“Think yourself lucky. If this were America, he’d produce his bloody grandchildren on the stage.”
And so, concluded Rudin, the time had come for him to admit openly to his friends and comrades that the doctors had informed him he had only a few more months to live. With his audience’s permission he would lay down the burden of office and spend what little time remained to him in the countryside he loved so much, with the family who were the sun and the moon to him.
Several of the women delegates were crying openly by now.
One last question remained, said Rudin. He wished to retire in five days, on the last day of the month. The following morning was May Day, and a new man would stand atop Lenin’s Mausoleum to take the salute of the great parade. Who would that man be?
It should be a man of youth and vigor, of wisdom and unbounded patriotism; a man who had proved himself in the highest councils of the land but was not yet bowed with age. Such a man, Rudin proclaimed, the peoples of the fifteen Soviet Socialist Republics were lucky to have, in the person of Vassili Petrov. ...
The election of Petrov to succeed Rudin was carried by acclamation. Supporters of alternative candidates would have been shouted down had they tried to speak. They did not even bother.
Following the climax of the hijacking in the North Sea, Sir Nigel Irvine had wished Adam Munro to remain in London, or at least not to return to Moscow. Munro had appealed personally to the Prime Minister to be allowed one last chance to ascertain whether his agent, the Nightingale, was safe. In view of his role in ending the crisis, his wish had been granted.
Since his meeting in the small hours of April 3 with Maxim Rudin, it was evident that his cover was completely blown and that he could not function as an agent in Moscow.
The Ambassador and the head of Chancery regarded his return with considerable misgivings, and it was no surprise when his name was carefully excluded from any diplomatic invitations, or that he could not be received by any representative of the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Trade. He hung about like a forlorn and unwanted party guest, hoping against hope that Valentina would contact him to indicate she was safe.
Once he tried her private telephone number. There was no answer. She could have been out, but he dared not risk it again. Following the fall of the Vishnayev faction, he was told he had until the end of the month. Then he would be recalled to London, and his resignation from the Firm would be gratefully accepted.
Maxim Rudin’s farewell speech caused a furor in the diplomatic missions, as each informed its home government of the news of Rudin’s departure and prepared position papers on his successor, Vassili Petrov. Munro was excluded from this whirl of activity.
It was therefore all the more surprising when, following the announcement of a reception in St. George’s Hall in the Great Kremlin Palace on the evening of April 30, invitations arrived at the British Embassy for the Ambassador, the head of Chancery, and Adam Munro. It was even hinted during a phone call from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to the embassy that Munro was confidently expected to attend.
The state reception to bid farewell to Maxim Rudin was a glittering affair. Over a hundred of the elite of the Soviet Union mingled with four times that number of foreign diplomats from the Socialist world, the West, and the Third World. Fraternal delegations from Communist parties outside the Soviet bloc were also there, ill at ease amid the full evening dress, military uniforms, stars, orders, and medals. It could have been a tsar who was abdicating, rather than the leader of a classless workers’ paradise.
The foreigners mingled with their Russian hosts beneath the three thousand lights of the six spreading chandeliers, exchanging gossip and congratulations in the niches where the great tsarist war heroes were commemorated with the other Knights of St. George. Maxim Rudin moved among them like an old lion, accepting the plaudits of well-wishers from one hundred fifty countries as no more than his due.
Munro spotted him from afar, but he was not included in the list of those presented personally, nor was it wise for him to approach the outgoing Secretary-General. Before midnight, pleading a natural tiredness, Rudin excused himself and left the guests to the care of Petrov and the others from the Politburo.
Twenty minutes later Adam Munro felt a touch at his arm. Standing behind him was an immaculate major in the uniform of the Kremlin’s own praetorian guard. Impassive as ever, the major spoke to him in Russian.
“Mr. Munro, please come with me.”
His tone permitted of no expostulation. Munro was not surprised. Evidently, his inclusion in the guest list had been a mistake; it had be
en spotted, and he was being asked to leave.
But the major headed away from the main doors, passed through into the high, octagonal Hall of St. Vladimir, up a wooden staircase guarded by a bronze grille, and out into the warm starlight of Upper Savior Square.
The man walked with completely confident tread, at ease among passages and doorways well known to him, although unseen by most.
Still following, Munro went across the square and into the Terem Palace. Silent guards were at every door; each opened as the major approached, and closed as they passed through. They walked straight across the Front Hall Chamber and to the end of the Cross Chamber. Here, at a door at the far end, the major paused and knocked. There was a gruff command from inside. The major opened the door, stood aside, and indicated that Munro should enter.
The third chamber in the Terem Palace, the so-called Palace of Chambers, is the Throne Room, the holy of holies of the old tsars, the most inaccessible of all the rooms. In red, gilt, and mosaic tiles, with parquet floor and deep burgundy carpet, it is lush but smaller and warmer than most of the other rooms. It was the place where the tsars worked or received emissaries in complete privacy. Standing staring out through the Petition Window was Maxim Rudin. He turned as Munro entered.
“So, Mr. Munro, you will be leaving us, I hear.”
It had been twenty-seven days since Munro had seen him before, in dressing gown, nursing a glass of milk, in his personal apartments in the Arsenal. Now he was in a beautifully cut charcoal-gray suit, almost certainly from Savile Row, London, bearing the two orders of Lenin and Hero of the Soviet Union on the left lapel. The Throne Room suited him better this way.
“Yes, Mr. President,” said Munro.
Maxim Rudin glanced at his watch.
“In ten minutes, Mr. ex-President,” he remarked. “Midnight, I officially retire. You also, I presume, will be retiring?”
The old fox knows perfectly well that my cover was blown the night I met him, thought Munro, and that I also have to retire.
“Yes, Mr. President. I shall be returning to London tomorrow, to retire.”