In the lobby of the hotel he became a familiar sight with his tweed jacket, eyeglasses hanging on a cord around his neck, and a handful of scientific journals. Even the four KGB and one GRU officers had stopped studying him.
On the last night before the Soviet delegation was due to head home, Monk waited until Professor Blinov had retired to his room before knocking on the door.
“Yes?” said a voice in English.
“Room service,” said Monk.
The door opened as far as the chain would allow. Professor Blinov peered out. He saw a man in a suit holding a bowl with a display of fruit topped with a pink ribbon.
“I did not order room service.”
“No, sir. I am the night manager. This is with the manager’s compliments.”
After five days Professor Blinov was still bewildered by this strange society of limitless material consumption. The only things he recognized were the scientific discussions and the tight security. But a free bowl of fruit was a novelty. Not wishing to be discourteous he released the chain, something the KGB had told him not to do. They of all people knew about midnight knocks on the door.
Monk entered, deposited the fruit, turned, and closed the door. Alarm sprang into the scientist’s eyes.
“I know who you are. Leave now or I will ring my people.”
Monk smiled and dropped into Russian.
“Sure, Professor, anytime you want. But first, I have something for you. Read this first, then ring.”
Bewildered, the scientist took the boy’s letter and cast his eye over the first line.
“What is this nonsense?” he protested. “You force your way in here and …”
“Let’s just talk for five minutes. Then I’ll go. Very quietly. No fuss. But first, listen please.”
“There is nothing you can say that I want to hear. I have been warned about you people. …”
“Zhenya is in New York,” said Monk. The professor stopped talking and his mouth fell open. At fifty, he was gray-haired and looked older than his years. He stooped, he needed glasses to read, and now they were perched on his nose. He peered at Monk over them and slowly sat down on the bed.
“Zhenya? Here? In America?”
“After your last holiday together in Yalta, she received her permission to leave for Israel. In a transit camp in Austria she contacted our embassy and we gave her a visa to come here instead. In the camp she realized she was carrying your child. Now, read the letter, please.”
The professor read slowly, in bewilderment. When he had finished, he held the two sheets of cream paper and stared at the opposite wall. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Slowly two tears welled up and trickled down his cheeks.
“I have a son,” he whispered. “Dear God, I have a son.”
Monk took a photograph from his pocket and held it out. The boy wore a baseball cap high on his head and a wide grin. There were freckles and a chipped tooth.
“Ivan Ivanovitch Blinov,” said Monk. “He’s never seen you. Just a faded photograph from Sochi. But he loves you.”
“I have a son,” repeated the man who could design hydrogen bombs.
“You also have a wife,” murmured Monk. Blinov shook his head.
“Valya died of cancer last year.”
Monk’s heart sank. He was a free man. He would want to stay in the States. That was not the game plan. Blinov preempted him.
“What do you want?”
“Two years from now, we want you to accept a lecture invitation in the West and stay here. We will fly you to the States, wherever you are. Life will be very good. A senior professorship at a major university, a large house in the woods, two cars. And Zhenya and Ivan with you. Forever. They both love you very much and I think you love them.”
“Two years.”