironically, it was Jerold who had an instant of difficulty getting in and might not have made it if the line of deputies had not been a long one behind him.
'Are you unwell, Comrade?' a uniform guard had asked a dark-suited, beard-trimmed, and quite pale Jerold.
'American flu,' said Jerold.
'Yes, I'm short two men today because of it,' said the guard. 'My aunt says to wrap garlic around your neck and eat a clove of it twice a day.'' 'My mother says the same,' said Jerold. 'It can't hurt to try.'
And with that Jerold had passed into the building. He did not join Yakov till they were on the second floor, up the stairs to the left. Even then they did not walk together. They acted as if they were busy assistants headed for bureaucratic tasks in preparation for the day's events. It wasn't till they went into the stairwell door at the end of the corridor and closed the door behind them that they faced each other and spoke.
'You don't look very well, Jerold,' Yakov said. 'Very pale.'
And, Jerold thought, you may look well, Yakov, but you are the one who is dying.
May you not die too soon and may you not die too late.
'I will be fine,' said Jerold, stepping past him and leading the way upward.
Yakov laughed and followed him.
'Can I take these glasses off now?' he asked.
Jerold nodded, and Yakov removed the glasses and put them in the pocket of his suit.
'I'm getting that American flu,' Yakov said. 'Stomach pains. Started yesterday.
Worse today. I need more pills.'
'When we are finished,' said Jerold.
'I need more pills,' Yakov said emphatically.
'When we get to the room,' Jerold agreed.
They went through a door on the fourth level. It was dark, but Jerold didn't hesitate. Because of his wound, he moved slowly, but Yakov could see that he knew where he was going, around a pile of dusty stacked chairs and to a narrow door in the corner. He opened it and entered, with Yakov right behind.
They climbed again, slowly, holding the dusty handrail of the steep, narrow stairway. And then Yakov heard a door open above him, and light came down the stairway shaft. He followed Jerold up through the door and closed it.
The room was not small, about the size of the apartment from which he had thrown Carla through the window. There were ancient wooden file cabinets, six of them, lined up in one corner. Three wooden chairs sat at random places, facing nothing in particular. On the wall was a faded mural depicting factory workers marching, according to the bright
lettering, to greater productivity for the Revolution. Leading the march was a woman with glasses.
'She looks like my mother,' said Yakov, putting down his briefcase on one of the chairs and opening it to reveal the parts of his rifle.
Jerold had sat in one of the other chairs. He looked back at the mural and thought the woman looked nothing like Yakov's mother, but he said, 'Yes, quite a bit.'
'Exactly like her,' Yakov said.
'When you get the gun assembled, open the window,' Jerold said.
'Pills,' answered Yakov.
Timing now was everything. Jerold was greatly weakened by his wound. His loss of blood and the weakness, he knew, might be affecting his judgment, but there was no time to rest. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, removed the bottle, and took out two pills. He handed them to the waiting Yakov, who took them solemnly, gulping them down dry, and walked to the window.
'They are gathering already,' he said.
'Try the window,' said Jerold, putting the bottle away and enjoying the luxury of closing his eyes for an instant.
Yakov opened the window. It neither stuck nor made a sound. The window behaved perfectly, as Jerold knew it would.
'Look, Mother, top of the world,' Yakov said with a chuckle.
Jerold was growing less confident of Yakov's behavior. He checked his watch.
Still two hours to go. He had pills of his own to take for the pain and to keep him alert, but he would wait till he absolutely needed them, for the pills tended to cloud his judgment.
Yakov moved back to continue assembling the compact rifle.
'By day after tomorrow I'll be in Las Vegas,' said Yakov as he worked.
By tomorrow, thought Jerold, you will be dead, but he said, 'The day after tomorrow.'
'Get a faster plane,' Yakov said, holding up the assembled weapon. 'The CIA can get whatever it wants.'
'I've told you. I'm not with the CIA,' said Jerold.
'Of course not,' said Yakov. 'You're just a Soviet citizen with good connections. You know what I want to do in Las Vegas?'
'Yes,' said Jerold.
Yakov moved to the window.
'Don't go to the window with the gun,' Jerold warned. 'Not yet.'
'No,' said Yakov. 'I don't mean the girls with the feathers. I want them, yes.
The girls with the feathers. But I want to go to the top of that big hotel-casino in the pictures. I want to stand on top of it and look down at the lights in the night. I want to spread my arms and have them turn into wings so I can leap over the edge. Maybe I can do it with one of those hang gliders.'
'Maybe,' said Jerold.
'And I will meet Madonna,' he said seriously, turning to the seated Jerold.
'You will meet Madonna,' said Jerold.
'And she will be very grateful for what I have done,' he said.
'Very grateful,' said Jerold.
'You think I'm a fool, don't you?' asked Yakov.
'I know you are not a fool,' said Jerold. 'You would not have been chosen for this assignment if you were a fool.'
'Your Lee Harvey Oswald was not a fool, either,' said Yakov.' 'Will I be as famous in America as he is in the Soviet Union?'
'Yes,' said Jerold, feeling quite weak but trying not to show it.
Yakov moved back to the window and looked down.
'Top of the world,' he said.
TWELVE
Considering his rank and the visibility of his public office, the Gray Wolfhound lived in a very modest two-story house off the Outer Ring Road, twenty minutes by car and driver from his office in Petrovka. It would have taken
