The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Are you sure you're all right?”

  “I'm fine. What about you?” They stood up and brushed themselves off. “Thanks again.”

  “Ne-koolturni! Ne-koolturni!” cried the babushka.

  They walked for almost an hour, saying little and putting off the visit to the Monastery of the Catacombs. His arm around her, they made a large circle and covered many quiet blocks. Nick took in the night air and felt very distant from the exhibit, the United States, and even the Soviet Union.

  Then, abruptly, he sensed something wrong even before Olga spoke. Her tranquil air slipped away, and he felt the stiffness, the tenseness, mount in her. She pulled away from him.

  “Kreshatik is right down there.” She was more nervous than he had seen her and she acted as if she had forgotten something. “You know the way back from there, I'm sure.”

  Not yet, he thought. “Wouldn't you like to get something to drink? Maybe we could find a bar or… or…” Nick was bewildered.

  “I must be going, really. I… I…” She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, then kissed it. “Nick, please don't feel obligated to… you know, take the letter to my uncle.”

  Her words were full of guilt. She had never said whether she was married or involved.

  “I want to see you again, Olga. Soon.”

  She cast her eyes to the ground. “I must go now, but in several days I will come to the exhibit. Perhaps we can see each other…” She failed to finish the sentence.

  “When, Olga, when?” He reached out for her.

  “As soon as I can.” She kissed him on the cheek, hesitated and then turned and started off.

  “Goodbye!” he called out despondently.

  “Yes,” she cried without looking back, her pace quickening. “Until our next meeting!”

  She slipped her arms into the gray sweater as she ran, and Nick watched confused and hurt. He watched until her blond hair and white dress were but a light blur in the dark night. Then she disappeared around the corner, and he clung to the fading sounds of her shoes as they clattered on the sidewalk.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned in the direction of the Dniepro Hotel. If only she hadn't left so abruptly, he would have told her. Yes, he'd take the letter. Gladly. He'd even take a package and telephone her uncle if she wanted him to. Now, however, he'd have to wait… wait for Olga to come back to the exhibit. But when would that be?

  A breeze picked up and Nick heard the fluttering sound of material. He glanced upward. Hung boldly across the street was a large red banner secured at its four corners to the apartment buildings on either side of the street.

  The banner's crisp white lettering against its pure red background announced: LENIN IS ALWAYS WITH US.

  VII

  The chauffeur-driven black Volga sedan sped along carrying KGB Colonel Mayakovsky from Kiev's Borispil Airport to the evening meeting he had summoned. The car heaved upward as it hit a buckle in the pavement and crossed onto the bridge spanning the Dneiper River. Alone in the rear seat, Mayakovsky reached out with his gloved hand and braced himself.

  Leaving the loamy plains behind, across the broad river he saw the right bank, its green rolling hills rising high above the water's edge. Breaking through the tree tops and silhouetted by the last of the day's light were the churches and cathedrals of the Monastery of the Catacombs. It was a scene fit for a postcard: the sky a lustrous orange, the sun too bright a yellow to behold, and the onion domes and towers of the monastery well-defined black images in contrast. Shielding his eyes from the light, Mayakovsky remarked that this same view had welcomed visitors to Kiev for hundreds upon hundreds of years.

  Mayakovsky was not, however, a visitor to Kiev. Born and raised in the city, he was in the midst of a prodigious career in the Committee for State Security—the KGB—and was returning that night from a Kremlin meeting in Moscow. He had been in conference there since the moment he had flown in that morning. The topic was both urgent and irritating: retaliation against the United States for the incarceration of two Soviets in a Connecticut jail. It was of the most pressing relevance to Mayakovsky's current assignment—surveillance of the American guides during their stay in Kiev—and he was quite pleased with himself. The June arrest in Moscow of Frank Korman, the American businessman, had brought no results. The expulsion as personae non gratae several months ago of two of the exhibit guides had likewise not produced the desired effect. And neither had the seductive approaches of a handsome KGB agent toward the third guide; the CIA had caught on and spirited the woman out of the U.S.S.R. Mayakovsky had convinced the Kremlin, however, that his strategy would secure freedom for his two colleagues held in the U.S., and the Kremlin had given its approval to conclude the operation already underway.

  The sedan heaved again as it flew off the other end of the bridge, causing Mayakovsky's hat to fall off the seat and onto the floor. The chauffeur deftly maneuvered the vehicle around several corners, and then accelerated to nearly twice the lawful speed. He paid no attention as they sped past a yellow police jeep, aware of the privileges provided by the colonel's stark license plate.

  “Chauffeur, not so rough on the corners.” Mayakovsky picked up his hat by its black plastic visor and dusted it off.

  The driver nodded rigidly. “Does the Comrade Colonel wish to bypass the Dneipro Hotel?”

  “No.”

  Mayakovsky straightened his olive green uniform and smoothed his light brown hair. On each shoulder of his jacket was a single metal Soviet star, and on the left side of his chest were six medals, pinned carefully there this morning for his trip to the Kremlin. In his mid-forties, his face was decidedly boyish, though in the last few years he had aged much; in another ten years his youthful appearance would be totally gone and he would look old for his time. Aloof by nature, Mayakovsky had a permanent crease in his forehead left by his persistent, critical scowl.

  As they neared the Hotel Dneipro, Colonel Mayakovsky rubbed this crease with his fingertips, thereby obscuring his face. Though he doubted any of the American guides could spot him in the speeding Volga, it would be foolish to be any more lax. His reason was simple: his temporary office, which he visited every day dressed in ordinary street clothes, was not far from the site of the American exhibition. It was from there that he supervised the surveillance of both the American guides and the Soviet citizens who visited FARMING U.S.A. From the outside, the small tan building appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary place of work. Inside however, Mayakovsky directed the Soviet floor controller and the undercover agents who roamed freely through the exhibit. Ordinary Soviet citizens who misbehaved at the exhibition were brought to this place, also, for identification and interrogation purposes. And in the small room next to Mayakovsky's office was the monitoring equipment that recorded the transmissions from the bugs located in such places as the exhibit director's office, the guide lounge, and Nick Miller's irrigation stand.

  The black sedan made a sweeping arc around the ring of larger-than-life portraits of Party officials. Leaving them, the Hotel Dneipro, and Komsomol Square in its wake, the chauffeured Volga drove Mayakovsky on to the special evening meeting.

  Crowned with an abundance of needlelike antennae, the massive gray granite building rose abruptly from the street. Thick, stark columns lined the facade of the structure, the only edifice in the area that rose above the treetops, and the entrance was disproportionately small, as if to allow few in and even fewer out.

  Instructing his chauffeur to wait, Mayakovsky proceeded directly to the sixth floor. The slapping of his black leather boots announced his arrival, and although he was late, the others would be there. The meeting, specifically regarding the American exhibition, was urgent.

  A door at the end of the empty corridor popped open and Mayakovsky's longtime aide, Vishnyak, stepped out. He had a thin mustache and a diminutive frame, and he bowed his head only slightly.

  “Good evening, Comrade Colonel,” said the aide. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”
>
  “Everyone is here?” Mayakovsky handed him his hat.

  “Yes.”

  Hearing muffled voices emerging from the conference room, Mayakovsky paused in the antechamber. He coughed, once, twice, and when there was silence, the colonel nodded to his aide. Vishnyak took hold of the doorknob, turned it slowly, and then in a quick movement swung open the door. The five who had been waiting sprang to attention. The colonel entered briskly.

  “Be seated, comrades.”

  He took his place at the head of the rectangular table, and his aide brought in a short stack of papers and placed them in front of him. Vishnyak left, gently shutting the door behind him.

  Before Mayakovsky sat five men. On the right side of the table were the two in charge of plainclothes surveillance at the exhibit. Next to them sat their colleague in charge of surveillance of the guides at the Dneipro Hotel and of the electronic monitoring of their rooms. To Mayakovsky's left were two more; Police Chief Alekzander Alekzandrovich Petrovsky, who openly patrolled the area around the exhibit, and Lt. Viktor Yezhov, one of the Soviet crowd controllers.

  “I called this meeting because a decision has been reached.” Mayakovsky paused. “Those of you sitting here will play an important role in the execution of this vital plan.” He looked at Petrovsky. Having once served beneath him and having now risen far above, the colonel knew Petrovsky to be efficient and dedicated. “The Korman trial will proceed.” His eyes ran over the two plainclothesmen and the hotel operative. Good, unquestioning workers. “He will be found guilty of illegal currency exchange and speculation, and sentenced appropriately.” It was obvious they approved. “We have struck once. And like a great, benevolent bear, we have struck kindly. The American government does not understand this, however, and their failure to heed our warning will be their demise.

  Yes. We will strike again. And again. With precision. With bold regularity. You need not question. Our success will be most satisfying.”

  There was silence in the room, stillness from the street. He stared at Lieutenant Yezhov, whom he had chosen with reservation to work at the exhibit. As far as Colonel Mayakovsky was concerned, the lieutenant was too ambitious and too independent. Yezhov's impressive command of the English language had swayed the decision, though, and Mayakovsky, to appease himself, made a determined effort to keep a concerted eye on the young officer. It was the colonel's firm conviction that the only way to assure success was to take complete control of all the variables.

  “We will strike closely this time. The target, you will be pleased to know, will be one of the insolent guides at the American exhibition.” He scrutinized them all. They were satisfied. “The target: Nicholas Miller.” Yes, satiated. Miller had caused more problems than all the other guides.

  “He will be charged with a number of illegal acts of aggression against the Soviet people. A most pleasing aspect, of course, is that Miller is both an employee of the American government and without diplomatic immunity. This, of course, will enable us to put him on trial as a CIA agent… for illicit acts against the Soviet people.” There was no need to say that he would be found guilty. “He will, accordingly, receive the proper sentence as an enemy of the State.” Mayakovsky examined each of them. “We will strike and strike again until we are successful. This will be the beauty of our success. Korman, Miller… there will be others, if need be.”

  “We will not arrest Miller tonight,” he said, continuing. “We will not arrest him tomorrow.” Yezhov frowned, and the colonel disapproved of this independent display. “No, we will make no moves until the closing of the exhibit.” Mayakovsky took great satisfaction in relaying this aspect, which he had personally formulated. “We do not wish to take action while the exhibit is still open, and the guides have a forum in which to speak.” They had discussed this point at length in Moscow and Mayakovsky had forcefully stressed patience. If they were to arrest Miller now, there would be a large and vocal outcry from those “blundering and babbling idiotic guides.” No, he had argued, it was wiser to wait until the guides had disbanded and packed up the exhibit and were on their random and ridiculously individualistic ways out of the U.S.S.R. Let the group split up. Make the arrest then, when there would be no support. The guides would have broken up and would be traveling through various parts of Europe. They would be, to the Soviet Union's benefit, unavailable for comment to the American government or to the Western press. “The arrest will come later. You will receive your orders at a future date.” Mayakovsky never divulged more than necessary. By relying on no one, by trusting no one, he had always delivered complete success.

  “For various reasons,” he went on, “it was decided that in the other cities Miller should be aware of the fact that he was under observation. And he was aware of this. He knew, to his credit, almost the instant each time he was followed. However, it will not be so in Kiev. It is necessary for Miller to believe that he is now able to roam the city freely.” His face taut, he wanted to be certain that they understood this point. “As you are aware, I have brought in one of Moscow's finest teams. Observation of Miller is totally restricted to them, and you are to do anything they—one woman, three men on foot, two by car—ask of you.” Mayakovsky felt no need to explain anything further, not even that he had had Miller's friends’ apartment bugged and that they would be forced to testify against Miller after his arrest. The dispersal of information and authority would only jeopardize the coordination of the operation. One director with complete control was the best alternative. “Therefore, until further notice you are not to take any action of any kind… absolutely none!” He emphasized this to Yezhov by catching his eye and holding it. “All of you are to continue your work… to continue observation of the Americans at the exhibit and at the hotel. But you will not act otherwise unless under my personal and direct orders. Is that clear?”

  Silence.

  “Good. You are to report any peculiarities you or your subordinates notice directly to me. The plan is solid. It is good. Let the Americans relax so that they expect nothing. This is when we will strike. Questions?”

  Silence.

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  The five men rose, saluted, and filed out of the room. Colonel Mayakovsky leaned back in his chair. It had been a long day, a victorious day.

  “Vodka!” he commanded.

  His aide brought in a glass of chilled vodka. He took the glass.

  “Shut the door, Vishnyak, as you leave.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel,” said the aide backing out.

  Mayakovsky held the glass up to the light. Pure. Powerful. He was confident. Very confident. He had won the first battle by delaying Miller's arrest until his departure through Moscow. The events of Kiev were totally in his control, free of interference, and now he was able to get things underway as he saw fit. And that's the way it should be, he thought. After all, how could the vast and disorganized Moscow machinery pull off as stunning a victory as he could?

  He put the glass to his lips and drank the refreshing liquid. It was sure to work. Besides, the best agent—his prodigy whom he had imbued with all of his beliefs and tactics—was working for him. Quite the willing student, she was as unique a person in her aptitude and sense of purpose as any he had ever seen.

  Olga. Unknown to his subordinates here in Kiev and even to the Kremlin, he had great faith in her and the documents she was obtaining from the old woman. Planted on Miller, they would be most persuasive.

  VIII

  Just as he did every day after the exhibit, Lt. Viktor Yezhov took the trolley bus to the main subway station on Kreshatik. Dressed as a civilian, he carried his uniform and pistol packed neatly away in his briefcase; and, tall with a narrow frame, he walked with an air of superiority. From Kreshatik he took the Metro to the end of the line, got out in the new “microregion,” and walked to his former wife's apartment, a small one-bedroom place in a featureless building surrounded by identical high rises containing identical apartments.

  He was tired. After
the meeting with Colonel Mayakovsky the night before, he had stayed up late thinking, and today the crowds had been heavy at the exhibit. Now he sat on a wobbly stool at the kitchen table, his briefcase at his feet, while his ex-wife, Sonia, and her parents entertained their guests in the living room.

  Laughter and loud talk filtered into the small kitchen. They had prepared a sumptuous meal; Sonia had waited in line for two hours to get a slab of beef and her mother had used all the blat she could muster to obtain a tin of caviar. Already they had been at the table for nearly two hours and there was no end in sight. The occasion was a joyous one: Sonia and Mixhail, the guest, had announced their engagement.

  Sonia's father, a handsome man of medium stature whose bald head was rimmed with a band of white hair, came into the kitchen humming the song “Moscow, My Capital.” He half-danced toward the refrigerator, frolicking as one usually does only in complete privacy. He hated Yezhov and delighted in pretending that his former son-in-law was not and had not been sitting there for close to an hour. He flippantly took the freezer door handle by two fingers, clicked his tongue, and swung open the door. The older man, squinting impishly, snatched another bottle of chilled vodka and, happy that Yezhov would soon no longer be living with them, could restrain himself no more. He burst into song.

  “Moskva, stolitsa maya!” Moscow, my capital.

  “Andrei Pavlovich,” said Yezhov with disgust. He lifted his steel-frame glasses and rubbed his face. “I beg you!”

  But this caused his former father-in-law to sing louder, and Yezhov looked out the window in disgust. This was one of the new suburbs of the city, occupying the site of a former village and its surrounding sandy fields, and the twenty or so look-alike apartment buildings were packed around a worn, treeless courtyard. Yezhov neither hated nor liked the nine-story buildings, identical copies of which could be found in micro-regions outside of Moscow and Leningrad. Such a residence merely offered a private apartment in which to live, which was precisely why he had married Sonia three years earlier: with Sonia came her parents, with her parents came the apartment. It was simple: she was his ticket out of the cramped KGB dormitory and into a private dwelling.