Victor looked up. He thought about something Oleg had said. “Why are you in Boris’s office?”
“Boris has left SAPO.”
“Really?” Victor paused to consider the news. It was odd.
“So I can expect you then?” asked Oleg.
“No, Oleg.”
“No?” Oleg was incredulous.
Victor kept on sorting his files.
“This is very strange behavior, comrade.” He paused. When Victor still didn’t reply he went on. “You should know, your continued participation in the Soviet-American survey is by no means guaranteed.”
Victor stopped. He walked around his desk toward Oleg, who still stood in the doorway. Victor swung the door shut. The last thing he saw was a look of wide-eyed astonishment on Oleg’s face.
By ten o’clock Victor had assembled a six-inch stack of notebooks and memos. He put them in his briefcase and hurried out of the institute.
He drove toward the center of Moscow along Kutuzovsky Prospekt to a point not far from the river. He parked on the roadside, grabbed his briefcase and got out.
The monstrous Ukraina Hotel, with its gargoyled facade, was behind him. Across the Moscow River it faced the gleaming white marble of the Russian parliament. Ahead rose a tight cluster of yellow brick buildings ringed by a chain-link fence. A single entrance for cars and pedestrians opened directly in front of Victor. A KGB agent, disguised as a policeman, stood in a bare aluminum booth near the entrance. Inside the compound, exotic, foreign cars were visible — BMWs, Mercedes, Chevrolets. All bore yellow or red license plates. This was “Kutuzovsky Seven,” the city’s largest foreigner ghetto. Like all but a handful of Muscovites, Victor had never been here. But of course he knew about it. Everyone knew about it.
He walked briskly toward the wide gap in the fence. The KGB man came out of his booth.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded in Russian.
“I . . . no Russian speak,” said Victor in Russian.
The agent frowned and surveyed Victor. By his clothes, his appearance, the Soviet-made briefcase in his hand, Victor was clearly a Russian.
“Wait here a moment,” said the man.
Victor smiled and said, “Spacibo.” He walked straight ahead at the same brisk pace.
“Wait!” the man called. “Stoy!Stop!”
But Victor was already on his way. As Victor glanced back the man dashed to his booth and picked up the telephone.
Victor went to the east building on the quad and stopped at a door with an engraved metal plate. It said:
The New York Times
He went inside. A secretary looked up and said in Russian, “Can I help you?”
“I would like to see Grayson Hines,” said Victor in English.
Boris Orlov had led Victor to the American correspondent — unintentionally, of course. That day at SAPO, with Lena trembling in the corner, Boris had been trying to convince Victor that Katherine Sears was a spy. “She calledThe NewYork Times’ Moscow bureau,” Boris had said. “We have recordings. She spoke to Grayson Hines.”
Katherine had been foolish.The New York Times bureau was under constant surveillance by the KGB, and her calls had been recorded. Her name was linked to Victor’s through the astronomical survey and SAPO. It wouldn’t have taken long for those recordings to find their way to Boris Orlov.
Now Victor needed Grayson Hines’s help. For what he would do next, Victor had to have someone on the outside. If Katherine trusted Grayson Hines, Victor hoped he could too.
Grayson stood in the doorway smiling. “Victor Perov, how nice to see you. Please, come in.”
Grayson wore blue jeans and a sweater. He looked as relaxed as a man on holiday. He led Victor past several doors into the most fascinating office Victor had ever seen. Soviet offices were like theater sets prefabricated to create a single effect: the impression of power. They held obligatory portraits of Lenin alongside the current Soviet leader, the complete works of Lenin in a bookcase, two to seven phones on the desk, and as many chairs as could be squeezed into the space. By contrast, Grayson’s office was something totally new. Books in English and Russian lined every wall. Newspapers —Izvestiya, Pravda, Soviet Russia, Literature Gazette, even obscure periodicals likeRailroading News — were piled up on his desk and floor. A coffee-stained mug sat atop one of the piles. But that was not the most astonishing thing. On the wall to Victor’s right was a poster of Leonid Brezhnev in a bikini bathing suit. He was at the beach standing ankle-deep in water. His enormous pot belly fell over his swim suit, and he was grinning. Someone had tacked the words “Going for the Gold?” across the top, an obvious reference to Brezhnev’s love of medals. Just looking at it made Victor feel treasonous. He had entered another world, a terrifying world. Was this freedom? If so, he had an urge to bolt outside, past the KGB guard, back to the world he understood. He looked away.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Victor.
“Not at all,” said Grayson, oblivious to Victor’s discomfort. He pointed to a chair, and they both sat down.
“In fact, it may be fortunate that you showed up,” said Grayson. “Perhaps you can help me with a piece I’m working on.”
“I doubt that.”
Grayson laughed. “Not for the record. It’s about the six-month anniversary of the shooting down of the Korean airliner. I don’t expect the government to apologize, of course. So instead I went into the street to interview ordinary Muscovites, looking for signs of compassion, but they were even more rabid than the government. They said things like — ” he checked his notes “ — ‘Serves them right,’ and ‘Shoot down more of them.’” Grayson shook his head in disbelief. “Two-hundred and sixty-nine people were killed, and I heard not a hint of compassion. Can you explain that?”
Victor gaped at the American. Did he really expect an answer? How could anyone compress into a single thought Russia’s cultural short-circuit that precluded compassion for the men, women and children who perished on that plane? Victor himself felt the common man’s self-righteous fury, even as he felt shame for his lack of sympathy. This duality — how could anyone explain it to an outsider? Victor quoted in Russian:
And courage will never abandon us.
We’re not afraid to be shot dead,
Not bitter to be bereft of home.
We will defend you, Russian speech,
Guard you, great Russian tongue.
Free and unsullied we will carry you through,
Save you from bondage, for our children’s children.
Forever!
“Anna Akhmatova,” said Grayson.
Victor nodded. “This patriotic anthem was written in 1942, after her husband was executed; after her closest friend was tortured to a point where he tried to commit suicide; after the government had excluded her from publication and labeled her ‘a mixture of nun and whore.’”
“So the answer to my question ispatriotism ?” Grayson asked doubtfully. “I don’t buy it. Americans are patriotic.”
Victor shook his head at the young correspondent from the United States. “You have an impossible job.”
“That’s what I tell my editors back in New York.”
“No, not for the reasons you think.” Victor stood up. “Let’s take a walk.”
Grayson thought about that a moment. Victor could see him weighing the risks. Expulsion was always a risk to foreign correspondents. Finally, Grayson said, “What the hell,” and got to his feet.
They retraced Victor’s steps out of the compound, past the guard post. The guard scowled at Victor.
“He will report you,” said Grayson.
“I know.”
They crossed Kutuzovsky Prospekt and skirted the Ukraina Hotel to the river bank. The day was gray and it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the Russian White House began.
Grayson said, “I’m a little surprised to see you. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a person of your background as a visitor.”
“
I wanted to thank you for what you did to help Katherine Sears.”
“What exactly did I do?”
Victor smiled and leaned on the railing. He watched a barge move up the river. It reminded him of Rechnoy Vokzal. Sigmund. Last night. This morning. He suddenly felt very tired.
“Under your desk you will find some notebooks,” Victor said. “They’re very technical. You’ll need an expert to decipher them.”
“You put them there?” asked Grayson. He looked nervous.
“Don’t worry, they’re not military. They’re Dr. Vladimir Ryzhkov’s notes on our theory of Dark Matter. We were partners. I lied in Helsinki.”
“I see.”
A man walking a dog passed by. They waited until he turned the corner.
Victor said, “Don’t judge me too harshly. It is what I am doing now that will be judged harshly by my comrades.”
“Whatare you doing now, Victor?”
Victor laughed. “Stepping over a cliff.” He leaned on the railing. “Will you write an article?”
Grayson shrugged. “This is not what I would call ‘big news.’ I’ll file a brief, but what ultimately gets published is not my decision. I have editors who make that call.”
Victor frowned. “Surely you can explain to them how important this is?”
Grayson smiled indulgently. “Our system doesn’t work like that. I’ll do what I can. I promise.” He gave Victor a sideways glance. “Actually, there is one thing I could do to almost guarantee that the story gets published.”
“What?”
“Reveal my source. Can I use your name?”
“I expected nothing less,” said Victor.
An hour later, Victor was in his mother’s Kremlin office.
He told her everything. She listened with patience and said, “You have behaved foolishly, Victor. I expected more from you.”
“Are you listening? I’m telling you Anton may be alive.”
“Anton is dead,” said Yevgenia. “You saw the file.”
“The file theKGB gave you. Perhaps they’re hiding something.”
“Nonsense.”
“How can you say that after what I’ve told you?”
“What have you told me? Some American says Anton is alive because some Jew told her?”
“Who said Sigmund was a Jew?”
Yevgenia’s face was like a mask. “I got a call from the KGB about Rechnoy Vokzal. I heard all about your swim in the river.”
“What else did they say?”
“Nothing about a bullet wound, if that’s what you’re asking. This man you call Sigmund is really Pavel Danilov. He drowned after he drove his ambulance off the wharf. He was probably drunk.”
Victor got up from his chair and walked to the window. The inside of the Kremlin’s red brick wall stared back at him.
“Why won’t you hear me?” he asked softly, almost to himself. He turned, frowning. “What are you not telling me?”
“Victor, leave this thing alone.”
“Thereis something.”
Yevgenia sighed. “Your brother is gone. All you can do now is ruin your career. You’ve worked so hard — ”
“My career?” Victor said incredulously. “What’s the matter with you?”
Yevgenia looked away. Her eyes fell on the portrait of Lenin. “I couldn’t bear to lose both of you.”
Victor stared at her a moment. His face softened. He went around the desk to her.
“Why don’t you come around and see Grisha?” he asked. “He’s always asking about you.”
“I doubt I’d be welcome.”
“You mean Oksana? Nonsense. She would love for you to spend some time with your grandson. He’s growing up so fast. He’s really starting to look like Anton. You should see the way . . . Yevgenia? What’s the matter?”
The blood had drained from Yevgenia’s face.
She shook her head as though trying to cast away some thought. The color returned to her cheeks, and she was the Iron Perova again.
“I’ll try to make it over sometime,” she said noncommittally. “But I’m very busy right now.”
Victor nodded and went to the door.
“Victor,” Yevgenia called after him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Good-bye, Yevgenia,” he said.
The door closed and Yevgenia picked up the gray phone on her desk. The line began to ring at once. Anatoly Podolok picked up.
“What is it?”
“I’ve just spoken to Victor. He confirmed what the American told us. The proof died with the Jew.”
“That was fast work sending the Tatar to Rechnoy Vokzal. We nearly had a disaster. But Victor must suspect his brother is alive.”
“He suspects.”
“Won’t he try to find him?”
Yevgenia stared out the window. Her jaw line, normally so pronounced, had vanished.
“Yevgenia?”
“Huh?” She was surprised to find herself still on the telephone.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
“I said: Won’t Victor hunt for his brother?”
“Let him look,” said Yevgenia. “It’s a needle in a haystack.”
14
From the case file of Patient 222, Little Rock Special PsychiatricHospital. Interview 19. April 1984. Attending physician, Dr. YefimLazda. Also present, Chief Nurse Olga Gusarova.
LAZDA: Why do you think you are here?
PATIENT: I am sick. I would hardly be here if I were well.
LAZDA: That is true. But do you think you are sick?
PATIENT: It hardly seems relevant what I think. I’m not a professional.
LAZDA: I will decide what is relevant. Now answer the question.
PATIENT: What question?
LAZDA: Do you think you are sick?
PATIENT: I must be.
GUSAROVA: He’s playing games.
LAZDA: You’re playing games with me. That won’t help you.
PATIENT: I have been diagnosed as suffering from sluggish schizophrenia by leading Soviet psychiatrists such as yourself. What do you want me to say? Tell me. I’ll say it.
GUSAROVA: We only want to hear the truth. Why are you acting this way?
PATIENT: I’m trying to answer your question.
LAZDA: No you’re not. You’re trying to avoid it. Now answer me: Do you agree with the diagnosis?
PATIENT: I don’t understand the question. It’s not for me to agree or disagree. I’m just a patient.
LAZDA: Clearly we haven’t treated you enough.
GUSAROVA: We’re the only ones who can help you. Don’t you realize that?
PATIENT: I put my faith in God.
GUSAROVA: Faith in God is absurd. People who believe in God are sick.
PATIENT: Really? But there are billions of Christians —
GUSAROVA: Billions. Trillions. Statistics don’t matter. Faith in God is a symptom of mass psychosis. It’s in all the medical literature.
PATIENT: I hadn’t read that.
GUSAROVA: You don’t read the specialized literature.
PATIENT: No, that’s true. I don’t read the specialized literature. Tell me, nurse, where did you get your medical training.
GUSAROVA: That’s enough. I can see your treatments will have to be continued.
LAZDA: Why did you stage that demonstration?
PATIENT: To save Lake Sini. They’re building a paper mill. It will destroy the ecosystem.
LAZDA: But the state is building that plant. Don’t you trust the state?
GUSAROVA: Answer the question!
PATIENT: I think people make mistakes. The state is made up of people.
GUSAROVA: Ah-ha! Don’t you see? This paranoia is a symptom of your schizophrenia.
LAZDA: What do you think of the war in Afghanistan?
PATIENT: Same as you, I suppose.
LAZDA: There you go again. Don’t you understand that your whole diagnosis depends on how you answer these que
stions?
PATIENT: I understand that very well.
LAZDA: Good. So answer the question.
PATIENT: I think more troops should be sent in.
LAZDA: Why do you think that?
PATIENT: The region is mountainous and it’s hard to wage war.
GUSAROVA: We’re not waging war there. We’re a peace force.
PATIENT: Then the peace force will be there for a long time.
LAZDA: What do you think of Andrei Sakharov?
PATIENT: I’ve never met the man.
GUSAROVA: Sakharov is an enemy who plots to bring down the Soviet state. He is a traitor.
PATIENT: I don’t know about such things. Sakharov is an educated man, whereas I never finished college.
LAZDA: Why not?
PATIENT: I flunked out.
GUSAROVA: Did you know that the majority of academics are schizophrenic?
PATIENT: No, I didn’t know that. Why aren’t you treating them too?
GUSAROVA: They aren’t disturbing the peace, so there is no need.
LAZDA: Would you be willing to write a statement recanting your views?
PATIENT: I’m not a good writer.
LAZDA: That’s okay. We could help.
PATIENT: I don’t know. . . . People might think I’m writing it just because I’m sick.
LAZDA: No one would think that.
PATIENT: What would I write?
LAZDA: Just what you said today. You’re sick. Doctors are treating you. Sakharov is a traitor. You support the war. You support the building of that paper mill on Lake Sini.
PATIENT: I didn’t say that.
LAZDA: Are you refusing to do it?
PATIENT: That’s politics. I’m not political.
LAZDA: Everyone is political.
GUSAROVA: Are you for the state or against it?
PATIENT: I prefer to keep my views to myself.
GUSAROVA: Then you are against it. A citizen has a civic duty to speak his views.
PATIENT: But in our country it is dangerous to speak one’s views.
GUSAROVA: I find that statement outrageous. You are indeed an enemy of the people.
PATIENT: I thought we stopped using that phrase in 1953.
GUSAROVA: We use it here.
LAZDA: Such a pity. And I thought you were getting better.
The Forbidden Zone Page 14