Part 8 (1/2)

The smaller, who sported astonis.h.i.+ngly big and blue eyes, said to Hank in Russian, ”You're too good to a.s.sociate with _metrofa.n.u.shka_ girls?”

Hank frowned puzzlement. ”I don't speak Russian,” he said.

She laughed lightly, almost a giggle, and, in the same low voice her partner was using on Paco, said, ”I think you do, Mr. Kuran. In the afternoon, tomorrow, avoid whatever tour the Intourist people wish to take you on and wander about Sovietska Park.” She giggled some more.

The world-wide epitome of a girl being picked up on the street.

Hank took her in more closely. Possibly twenty-five years of age. The skirt she was wearing was probably Russian, it looked st.u.r.dy and durable, but the sweater was one of the new American fabrics. Her shoes were probably western too, the latest flared heel effect. A typical _stilyagi_ or _metrofa.n.u.shka_ girl, he a.s.sumed. Except for one thing--her eyes were cool and alert, intelligent beyond those of a street pickup.

Paco said, ”What do you think, Hank? This one will come back to the hotel with me.”

”Romeo, Romeo,” Hank sighed, ”wherefore do thou think thou art?”

Paco shrugged. ”What's the difference? Buenos Aires, New York, Moscow. Women are women.”

”And men are evidently men,” Hank said. ”You do what you want.”

”O.K., friend. Do you mind staying out of the room for a time?”

”Don't worry about me, but you'll have to get rid of Loo, and he hasn't had his eighteen hours sleep yet today.”

Paco had his girl by the arm. ”I'll roll him into the hall. He'll never wake up.”

Hank's girl made a moue at him, shrugged as though laughing off the fact that she had been rejected, and disappeared into the crowds. Hank stuck his hands in his pockets and went on with his stroll.

The contact with the underground had been made.

Maintaining his front as an American tourist he wandered into several stores, picked up some amber brooches at a bargain rate, fingered through various books in English in an international bookshop. That was one thing that hit hard. The bookshops were packed. Prices were remarkably low and people were buying. In fact, he'd never seen a country so full of people reading and studying. The park benches were loaded with them, they read as the rode on streetcar and bus, they read as they walked along the street. He had an uneasy feeling that the jet-set kids were a small minority, that the juvenile delinquent problem here wasn't a fraction what it was in the West.

He'd expected to be followed. In fact, that had puzzled him when he first was given this unwanted a.s.signment by Sheridan Hennessey. How was he going to contact this so-called underground if he was watched the way he had been led to believe Westerners were?

But he recalled their conducted tour of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. The Intourist guide had started off with twenty-five persons and had clucked over them like a hen all afternoon. In spite of her frantic efforts to keep them together, however, she returned to the Astoria Hotel that evening with eight missing--including Hank and Loo who had wandered off to get a beer.

The idea of the KGB putting tails on the tens of thousands of tourists that swarmed Moscow and Leningrad, became a little on the ridiculous side. Besides, what secret does a tourist know, or what secrets could he discover?

At any rate, Hank found no interference in his wanderings. He deliberately avoided Red Square and its s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, taking no chances on bringing himself to attention. Short of that locality, he wandered freely.

At noon they ate at the Grand and the Intourist guide outlined the afternoon program which involved a general sightseeing tour ranging from the University to the Park of Rest and Culture, Moscow's equivalent of Coney Island.

Loo said, ”That all sounds very tiring, do we have time for a nap before leaving?”

”I'm afraid not, Mr. Motlamelle,” the guide told him.

Paco shook his head. ”I've seen a university, and I've seen a sport stadium and I've seen statues and monuments. I'll sit this one out.”

”I think I'll lie this one out,” Loo said. He complained plaintively to Hank. ”You know what happened to me this morning, just as I was napping up in our room?”

”Yes,” Hank said, ”I was with our Argentine Casanova when he picked her up.”