Page 369 of Winter of the World (The Century 2)

Some of the scientists lived at the Los Alamos laboratory, he had learned from his colleagues in the Soviet embassy, but it was a shantytown with few civilized comforts, and they preferred to rent houses and apartments nearby if they could. Willi Frunze could afford it easily: he was married to a successful artist who drew a syndicated cartoon strip called Slack Alice. His wife, also called Alice, could work anywhere, so they had a place in the historic downtown neighborhood.

The New York office of the NKVD had provided this information. They had researched Frunze carefully, and Volodya had his address and phone number and a description of his car, a prewar Plymouth convertible with whitewall tires.

The Frunzes' building had an art gallery on the ground floor. The apartment upstairs had a large north-facing window that would appeal to an artist. A Plymouth convertible was parked outside.

Volodya preferred not to go in: the place might be bugged.

The Frunzes were an affluent childless couple, and he guessed they would not stay at home listening to the radio on a Friday night. He decided to wait around and see if they came out.

He spent some time in the art gallery, looking at the paintings for sale. He liked clear, vivid pictures and would not have wanted to own any of these messy daubs. He found a coffee shop down the block and got a window seat from which he could just see the Frunzes' door. He left there after an hour, bought a newspaper, and stood at a bus stop pretending to read it.

The long wait permitted him to establish that no one was watching the Frunze apartment. That meant that the FBI and army security had not tagged Frunze as a high risk. He was a foreigner, but so were many of the scientists, and presumably nothing else was known against him.

This was a downtown commercial district, not a residential neighborhood, and there were plenty of people on the streets, but all the same after a couple of hours Volodya began to worry that someone might notice him hanging around.

Then the Frunzes came out.

Frunze was heavier than he had been twelve years ago--there was no shortage of food in America. His hair was beginning to recede, although he was only thirty. He still had that solemn look. He wore a sports shirt and khaki pants, a common American combination.

His wife was not so conservatively dressed. Her fair hair was pinned up under a beret, and she wore a shapeless cotton dress in an indistinct brown color, but she had an assortment of bangles on both wrists, and numerous rings. Artists had dressed like that in Germany before Hitler, Volodya remembered.

The couple set off along the street, and Volodya followed.

He wondered what the wife's politics were, and what difference her presence would make in the difficult conversation he was about to have. Frunze had been a staunch Social Democrat back in Germany, so it was not likely his wife would be a conservative, a speculation that was borne out by her appearance. On the other hand, she probably did not know he had given secrets to the Soviets in London. She was an unknown quantity.

He would prefer to deal with Frunze alone, and he considered leaving them and trying again tomorrow. But the hotel receptionist had noticed his foreign accent, so by the morning he might have an FBI tail. He could deal with that, he thought, though not as easily in this small town as in New York or Berlin. And tomorrow was Saturday, so the Frunzes would probably spend the day together. How long might Volodya have to wait before catching Frunze alone?

There was never an easy way to do this. On balance he decided to go ahead tonight.

The Frunzes went into a diner.

Volodya walked past the place and glanced through the window. It was an inexpensive restaurant with booths. He thought of going in and sitting down with them, but he decided to let them eat first. They would be in a good mood when full of food.

He waited half an hour, watching the door from a distance. Then, full of trepidation, he went in.

They were finishing their dinner. As he crossed the restaurant, Frunze glanced up, then looked away, not recognizing him.

He slid into the booth next to Alice and spoke quietly in German. "Hello, Willi, don't you remember me from school?"

Frunze looked hard at him for several seconds, then his face broke into a smile. "Peshkov? Volodya Peshkov? Is it really you?"

A wave of relief washed over Volodya. Frunze was still friendly. There was no barrier of hostility to overcome. "It's really me," Volodya said. He offered his hand and they shook. Turning to Alice, he said in English: "I am very bad speaking your language, sorry."

"Don't bother to try," she replied in fluent German. "My family were immigrants from Bavaria."

Frunze said i

n amazement: "I've been thinking about you lately, because I know another guy with the same surname--Greg Peshkov."

"Really? My father had a brother called Lev who came to America in about 1915."

"No, Lieutenant Peshkov is much younger. Anyway, what are you doing here?"

Volodya smiled. "I came to see you." Before Frunze could ask why, he said: "Last time I saw you, you were secretary of the Neukolln Social Democratic Party." This was his second step. Having established a friendly footing, he was reminding Frunze of his youthful idealism.

"That experience convinced me that democratic socialism doesn't work," Frunze said. "Against the Nazis we were completely impotent. It took the Soviet Union to stop them."

That was true, and Volodya was pleased Frunze realized it, but, more importantly, the comment showed that Frunze's political ideas had not been softened by life in affluent America.

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