“When I defended several former Soviet officials implicated in the Parliament uprising, I turned to this informant for all kinds of information. His name is Nikolai. The documents he found helped exonerate two of my clients. In three other cases, what I learned from him helped reduce prison sentences by many years. And in yet another case, the information was so disturbing to the authorities that I got my client to be pardoned by Yeltsin himself.”
“Who is this Nikolai?” Jonathan asked.
Alexandre hesitated as he studied Jonathan’s gaze. He threw his cigarette down and extinguished it with his boot. “He is the Kremlin’s chief archivist.”
“Wow.” It was an unexpected revelation, and Jonathan was grateful that Alexandre had offered such a potentially valuable informant. “I assume I’ll have to pay him handsomely.”
“Whatever you must have heard about Russians, Jonathan, I must tell you he’s a special case when it comes to money.”
Jonathan began to worry about how much this would cost him. “I’m not a millionaire, you know.”
Alexandre raised his brow. “No, you misunderstand. Nikolai isn’t after money. He’s a very kind, gentle man—an intellectual confined for twenty years to a profession that requires seclusion. It is entirely by luck that I stumbled on him, and I am thankful for all he has done for my legal cases. And to this day, no one has ever discovered how I was able to get all the information. And he did it because he believed what I was doing was right. He is a friend, without being a friend. It’s hard to explain. So, don’t worry, he’s not after your wallet.”
“But he still wants something, right? I mean what Russian wouldn’t—” Jonathan interrupted himself, realizing he was unintentionally about to insult Alexandre as well.
Alexandre tilted his head to the side. “I helped his mother get into a better hospital. I bought him a German refrigerator, and last year I got him a cat.”
“A cat?”
“Yes, a nice Persian cat, something you can’t easily find in Moscow. It’s not about money, I tell you. It’s whether he believes that what you ask of him is the morally right thing to do. So, he’ll want to know why you want the information, and you can’t easily fool him.”
Jonathan was suddenly embarrassed, realizing how callous or pompous his statement must have sounded. The fact that it came from an American probably made it worse.
Alexandre rubbed his chin and added, “Now, I’ve heard he is looking for a new Japanese television.”
I knew it, Jonathan told himself, shaking his head.
Alexandre crossed his arms and raised his chin. “Even if he accepts to help you, there is still a problem.”
Jonathan frowned. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Nikolai will not allow his documents to leave the Kremlin. He doesn’t photograph or copy them either, and he’ll never let anyone else do so. But he does let you read them.”
“But I don’t know Russian.”
“Not to worry. His English is fair—not perfect—but fair, if he’s not drinking.”
“Drinking?”
“Yes, Nikolai is a big drinker. A shy man who makes love to his vodka almost all day long.”
Jonathan started so see this getting really messy. “And let’s assume for a moment that he agrees, and that he hasn’t drunk himself to the floor, and that I buy him a television, how exactly I am supposed to meet him?”
“Yes, that’s the most complicated factor. But not to worry—it’s safe. However, it’s not the most pleasant way to visit the Kremlin.”
Jonathan shook his head, waiting for him to spit it out.
“You can only meet him in the Kremlin, and only on Thursday—the day the place is closed to tourists.”
“So, I’m supposed to climb the walls and find his office?” Jonathan asked, chuckling.
“Not exactly,” said Alexandre with a grin. “You will enter by a secret tunnel!”
He sensed Alexandre’s suggestion was sounding like something between bungee jumping and Russian roulette. “Is this your sick way of turning me into a client, so you can defend me?” asked Jonathan, shaking his head in disbelief.
Alexandre didn’t seem humored by Jonathan’s comment. “There are numerous tunnels and passageways under and around the Kremlin, some of them built centuries ago. It is an entirely safe way to get in, if you know what you’re doing.”
Jonathan’s receptiveness was wearing thin. “I am neither an archeologist nor a miner. I’m a lawyer, I’m claustrophobic, and I don’t feel like getting shot.”
“I’ve used the passageway before, and I had no trouble,” Alexandre said as if he’d done so many, many times. But then he added that he’d used it only once.
“I’m not crazy, Alexandre.”
“The tunnel begins in the Russian State Library. It’s about two hundred meters long, and Nikolai will be waiting at the other end.”
“If he’s sober enough to remember,” Jonathan retorted grimly. “I would feel safer if Boris accompanied me.”
Alexandre chuckled. “He would not fit through the tunnel.”
“Have you spoken to Nikolai?”
“A little.”
“And what could he show me?”
“KGB files, transcripts of government meetings, secret reports, that sort of thing. He could find more information about Major-General Yakovlev. He also has access to certain files of the old Central Committee—the former Poliburo of the USSR.”
Jonathan was tempted to ask that Alexandre go with him, but something, perhaps pride or bravado, didn’t let him. Either way, Alexandre hadn’t volunteered, or he surely would have if he really wanted to go.
Coincidentally, as if he’d read Jonathan’s mind, Alexandre said, “It’s better that you go alone. It will make Nikolai nervous to have two guests. Besides, you know all the right questions to ask.”
To Jonathan, it was a lame excuse, but he chose not to debate Alexandre. Jonathan raised his chin. “What is the worst that could happen to me if I get caught?”
“Someone shoots you.”
“And the next worst thing?”
“Someone shoots you but doesn’t kill you.”
“And the next?”
“Imprisonment in a jail like Butyrka for five to ten years.”
Fabulous.
They walked toward the pavilion that represented the Soviet Union’s accomplishments in air and space travel. Two large rockets and a medium-sized airliner sat on display outside the large, austere expo building. They stopped at a concession stand, where Alexandre bought his American colleague a beer.
“Well?” Alexandre asked with his glass held high, shall we toast to your upcoming secret rendezvous, or are you not willing to accept the risk?”
Jonathan stared into Alexandre’s eyes, weighing his options. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he declared firmly.
Alexandre nodded. “Good. I will contact Nikolai this evening and confirm everything.”
Jonathan walked with Alexandre for a while longer, but they left aside any further serious discussions. Instead, Alexandre talked at length about his latest conquest: a twenty-two-year-old cashier named Karina he had met while shopping at the Benetton store in the GUM shopping mall. Ironically, he’d been there to buy a gift for his prior flame.
They walked across the vast park that was the VDNKh. The cool air filled Jonathan’s lungs. It was strangely peaceful. As they strolled out of the grounds, Alexandre signaled for Boris, who was kind enough to drive Jonathan back to the Hotel Metropol.
* * *
Colorful pastries decorated a small plate that a waiter brought to Jonathan’s table. The American sat in a cozy circular booth in the hotel’s Confectioner Cafe, the same place he’d first met Alexandre. The quiet voices of Englishmen and louder ones of other Americans echoed from the three other occupied tables near the window that overlooked Teatralnaya Ploschad, Theatre Square.
Jonathan was re-reading his notes from when he’d interviewed Vlad at the prison. He needed to k
now more about Yakovlev, but more importantly the woman Vlad had suggested was in charge of the whole operation at the farm and at the airfield.
Suddenly, the waiter returned to Jonathan’s table rather hurriedly and asked, “Sir, are you Mr. Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“There is a call for you,” he said and then pointed to his right. “You can use the phone over there.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said and quickly headed to the phone at the far end of the elegant, mahogany-walled café. He had learned to become fearful of unexpected calls, especially if they were from home. That’s why he felt an immediate relief when he heard Alexandre’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Did you know that there is a U.S.-Russia commission on prisoners of war and missing persons?” Alexandre asked excitedly.
“No, I didn’t.”
“The commission formed a Cold War Working Group a few years ago in part to research cases involving U.S. military reconnaissance aircraft lost over or near Soviet airspace during the Cold War. As I understand it, they have already recovered the remains of several aircrew members from incidents in the 1950s.”
Jonathan immediately realized this committee was something to look into more closely. “Then I will contact them. Is the commission here in Moscow?”
“Yes. But the reason I’m calling is that the American head of that working group will probably be at a reception tonight, and my very good friend Lena is invited.
She’s number two at the Ministry of Culture—a nice, charismatic lady, widowed and harmless. She was a friend of my mother’s. She would be willing to take you. She owes me a favor. Well, what do you say?”
“What’s the reception for?”
“A military choir from your country is in town, so they are performing tonight. I think there will be several military and political personalities.”
“Where?”
“At the Spaso House, the U.S. Ambassador’s residence,” Alexandre said. “It’s in the Arbat area, where I drove you around yesterday. It may be a better opportunity to meet one of the heads of this commission and get their attention more quickly than if you start with the lower ranks at your embassy.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, given that I almost killed an embassy official.”
“Embassy official?” Alexandre asked, his enthusiastic tone suddenly evaporating.
“Frank Corrigan, that dirt bag from yesterday, had an official, diplomatic passport. He was American.” Jonathan had asked Allen to research what it meant to have a maroon-colored passport with the OFFICIAL PASSPORT designation. Only government officials carried that kind of passport, which was different than the blue-colored ones like Jonathan’s.
“We shouldn’t talk like this on the phone,” Alexandre cautioned. “Go to the reception. Trust me. You’ll be fine. She will pick you up at six-thirty.”
* * *
Lena’s chauffeured Mercedes pulled up to the hotel entrance, where Jonathan had been waiting. Lena was in her late fifties and elegantly dressed, wearing an haute couture suit and a pearl necklace that no doubt cost a fortune, if it was real. Her English was nearly flawless, a result of working as a consular official in Ireland in the mid-1980s.
The short drive to the Spaso House didn’t give Lena much time to ask Jonathan many questions, though her curiosity led her to try as best she could. Alexandre had told her only that Jonathan was trying to meet a few American officials for a legal case, and nothing more.
Spaso House was a huge mansion, with tall white Roman columns decorating its peach-colored facade. As they pulled up to the entrance, Lena leaned into Jonathan and said, “It was built in 1914 by a wealthy industrialist named Nikolai Vtorov, and, believe it or not, your government is only paying about fifty dollars per year in rent.”
Jonathan was astonished. “Fifty?”
“The lease was signed in 1985 at a fixed price, before the fall of the Soviet Union, and now the value of the ruble has dropped so much that they ended up with a great deal.”
A doorman ushered the arriving guests into the pristinely decorated lobby with a soaring domed ceiling from which hung an ornate crystal chandelier.
“Do you come to many of these events?” Jonathan asked Lena.
“Only when I have nothing more pleasant to do. Look around. Most of these people, whether Americans or Russians, they think they are better than everyone else. More knowledgeable, more noble, richer and more powerful. I think I’m invited because they are tired of the other senior diplomats at my Ministry. They are as dull as their English is poor. Frankly, I don’t think many at your embassy are all that interesting either, and I’m certain they don’t give a damn about Russia’s cultural programs.”
“You are an interesting woman, Lena,” Jonathan said, smiling. “I can see exactly why they would invite you.”
Jonathan did his best to eavesdrop on each conversation as he casually walked around the room.
The hundred or so guests gathered into the domed room as waiters handed out drinks. The Ambassador spoke for a few minutes and then introduced the ten members of the U.S. Air Force Academy show choir, which was in Russia for the first time. Their performance was short, which suited Jonathan, as his interest was in the VIPs wearing military uniforms and no one else.
“You said you’re interested in senior military officials, right?” Lena whispered, to which Jonathan nodded. “Then, over there, the one with the uniform,” whispered Lena from the side of her mouth, sipping her champagne. “He’s General Forester, the American military attaché.”
“You know him?”
“A little,” Lena said, smiling. “From what I hear, he’s gotten into a lot of hot water with his bosses back home. He’s got quite a thing about Moscow girls, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shall I introduce you to him?”
“No, no,” Jonathan said, thinking how absurd it would be if he, as an American, were to be introduced to the attaché by a Russian official. “I’ll do it myself.”
Jonathan strolled across the blue and beige carpeted floor toward the general, who stood at a hors d’oeuvres table with his back facing him.
“Good evening,” Jonathan said. “Are you General Forester?”
“Yes, I am.”
Jonathan realized he had the attention of one of the most senior embassy officials, and every word out of his mouth would have to be calculated and flawless. And he wasn’t about to use his real name. “I’m Sylvester Johnson. I’ve been working with Frank Corrigan on an investigation.”
“Oh, Jesus,” the general said, almost dropping his cheese-laden cracker from his hand. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about what happened.”
“Yes, very serious,” Jonathan said, though he had no clue about Frank’s condition. “It has hurt the whole team.”
The general frowned. “I imagine so...but C.J. Raynes is not the sort of man who’ll just sit there. I hope he can nail whoever assaulted Frank.”
“Yes.”
“Are you working with anyone else in C.J.’s group?”
Jonathan shook his head, realizing the general had just given him a huge bit of information. C.J. was the head of Frank’s group, whatever their role was.
“Is C.J. coming tonight?” Jonathan asked.
The general smirked. “He would come to this kind of event only at gunpoint. Besides, as you must know, he doesn’t mingle much with us folks.”
“You got that right,” Jonathan said.
“So what kind of investigation are you heading?”
“An old missing persons’ case, dating back to the late ’80s.”
“I see.”
Jonathan spoke to him for a few more minutes. He’d learned that the so-called Cold War working group focused on finding airmen who disappeared in the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s, but no investigations related to any later period.
He mingled with others at the reception, including a consular official and the embassy’
s press officer until it was time to leave. He got no additional insight into the identity of C.J. Raynes, but he was thankful that Lena had given him such an opportunity. He’d gained a small piece of information, and with it he hoped to dig into Vlad’s murder. And he would do it soon, in the cleverest way he could think of.
17
Moscow streets were wide and busy, but Jonathan was amazed at how easy it was to park, nothing like the hassles in downtown New Orleans, especially in the central business district and in the French Quarter.
Alexandre had promised to take Jonathan to a place that would help give him a new perspective of post-communist Russia. It was a small park, divided in half by a narrow trail cleared through the snow.
“What’s that over there?” Jonathan asked, eyeing a set of red-brick buildings that took up the entire block across the street.
“The back of your country’s embassy.”
The two walked along the icy sidewalk at the perimeter of the snow-covered park.
Alexandre strolled a few paces ahead and then turned to Jonathan. “This is a sacred place for many of my countrymen, those who miss the Soviet Union, and the security, the social order, the pride and the respect that came with it. Three years ago, Communists, both young and old, many of them from the military, including our dear Major-General Yakovlev, took over the parliament to save the empire from the perils of a new democratic order. This park is where their opponents—the troops under Yeltsin—gathered for a final assault on the building to end the rebellion. Hundreds of soldiers were assembled here with tanks and armored cars. They waited, loading their ammunition, until they got the signal. And then they attacked. The rest is history. The parliament has been rebuilt and most Muscovites have conveniently discarded this from their collective conscience. And now, all that’s left are these bulletin boards. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Jonathan gazed at the strange makeshift memorial, no more glamorous than a series of job posting boards. Their facades were filled with photographs, notes, letters, ribbons and a few wilted flowers. So many young faces. Kids in uniform, from all branches of the military. Nearby were worn wreaths and more ribbons, partly covered by snow.
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