The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  She came to see Pavel in the hospital. He did not recognize her. More than a hundred blows, the doctor told her. He sustained brain damage and was partially paralyzed.

  She was sitting by his bed when Pavel’s mother came and told her to leave. “He was defending you and you ran away and did not even call for help!” Maggie tried to explain, but the mother just spat, “Get out!”

  Pavel’s family moved away. She tried writing to him, but there was no response. The attackers were never found. She was telling David how she admired Margarita for forgiving Frieda. Who was she kidding? Who was the one needing forgiveness?

  When she’d moved to LA, the nightmares became weekly instead of daily. She thought of Pavel often. Whenever she did, a wave of nausea would come over her, making her hands clammy. Imagining what might have been going through his head as he pushed her away and screamed, “Run!” She hoped he lost consciousness quickly and did not feel the full extent of the blows falling on his broken body. She hoped he was at peace. Because she was not. No matter how far she ran, she could not get away.

  Tuesday, 5/3/2022, 1:29 p.m. MSK

  The $100-in-a-passport trick worked without a hitch. The officer waved them through with “Have a wonderful trip.” David had an extra spring in his step; he woke up excited. Feeling himself in charge, he cherished the coming confrontation. But Maggie seemed quiet and hesitant. Her face looked stressed and older than her age, which David by now knew to be thirty-two.

  To fill the void, David asked, “Have you been to Moscow before?”

  “Yes, twice. Last time eleven years ago.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  David left her alone, sensing she was not in a talkative mood. He wondered what he would have been doing today, had John Trimble not picked him out of the crowd eleven days ago.

  The Ukraine Airline flight landed in Sheremetyevo on schedule. They filled out their entry cards on the plane and proceeded to passport control. An unfriendly-looking officer with a long face and a bulbous reddish nose did not bother to show any enthusiasm. He looked at their documents, and said with a rough-sounding accent, “Mr. and Mrs. Brockman? Where are your visas?”

  “What visa?” David innocently inquired.

  “Visa to enter Russia,” explained the officer, who was clearly thinking he was dealing with two idiots.

  “Nobody told us we need a visa,” David said.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Kiev.”

  “And they let you on the plane like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bunch of Ukrainian idiots!” An impatient line was forming behind them. The officer picked up his phone. “Dva dyrnikh amerikantsa bez vizi.”

  Maggie whispered into David’s ear, “Two dumb Americans without a visa.”

  Two soldiers appeared, took the documents from the customs officer, and motioned Maggie and David to follow them. They went to a small room with two tables. One of the tables had three chairs, two on one side, and one on the other. A soldier gestured to David and Maggie to put their rolling carry-ons on one table and then to sit at the other table. The soldiers opened the bags. The one looking through Maggie’s bag started slowly going through her clothes, picking up underwear and looking at it against the light. He was making comments to his colleague that David did not understand but figured to be lewd by how Maggie uncomfortably shifted in her chair.

  An officer came in, this one in a uniform with epaulettes. He nodded curtly, took David’s and Maggie’s documents from the soldiers, sat across the table, and studied the documents without looking up. Then he said in reasonably good English. “Your names?”

  “Daniel and Alena Brockman,” Maggie answered.

  “But you are not originally from America, are you?”

  “No, it says in my passport. I was born in Prague.”

  At this one of the soldiers turned and commented, “Cheshskaya blyad, podkhvatila amerikantsa i viebivaetsa.”

  Maggie turned crimson, so David figured that whatever was said was not flattering. He’d had enough.

  He leaned toward the officer and said, “Look, you better go call GRU General Nemzhov and tell him that David Ferguson and Margarita Sappin are here and we have the Schulmann file.”

  This was so sudden and unexpected that the officer leaned back away from David and almost toppled in his chair. The two soldiers froze over the new development. After recovering his balance, the officer stammered out, “What?”

  David repeated slowly, “Call GRU General Nemzhov and tell him that David Ferguson and Margarita Sappin are here and we have the file.”

  At this point Maggie added with a vicious smile, “Ti lutcshe toropis esli ti ne khochesh popast v Sibir ili khuzhe.” She translated in David’s ear, “I told him to hurry up if he does not want to end up in Siberia or worse.”

  The officer was clearly paralyzed, not quite able to comprehend the sudden change and whether it was some sick joke. David said, “Go!”

  The command must have broken the officer’s indecision—or else he figured that being embarrassed with a joke is better than ending up in Siberia if this was real. He got up and left the room without a word.

  The two soldiers looked fearfully at Maggie, since she spoke Russian and must have understood what they were saying. She snarled at them, “Polozhi moi veschi obratno!” The soldier that was searching her bag put everything back, carefully closed the bag, and tried to flatten himself invisibly against the wall.

  About ten minutes passed in silence. David hoped neither Maggie nor the soldiers could hear how fast his heart was beating. What if this insane gamble was all wrong? He did not know much about Russia, but he’d heard of gulags, where people would disappear never to be heard from again, where life was so miserable as to make death a welcome escape. Maggie put her hand on his knee to stop it from trembling.

  The door swung open and the officer rushed in with a false smile on his face, the kind people use to cover their fear. “I am so sorry, how could I have possibly known?” He turned to the soldiers and barked a command. With trembling hands they zipped the bags and put them down on the floor. The officer turned back to David and Maggie and repeated, “I am so sorry. I hope these idiots or the cretins in customs were not hard on you. Please follow me.” When David and Maggie reached for their bags, he begged them, “Please allow us.” And again he barked at the now-ashen soldiers who obediently picked up the bags.

  The surreal procession—first the officer, who kept turning back gesturing and babbling, “Please, please, this way, follow me,” then empty-handed Maggie and David, and then the two scared soldiers rolling their bags—marched through the airport amid stunned onlookers.

  “Where are we going?” David demanded.

  “They are sending cars for you. Please, this way,” replied the officer. He must have been too scared to elaborate who “they” were. There was a line where some kind of luggage screening must have been taking place and one of the people doing the screening tried to intercept them, but the officer said, “Propusti! Srochno!” while placing a hand on his gun. The screener raised his hands and backed away.

  They went through the doors to the outside. The usual airport scene was taking place there, with cars double-parked, people greeting each other, loading and unloading their luggage. The officer said something to the soldiers. They carefully placed Maggie’s and David’s roll-ons by their feet, and started screaming at drivers of cars in front of them, gesturing for them to get out of there. When one of the drivers tried to argue, the officer removed his gun from its holster. No other word was necessary. People and luggage were piled into cars that took off with tires screeching. Another car tried to get into the empty space, but the officer stepped into the road with a gun in his hand. For the next few minutes, David and Maggie were in a bubble, surrounded by airport madness but nobody except the officer and the two soldiers was near them.

  The officer kept saying, “They’ll be here s
oon.” David felt embarrassed by all the attention.

  Two large S-class Mercedes sedans pulled to the curb. The officer tried to open the door for David and Maggie while saying, “Everything is fine.” But he was rudely pushed aside by a man dressed in a gray business suit wearing a blue tie. Another similarly looking man, but this one in a black suit with a green tie, approached them.

  He asked, speaking almost perfect English, “Mr. Ferguson? Ms. Sappin?” David and Maggie nodded. “I apologize for any mistreatment you may have suffered at the hands of these people. Please …” David tried to get his luggage, but another suit—there seemed to be quite a number of them around at that point—was already loading it into the second Mercedes. David and Maggie slid inside.

  The car took off, followed by the second one. The front seat passenger, the one in a gray suit with a blue tie, turned back. “Did you make your hotel reservations?”

  David and Maggie shook their heads. “No.”

  “Good. We’ll put you in the Ritz-Carlton on Tverskaya. It’s a wonderful hotel, right by the Red Square.” The man got on his mobile phone, giving directions in Russian.

  Tuesday, 5/3/2022, 3:18 p.m. MSK

  On the way from the airport, David counted three giant billboards of Russia’s leader looking confidently forward. They drove in silence through heavy city traffic and pulled up to the entrance of the hotel. A liveried man started opening the car’s door, but the gray suit said something and the man disappeared. David and Maggie followed the suit inside, with two other suits rolling their bags. The lobby looked well-appointed and luxurious.

  The gray suit led them to check-in, where he told a young woman with a professional smile on her face, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Brockman; they have reservations.” The hostess quickly checked. “Of course. You are booked in the Ritz-Carlton Suite. How many keys would you like?”

  “Two,” David answered.

  “Here you go. You are on the fifth floor; the elevators are to your right.”

  “Don’t you want my credit card?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Brockman, the room has already been taken care of.”

  As they were walking toward the elevators, they were intercepted by a plump man who said while gesticulating with his hands, “Mr. and Mrs. Brockman, welcome to Moscow! My name is Anton Bogomirov. I am a concierge here. Do you have any plans for tonight? A restaurant or theater tickets perhaps?”

  Maggie said, “I’d like to go to the Bolshoi.”

  “Of course, wonderful choice. There is a Classical Ballet Festival on now. We’ll call your suite with the arrangements.”

  The gray-suited man tried to escort them further, but Maggie said firmly, “Thank you, we are good,” and grabbed her roll-on. David did the same, and they marched into the elevator, leaving the suits behind.

  As the door closed, Maggie dissolved in laughter. “Did you see their faces? They were liked abandoned lovers!”

  David started laughing as well. “Nemzhov’s name is like a magical word in fairy tales. Mention it and locked doors open.”

  They got off the elevator and walked to their suite. It was at least twice as large as the house David was renting in Culver City. A spacious room had a grand piano and a dining area. Floor to ceiling windows offered a view of the Kremlin, Red Square, and St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  Maggie went to check out the rest of the place and David heard her saying, “Look, there’s an office, a Library, a marble bath, and even a sauna!” She came back, threw herself on the bed and started laughing. “The face of that officer in Sheremetyevo when you said ‘Call GRU General Nemzhov’! I won’t forget it as long as I live! And that soldier that was holding my panties—he dropped them like they were on fire! Oh my God.”

  “I was scared,” admitted David.

  “So was I,” Maggie said. Then she again dissolved laughing with tears in her eyes, “That march through the airport!”

  Just after she calmed down, the phone rang. David picked up.

  “Hello, this is Anton Bogomirov. I have your tickets for tonight’s Bolshoi performance. It starts at seven. Please stop by my desk on your way to pick them up. Would you like to arrange for a dinner beforehand?”

  David promised to call him back, hung up, and turned to Maggie. “Well, looks like you’ve got your Bolshoi tickets. I didn’t know you were into ballet.”

  “I’m not,” Maggie said, “but I want to see the Bolshoi.”

  “Do you want to have dinner before?”

  “Yes, I am starving. But I don’t really have anything to wear.”

  “Well, let’s call the magical Mr. Bogomirov.”

  David picked up the phone. “Mr. Bogomirov?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brockman.”

  “We would like to have dinner before the theater, but we have to do some clothes shopping first. Can you suggest a place?”

  “Mr. Brockman, please come downstairs with your lovely wife. We have a wonderful boutique here that I am sure you’ll be quite pleased with.”

  Feeling like the fairy tale continued, David and Maggie took the elevator downstairs. Bogomirov was waiting for them by the elevator door. “Please, this way.” He walked them over to a boutique, where Maggie was outfitted with an emerald-green evening gown and matching high-heels, while David was tailored into a tux with a white shirt. David’s offer of a credit card was gently declined.

  Bogomirov followed them, anxiously rubbing his hands. “I hope the selection was satisfactory. Here are your Bolshoi tickets. We have reservations for you at Café Pushkin at five. There will be a car waiting for you by the entrance at 4:50.”

  David looked at his watch. 4:29. Not a lot of time. They thanked Bogomirov, went upstairs to change, and hurried back down. There was indeed a car waiting by the entrance.

  The restaurant was a few blocks away. They were taken to the third floor and treated to a dinner of traditional Russian food in an atmosphere that tried hard to provide an eighteenth century ambiance. The car was still waiting for them after they were done. When they got to the Bolshoi and presented their tickets, the usher had them escorted to a small private box by the stage. Unfortunately, David never had much interest in ballet, so he mostly enjoyed people watching, while Maggie took in the performance. It seemed like David and Maggie themselves were attracting attention, probably thanks to their prime seats.

  The same driver was waiting to take them back. In the car, Maggie asked David “Does this feel real to you?”

  “No. And you?”

  “No, it does not feel real at all. But I’ll enjoy it for a while.”

  When they got to the room, Maggie dropped her purse, threw her arms around David’s neck, and locked him in a kiss. The room started swimming. Maggie broke the magic by whispering, “You know they have listening devices in the room, don’t you?”

  David thought for a second, GRU was paying for the room and everything, “Yes.”

  That broke the mood, although some of the spirit was saved when Maggie whispered in David’s ear, “Next time.”

  Wednesday, 5/4/2022, 8:02 a.m. MSK

  David stood by the window watching the sun lazily rising over Moscow, thinking, yesterday it was Kiev, the day before San Antonio, and Dallas, and Phoenix. This was some adventure. Maggie was quietly breathing, still asleep in bed. What was it between them? They really had no time to figure this out yet.

  The phone rang. David picked up. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Ferguson. My name is Nikolai Nemzhov. I believe you were looking for me.”

  David searched for words. “Umm, yes, we were.”

  “Well, I am at your service. Would you be able to join me for lunch today?”

  “OK.” David’s own voice sounded croaky to him.

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you and the charming Ms. Sappin at noon in O2 lounge in your hotel.”

  The line went dead.

  Maggie was sitting up in bed looking at David. “Nemzhov?”

  “Yes. We are meeting him at noon for lunch.” />
  “Where?”

  “Here at the hotel.”

  They had a quick breakfast and went for a walk, to calm their nerves. When they came out of the hotel, Maggie grabbed David’s hand. “Oh, my God!”

  “What?” he asked, on the verge of panic.

  “I totally missed it yesterday. We’re on Tverskaya Street.”

  “And?” David started wondering if the stress had gotten to her.

  “You’ve read this part. This is where the Master and Margarita met. Remember? ‘She turned down a lane from Tverskaya and then looked back.’ ”

  “You have it memorized?” David said, glad this was about her favorite book and not the stress of their situation.

  “My mother read it to me many times. This is one of her favorite parts. She is an incurable romantic.” With that, Maggie got up on her toes and kissed David on the mouth, then put her hand under his arm. “They walked to the embankment by the Kremlin Wall. Let’s follow in their steps.”

  The hotel was literally five minutes from Red Square. They walked by St. Basil’s Cathedral, the Kremlin Wall, Lenin’s Mausoleum, and down to Moskva River, following in the footsteps of Bulgakov’s lovers.

  “The next day they met at the very same place,” Maggie mused.

  “And where is that place where the book begins?”

  “Patriarch’s Ponds?” Maggie checked her phone. “About two miles away. And the apartment where Woland stayed is around there, too. Perhaps later today? I think we should start heading to the hotel now.”

  On the way back they even wandered into a huge GUM department store but did not shop. Maggie said, “I think we are being followed. The two men behind us.” David nodded. “Yes, I saw them, too. I don’t think they are trying to hide.”

  They tried to walk back slowly, so as not to appear anxious. They stepped into the Ritz-Carlton at five minutes to noon and made their way to the lounge. A line from an old science fiction movie kept playing over and over in David’s head: I will not fear … Fear is the mind killer … I will not fear …