XXVIII
Mr. Thomas's reassurances, the fresh change of clothes, and the news of Walter Cronkite brought Nick a temporary sense of relief. At least he hadn't been forgotten. At least he hadn't been abandoned. He had felt lost and helpless before, totally at the mercy of the Soviet system; rather, he imagined, like a Russian would feel locked up in his own prison system. Now, however, there was a powerful outside agent agitating on his behalf.
Curled up with his clean clothes on and a light wool blanket pulled over him, he slept soundly that night until his rest was interrupted by a series of powerful jabs in his ribs. He swatted at whatever it was. It struck again, bruising his muscles. A gruff male voice addressed him.
“Wake up,” said the guard, striking Nick.
Nick rolled over, groaning. A uniformed guard stood towering over him.
As if to protect himself, Nick drew his arms and legs in. “What in the hell do you want? What time is it anyway?”
“Get up,” repeated the guard. “Time for questions.”
“What?”
Another uniformed guard came to the bedside. They ripped the blanket off Nick, took him by the arms, and roughly pulled him to his feet.
“Hey, you overgrown morons,” said Nick in English, hoping that it would intimidate them. “Get your fucking hands off me. I'm up. I'm up.”
He pulled away and, yawning and stretching, backed up against the wall. The overhead bulb burned continuously and for all he knew, it could be high noon.
“What time is it?” asked Nick.
One of the guards started out of the cell. The other came over and took Nick firmly by the arm.
“I want to know what time it is,” he repeated.
“It's four-thirty in the morning,” said the guard. “Come on, let's go.”
“Oh, man,” said Nick, irritated and still half asleep. The guard began to pull him. “All right, all right. I'm coming. Just get your hands off me.”
The first guard led the way out of the cell and the other followed right behind Nick. Leaving his room, however, Nick did not experience any sense of liberation. He did not know what lay ahead. Interrogation could mean anything. His heartbeat increased and he quickly became more alert than he would have thought possible. Four-thirty in the morning.
“I can't believe it,” said Nick, trying to quell himself. “I've never been up this early before.”
The guards did not respond, and if others did speak down in the subterranean prison, Nick imagined that they did so automatically in a whisper. The guard's glistening black leather boots slapped against the cold concrete floor, the clean rhythmic sound broken only by Nick's shuffling. The first guard took some keys from his pocket and their rattling echoed off the walls. Metal struck hard metal when he inserted one key into the lock of a heavy gate. Then the gate was thrown open and Nick was shoved through. They paused briefly at a desk on the other side while a woman with flaming red hair, not saying a word, hastily recorded information in her ledger.
The woman nodded and the guards led the way to a sturdy, featureless elevator. They stepped inside the lift but, blocked by one of the guards, Nick could not see which button had been pushed. The doors closed swiftly and precisely; better, thought Nick, than in any foreigner's hotel he had ever been in. He was startled by the elevator's first movement and he reached to the back for support. Then, with great relief, he felt himself going upward. The last thing he wanted was to go any deeper below the earth's surface.
The elevator stopped when the number six lit up. The doors eased open onto a long, empty corridor. Reaching out, the guard took hold of Nick and pushed him forward.
“I'm going,” said Nick, disgusted and irritated. He shook himself free of the guard's grasp. “This is crazy. Questions at four-thirty in the morning.”
The guard rammed his hand into Nick's back. “Walk.”
Alluding to busy daytime activity were offices, meeting rooms, and other hallways. But now there was no one. The large building stood an empty carcass, and Nick felt as if they were passing through a great void. Even the one window they did walk past provided no sense of time or place. All he saw outside was a purplish black sky that seemed more the work of a suicidal painter than it did of nature. A sky lost somewhere between late night and the first of dawn.
They followed one corridor, then turned down another. At the far end of this extended hall was a sharp, slanted beam of light which shot through a partially opened door and cut like a laser across the empty passage. Nick was led toward this light and he felt himself slowing the closer they drew to it. Without hesitation, the guards steered him directly to the light's source, a small room in the building's far corner.
Next to a single, straight-backed chair was a plain table. On the table was a bright lamp—the source of the piercing light—a steaming teapot, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two thin tea glasses. Otherwise the window-less room was featureless, its walls a flat gray. The guards deposited Nick in the room.
“Sit,” said one of them.
So that was it, thought Nick. They were going to push and shove him around, humiliate him, and then question him when he was exhausted and at his weakest. Perhaps, too, they wanted to thoroughly interrogate him before he was allowed to talk with someone from the embassy. If that were true, that meant that he might be meeting with an official American representative in a few hours.
Questions. There would be many. Yet what had happened only a few days earlier seemed like the distant past. In any case, he doubted whether he'd be able to coherently recount the series of events. They were going to have to force it out of him simply because he was so confused. He closed his eyes. His fatigue was catching up to him in the form of a dull, throbbing headache.
The guards stood motionless outside the room and Nick, having seated himself, was only conscious of some fine dust particles floating in the lamp's beam. Somewhere else on the floor, a distant door opened, then closed. The stillness was shattered. The guards snapped to attention. The strong, sturdy sound of another pair of leather boots announced the impending arrival of the soldiers’ superior. Each moment the steps grew louder. They did not slow, did not waver until Colonel Mayakovsky appeared in the doorway. Glaring down at Nick, the colonel's expression was hostile and intense.
Sinking slightly in his seat, Nick's hands took hold of the edge of the chair. He tried as best he could not to appear intimidated.
Without thinking, Nick blurted out: “I won't tell you anything unless someone from the American Embassy is present.”
Mayakovsky shook his head in disgust. “You're even more immature than I had expected. Perhaps you need to be reminded of just where you are.”
Nick was speechless. Cool drops of perspiration rolled from his underarm and trickled uncomfortably down his side.
Mayakovsky moved back into the hallway and out of Nick's sight. He obviously wanted Nick to overhear what he said to the guards.
“He's not going to give me any trouble,” said the colonel. “At least none that I won't be able to handle.
The two of you are dismissed for now. Return to your stations below. If anyone should wish to speak to me, I'm unavailable. I don't want any disturbances. We'll be in here for three or four hours. Or…”—he paused—“or as long as it takes.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” said one of the guards.
Matter-of-factly, Mayakovsky added, “Oh, and I'll escort Miller back to his cell unless, of course, he needs assistance in walking.”
The guards’ subdued laughter faded into the distance.
Mayakovsky entered the room and glanced briefly at Nick. His hands visibly shook as he closed the door behind him. When it was shut, he exhaled sharply as if he were under great pressure. He turned to Nick, his severity lessening with every moment.
“Pour yourself a glass of tea and drink it down. You'll need it,” he said in a conciliatory manner. “Pour some for me, too.”
Nick hesitated, but then poured two glasses of tea and quickly drank
his. Like medicine it warmed and soothed his insides.
Mayakovsky took two steps and was at the table's side. He fumbled for three cubes of sugar and then threw them all at once into his glass. Nick flinched. Mayakovsky did not wait for the sugar to dissolve before taking several reckless swallows. Nervous himself for some reason, the colonel put his glass back on the table and returned to the door.
To Nick, a bit of the hostility returning, he said, “Not a word from you.”
Mayakovsky opened the door carefully so as not to make any noise. He took a small step out of the room and looked down the hallway. He listened for something and was relieved not to hear it.
“Good,” he said, opening the door further. “They're gone. Come on, let's go. But you must be quiet and do absolutely as I say.”
Nick was at a total loss. “Go? Go where?” He didn't budge.
“Come on!” Impatient, blood surged to Mayakovsky's face.
Nick edged forward on the chair. “I…I don't get what's…”
“Quickly, you fool,” said Mayakovsky, his voice hushed and intolerant. He couldn't believe Nick didn't understand the situation. “Can't you see I'm trying to help? Olga and I were in on this together.”
XXIX
The obese old woman stumbled to the phone. More asleep than not, she picked up the receiver and opened her mouth in a shrill outcry.
“What!”
“Give me Comrade Yezhov,” said the woman's voice, impatient and muffled.
“Who?” demanded the babushka, scratching her toothless mouth.
“Yezhov. Viktor Yezhov.”
“You want Yezhov? Bozhe moi!” My God! “What time is it?”
“Just after four-thirty. Now get him for me!” demanded the voice.
The old woman, a torn robe draped over her body, stumbled to the rear of her apartment. She threw aside a curtain and stomped into the small room. It was dark and the air smelled of dirty socks. Searching about, she spotted her new tenant asleep on the floor.
“Yezhov!” she yelled. “Aren't you ashamed of yourself? How dare you! A phone call. A phone call in the middle of the night. My sleep has been ruined!”
Terrified by the screaming babushka, Yezhov bolted upright. “Wh… at? What… are you talking about?” He began to feel around for his glasses.
She shuffled through the mess. Standing over him, she shook her finger and further berated him.
“I rented this room to you and I won't have such a mess in here. Look at this—only your second night here and your room is a real pigsty.” Her voice was high and piercing. “And I won't have you getting phone calls in the middle of the night. If you get any more phone calls like this, I'm going to throw you out. Throw you right out into the street, I will!”
Stunned by her sharp words and haggard face, all he could say was, “Phone call?”
“Yes!”
The babushka, complaining aloud the whole way, returned to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. He put on his glasses, pulled on some pants, and sluggishly made his way to the phone.
“Da?” he said, yawning into the receiver.
“I'll take nothing less than one hundred and fifty rubles. If you won't give it to me, I'll report that you tried to bribe me.”
Yezhov was suddenly awake. It was the red-haired woman from headquarters.
“Of course,” he said, the excitement rapidly waking him.
“You said you wanted to know when they started to question him.”
“Yes.” The officer from Moscow who was to interrogate Miller was certain to find Yezhov of value. Not only could Yezhov's story be used to verify Miller's, but the documents—the missing documents?—had to be brought to attention, also.
“Well, two guards took him away not more than five minutes ago.”
“But who's conducting the interrogation?” asked Yezhov. “It's not Mayakovsky, is it? Is the officer from Moscow there?”
“I don't know.” The woman was terribly nervous. “Just remember, if you don't pay me, I'll turn you in.”
“But—”
The line clicked dead.
XXX
His steps short and erratic, Nick followed Mayakovsky out of the interrogation room. He stopped still when he was in the hallway.
“What do you mean you and Olga were—”
Mayakovsky turned to him and sharply said, “Shut up! Not a word from you. I'll explain later.”
None of the past few days made any sense, and Nick was too exhausted, too stunned to do anything but yield to Mayakovsky's authority. This might be some sort of ploy to further entrap him, but he didn't think so. Mayakovsky was too disturbed and his nervousness too genuine. But what was he disturbed about, and how had Olga and he been connected?
Even distant laughter would have been frightening in the awesome stillness of the building. The colonel locked the room behind them and hastily started off. Without checking to see if Nick were coming, Mayakovsky went to the door just across the corridor. He took the handle in his hand and paused, ascertaining one last time that there was no one else on the floor. When he was certain that there wasn't and that they had not been noticed, he opened the door and motioned Nick through to the stairwell.
It seemed to Nick that they made an incomparable amount of racket as they descended the cement stairs. No matter how deliberate they were, the sound of their steps echoed and ricocheted all about. Mayakovsky, seeming less like a KGB colonel and more like a fugitive with each passing moment, wasted no time. By Nick's estimation, they stopped when they had gone down six floors.
Mayakovsky turned to Nick and said, “Wait here, you'll be safe. Don't move and don't make any noise. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
Mayakovsky partially opened the door, listened, and when he could detect no one, stepped out onto the building's ground floor. Nick watched as the colonel's hand pulled the door shut. Then Nick observed the doorknob barely turning as Mayakovsky, on the other side, slowly released it. Nick heard him pass down the hall, his movement short and quick. He came, perhaps, to another hall, checked, and turned the corner. His steps faded until they finally disappeared.
Nick shrunk back against the wall. He had always been terrible at waiting and once again he found himself squirming anxiously. His mind wandering, he anticipated discovery, only this time the game was not that of a child. He still didn't know what to make of it all—whether he should continue to follow Mayakovsky—and how Olga fit in with a KGB colonel. He could not imagine his release to be impending unless someone from the embassy was waiting outside, ready to whisk him away. But what good would that do? He'd still be inside the country and the Soviet authorities would ruthlessly search him out. If only this were Moscow; then he could be rushed to the embassy where Soviet law had no jurisdiction.
Or was Mayakovsky a good actor and this a setup? Nick leaned back against the cold wall and closed his eyes in fear. He envisaged the colonel returning with a handful of soldiers. They would claim Nick was escaping. Besides proving his guilt, that would authorize almost any action they wished to take. And he probably would run and they probably would…
Nick heard voices in the distance. The conversation was terse and concluded before Nick could catch any of it. Then he realized someone was coming, the movement growing more and more distinct. He tensed in anticipation and flattened himself against the wall. It very well might not be Mayakovsky. It might be someone just passing by or perhaps someone Mayakovsky had sent to “discover” Nick. His mind raced for some excuse in the event that he was found.
The steps slowed. Stopped. Nick, entirely focused on the door and who would step through, watched as the knob quivered, then turned. The door opened. Nick recognized the hand.
“We've no time to lose,” said Mayakovsky leaning in.
Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mayakovsky was alone. There were no soldiers, no guards, sent to arrest him yet another time.
“Listen,” he began, “I still don't know—”
“Quiet,” demanded Mayakovsky, a mixture of frustration and fear on his face. “Follow me. We don't have much time. I've sent the guard away from the front desk for only a few minutes.”
“But why should I trust you?”
“If you want to do something for Olga, then you will.”
Mayakovsky was on his way again without further word.
At a loss, Nick moved into the hall. There was not the slightest hint of another person. This was the main corridor on the ground floor, broad and spanning the width of the entire building. Swiftly making their way through it, at midpoint they came to the building's foyer. Mayakovsky motioned for Nick to stop. The colonel took several bold steps into the lobby, looked around, and when he was satisfied that the guard had yet to return, signaled Nick. The two of them passed the empty guard's desk, crossed through the foyer and continued down the corridor all the way to the opposite end of the building. Mayakovsky's eyes twitching tensely, he ushered Nick into a small side hall at the rear of the building. He went straight to the second door on the right and, glancing behind them, motioned Nick into a small back room.
“In here,” said Mayakovsky, flipping on the light switch.
It was a janitor's room. The walls were lined with supplies and the large, filthy sink had a mound of rags piled in it. There was a cracked mirror above the sink, and in the corner was a large waste bin containing, among other things, several apple cores whose fruity scent mingled with that of ammonia.
Mayakovsky locked the door and went to the wall of shelves. He moved aside supplies on the top shelf and reached in. From behind he pulled a pile of neatly folded clothes and a white plastic carry-on bag decorated with a colorful drawing of “Misha the Bear” and the inscription: “Moscow Olympics, 1980!”
“Take off your clothes and put these on,” said Mayakovsky, handing Nick the clothes and expecting immediate compliance.
“Forget it. I don't know who you are or what you're up to,” protested Nick. “You can't expect me to go along with something I don't know anything about.”
Mayakovsky was taken aback. It was not his custom to explain his actions. He saw, however, that it would be faster to divulge something.
The Cross and The Sickle Page 24