The meeting was conducted as an official state function, with the proverbial red carpet rolled out in the Kremlin Square, and an honor guard and rousing band waiting when Karpov exited his vehicle with Tyrenkov, and a troop of personal security men following in his motorcade from the hotel. It was exhilarating to be back in Moscow again, and Karpov breathed deeply, taking in the clear, cold air that smelled sweeter than he ever remembered. It spoke of home in a way that affected him deeply, and one day, he thought, I may just make this place my home. I’m twenty years younger than Kirov, am I not?
After the formal greeting from a line of state officials, with publicity photographs and hearty handshakes. Karpov’s pulse was up when the door to the gilded, octagonal Hall of the Order of Saint Vladimir in the Kremlin Palace was opened by a white gloved attendant, and he stepped inside. That was a nice touch, thought Karpov, as he had been named after that saint, and someone was making a subtle gesture by staging the reception here. He walked into the hall, his eye straying along the pink stucco pillars and up to the high vaulted dome lit by a skylight by day and an ornate chandelier by night. There he saw the words of the insignia and motto of Saint Vladimir, “Good, Honor, Glory.”
The Red Security contingent was there, and his own personal guards joined them, departing through a doorway on the right, while Karpov was steered in to the meeting room beyond. He found himself alone for one minute in the lavishly appointed room, standing near a comfortable satin lined couch near a warming hearth. The door opened and a voice announced the arrival of the Secretary General, Sergie Kirov.
Karpov’s heart leapt a beat as the man entered, his presence like that of a figure stepping from old memories of the past, a statue made real, endowed with the luster of history. Kirov had been an almost legendary figure in Russia at one time, and here was the man himself, a strong and vital presence, slightly gray, but with a ruddy, healthy face and sturdy build. He walked over to extend his hand, greeting Karpov warmly as he gestured for him to be seated.
Karpov had removed his officer’s cap and set it aside on a marble topped table. “It is my very great pleasure to meet with you,” he said politely.
“And my pleasure as well,” said Kirov, who then got right down to business, with no dawdling on pleasantries. “I must tell you that I wondered if you might wished to take this meeting after what happened at Omsk, in fact I was looking forward to it.”
“Indeed,” said Karpov. “That was most unfortunate at Omsk, but the matter has evolved since then, and Ivan Volkov will come to regret his distasteful behavior.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Kirov, eyes narrowing, as he looked Karpov over, taking the man in. He had been told to be wary of this man, warned by Admiral Volsky and his young Captain Fedorov. So this was the former Captain of the Admiral’s ship, that amazing vessel that had come here from the future.
“A most impressive airship you have out there. Is it new?”
“Just commissioned,” said Karpov. “It was christened Tunguska, as its duralumin and steel rivets were mined and forged there.”
“A good name. I see you have a fondness for large ships and the power they can wield.”
That comment had an edge to it that Karpov did not fail to perceive. He shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Kirov had been at Murmansk, and that the appearance of the ship there meant the Soviets had certainly come to some arrangement with Admiral Volsky. He decided to be equally pointed and spoke his mind directly.
“It has come to my attention that a most unusual ship has been seen in your harbor as well, Mister General Secretary.”
“Please, simply call me Kirov… That is the name of the ship you ask about. Yes?”
Karpov’s pulse quickened again with that. How much did this man know? “Then you have seen this ship? You have met with its commanding officers?”
“Admiral Volsky? Yes, I traveled to Murmansk to see just what had dropped anchor there-also very impressive. I must say that I found him to be a most ingratiating and remarkable man, just as his ship is remarkable.”
“I see… And may I ask what you learned about this ship?”
“You wish to fill in the blank pages on your intelligence reports? Has your man Tyrenkov been slacking off?” Kirov smiled, deciding something inwardly. “I must be frank and tell you that your name was mentioned in that meeting, Admiral Karpov.”
“Then they told you? You know who I am?”
“Perhaps you can fill in a few blank pages in my intelligence book.”
Karpov knew he was on thin ice here. He could not allow this meeting to fail. Too much was riding on it. If this man met with Admiral Volsky, who knows what they discussed. Would Volsky have been bold enough to tell Kirov everything? He had to find out, but to do that he would have to reveal much here about himself. This was dangerous, he knew, but he started out across that ice, hoping it would hold.
