The nurse led Victor down a long hall to a reception room, past a secretary and directly into the office of the man who lived squarely in the eye of the storm: Dr. Petrus Bruk. He was not what Victor had expected.
Bruk rose from behind his desk. Not rose, really, because Victor had the impression that Bruk had simply slid off the chair like a child whose legs didn’t reach the floor. Bruk had a round peasant face like an oversized beet root. He wore expensive gold-rimmed spectacles and, over his suit, a white hospital smock. In his early fifties, he was old enough to be seasoned, but not so old as to be obsolete. Despite his size — he couldn’t have been over five feet two inches tall — he radiated respectability. If you were choosing sides for soccer, Dr. Bruk would be the last man picked. But if you were sick, Dr. Bruk was exactly the cut of man you wanted to step through the door, a stethoscope around his neck.
Bruk smiled the spare smile of a busy man who has made time for someone special. Victor shook Bruk’s hand. It was the hand of a surgeon, delicate, recently manicured, perpetually scrubbed.
“It’s not often we get astronomers with an interest in the psychiatric world,” he said after he had climbed up onto his seat. “I’m afraid I know practically nothing about astronomy.”
Behind Bruk was a wall of medical books. From where Victor sat, they seemed to prop him up.
“That’s okay, I know very little about psychiatry. My interest is very recent.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“My twin brother has been committed to a special psychiatric hospital.”
Bruk frowned. “I’m very sorry. I hadn’t heard that.”
Victor believed him, and that presented a puzzle. Was there a back door to the psychiatric gulag?
“Nor had I until a week ago,” said Victor.
“What was the diagnosis?”
“I have no idea,” said Victor. “My brother is sane.”
Behind the spectacles, the brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you saying there was a mistake in the diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Bruk scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Where is your brother now?”
“I don’t know. Officially, Anton was killed in Afghanistan. And that’s what I believed until I received information, reliable information, to the contrary.”
“Which is?”
“That my brother is being held in a psychiatric hospital. Somewhere.”
Bruk looked relieved. Whatever he had been expecting, this was not it.
“The information is wrong,” said Bruk with conviction. “What you describe is quite impossible.”
“This is Russia,” said Victor. “The impossible happens every day.”
Bruk snorted through his nose. “What makes you think he passed through here?”
“My brother was involved in some dissident activities in college.”
Bruk nodded knowingly. “And based on that, you assumed the Fourth Department of the Serbsky had him committed. You seem to have a rather dim view of our work here, comrade Perov.”
Victor’s eye drifted to a portrait of V. I. Serbsky, the nineteenth-century psychiatrist who had sought ways of treating mental illness without confinement.
Victor looked back at Bruk. “My view of your work is irrelevant. I’m not a specialist.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I have come here with one purpose: To inform you that Anton Perov is being held somewhere in your gulag, perhaps without your knowledge. As a matter of courtesy, I thought you should know that I will be looking for him.”
Bruk sat back in his perch and tapped his fingertips together. “As I told you, we have nothing to hide. You will not find your brother among the sick. I do wonder, however, how you propose to conduct this little search.”
Victor did not answer.
“You’ve been talking to the wrong people, comrade,” said Bruk, as if he had guessed something about the source of Victor’s information. “We have helped thousands of people here. But no one wants to talk about that. As for the nagging issue of the misuse of psychiatry, the West needed a human-rights propaganda tool, and they latched on to this.”
“I suspect there is more to it than that.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” said Bruk. He shook his head sadly and then leaned toward Victor as though he were confiding in him. “People want to believe the worst about our country. It’s always that way. I was at an international conference in Costa Rica last year. While I was speaking, half the auditorium got up and walked out. And all because of this fucking human-rights bullshit.”
Victor recoiled from the unexpected language.
Bruk went on calmly. “As I’m sure you can imagine, scientist to scientist, it was a humiliating experience.”
“I doubt your feelings were their chief concern.”
Bruk flinched, but his control was complete. He certainly knew who Victor’s mother was, and he was not going to be provoked. He smiled.
“Comrade Perov. You seem like an intelligent man, but you’re not thinking clearly. That’s understandable. The bond between twins can be very strong, almost mystical. I’m sure you feel his loss very deeply. Perhaps, as a psychiatrist, I can help you.”
“Is that a threat?”
Again, Bruk flinched. Victor wanted him to break into a rage. It would have made everything so much easier. But Bruk composed himself and went on. “Believe me when I tell you that you have been misled. Your brother is not in our ‘gulag,’ as you so provocatively put it. And even if he were, it would not be the result of a misdiagnosis here at the Serbsky Institute, as your new friends would have you think.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because it doesn’t happen,” he said flatly. “I can tell you with all honesty that in my twenty-five years in psychiatry, I have never known a single case where a healthy person was diagnosed as insane.”
And if Victor hadn’t known better, he would have believed him.
A few minutes later, Victor was back outside the Serbsky. He knew little more about his brother than he had when he went in, but still he felt better. It was good to be doing something, and to know that the search for his brother was on.
18
It didn’t take long for Yevgenia to hear about Victor’s visit to the Serbsky. Belov called her that evening with the news. But by then they all had bigger problems.
Katherine Sears was alive.
Podolok played the tape in his office that afternoon. It was in English. Yevgenia read from a translation.
MAN’S VOICE: American Embassy Moscow.
WOMAN’S VOICE: I’m trying to reach a man named Jack Sears, who is in Moscow. I believe he is searching for his American daughter, who has disappeared.
MAN: And who are you?
WOMAN: The daughter.
“Is there any way Katherine could have known you were at the dacha that night?” Podolok asked.
Yevgenia shook her head. “She was wearing a hood. We used code words. I didn’t even speak.”
Podolok took a drag off his cigarette holder. “If she could link you to her abduction — ”
“I just said it was impossible,” Yevgenia snapped.
“So you said.”
“How did she escape?” Yevgenia demanded.
“Nobody knows. Damn Belov. I should have left him in Leningrad. With the Americans involved, Director Shatalin will be looking for her too. He’d love to get his hands on this.”
“I suppose Belov’s hunting her down?”
“He’s got some leads. Like a fool, she bolted for the American embassy, and his men grabbed her. But some taxi driver came along and rescued her.”
Yevgenia snorted. “He lost her twice!”
“You think this is funny?”
“This whole business is funny. If you had left her alone, she’d be back in America right now with her little secret. Now she’s on the loose in Russia with a hell of a story to tell. And best of all, your only way of catching her
is General Bumbler. It’s a farce.”
Podolok swept the tape recorder angrily from the table. It sailed through the air and crashed against the wall.
“Temper. Temper, comrade secretary,” said Yevgenia. “I doubt you need to worry. Fate is on our side.”
“How so?”
“She has no passport, no visa. She barely speaks Russian. And everyone — and I mean everyone — is looking for her. How far could she get? In our country, even the sky has eyes.”
Three days. Three phone calls.
“You said ‘a few days,’” Katherine pleaded to Cameron Abbott from the empty headquarters of White Dacha. Katherine heard the edge of desperation in her voice. The American diplomat must have heard it too. It reminded her of Koos’s prediction.
She’ll wash up like driftwood on the steps of the American embassy begging fora Big Mac and fries.
“If you’ll think back carefully you’ll remember I also said it might take longer,” Cameron said.
His joviality made Katherine want to reach through the phone and slap him. She pictured him in his office, his feet up on the desk, and she squeezed the phone so hard her knuckles turned white.
“I’m an American citizen,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”
More desperation. At least Sergei wasn’t present to see this. Katherine was on her own tonight. Sergei had called a few hours earlier to say he wouldn’t be up to Ivanovka. “My wife thinks I’m having an affair,” he said.
Sergei had suggested Katherine go alone to White Dacha. At first, Katherine had declined. But a need to hear her father’s voice — or any English-speaking voice, for that matter — had driven her from her self-imposed Ivanovka incarceration. Katherine walked alone along the narrow roads two miles to the house of Galina Tushchina in Bolshevichka. It was the same house Sergei had stopped at three days earlier to retrieve a key. Katherine put the key in her pocket and walked another fifteen minutes along the gravel road to White Dacha, rehearsing her lines for her daily phone call to Cameron Abbott.
“Of course it does,” said Cameron. “It means a lot. But remember, as far as the Sovs are concerned, you are a fugitive.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Yes. Well. I have something here that I thought might interest you. It’s from Tuesday’sNew York Times. ”
He read Grayson’s article about Victor Perov and the notebooks. When Cameron finished, Katherine breathed, “Victor.”
Victor.She and Sergei had discussed the possibility of contacting Victor again. But the more she thought about it, the more she was sure it was the wrong course. Just knowing that she was not safely back in Ithaca might compel him to come looking for her — and that would be disastrous. She was also determined to put no one else at risk on her behalf. The murder of Sigmund and the arrest of Lena Ryzhkova filled her with guilt. It was bad enough that her father had been dragged into this.
On the phone, Cameron was talking. “I had lunch with Grayson Hines about the article, and he had very little to add to what was written. But he did give me an advance copy of an article that appeared in today’s edition.”
Again, he read.
American Missing in Moscow
By Grayson Hines
Special to The New York Times
MOSCOW — Soviet officials said Wednesday they have “mounted an all-outmanhunt” to find an American scientist missing in Moscow for a fifth day.
Katherine Sears, 32,an astronomer from Cornell University, disappeared fromher tour group last Friday, the day she was scheduled to leave Moscow aftercompleting a sightseeing tour. She was last seen Thursday evening getting intoan elevator in her downtown Moscow hotel, according to a member of her tourgroup.
Dr. Katherine Sears is the daughter of sovietologist Dr.Jack Sears, a conservative advisor to the Reagan administration. Dr. Jack Sears is recognized for hishardline stand against what he views as the Soviet threat. He is often credited asthe behind-the-scenes force in President Reagan’s “evil empire” speech.
Dr. Sears is currently in Moscow to help with the search for his daughter.
An official at the Soviet Foreign Ministry, who asked not to be identified,confirmed that Dr. Katherine Sears had violated the stay of her visa.
A diplomat at the American embassy confirmed that Dr. Sears was missing,but refused to comment further.
A Soviet official said the foreign ministry was giving “daily reports” to theAmerican embassy.
Both Soviet and American officials refused to speculate on whether or notKatherine Sears was the victim of foul play, or if her disappearance was in anyway connected to her father’s activities.
Vladimir Smith, a member of Dr. Sears’s tour group, said by telephone fromUtah that Katherine Sears had “sneaked away” from the group on one otheroccasion.
“When she didn’t show up that last day we all just figured she had gone onwalkabout again,” he said.
“The American press corps is going nuts,” said Cameron. “First Grayson scooped them on the Victor Perov story, and now this. They accused me of giving it to him, but I don’t know how he got it.”
“So what’s next?” asked Katherine.
“I have to warn you: The Sovs know you’re hiding somewhere outside Moscow.”
Katherine’s heart sank. “How?”
“I don’t know. You called the embassy that first day on an unsecured line. It could have been that. They’re asking some very peculiar questions. Very peculiar.”
“Like what?”
“Like what you may know about Soviet psychiatric abuse, what was your real purpose in coming here, why you left your tour group on your first night, that sort of thing. You’ve told me everything, haven’t you?”
“Yes! I have trusted you completely, for all the good it has done.”
“I see. Tomorrow is the weekend. Nothing’s going to happen till Monday. Call me back then. Here’s your father.”
Jack Sears came on the line. Katherine said, “Cameron thinks I’m involved with Sigmund’s murder.”
“I know.”
“Do you think he’s really doing everything possible?”
“Actually, yes. My legal experts are having no more success than Cameron. Someone is stonewalling, and it’s impossible in this country to figure out who’s behind it. But don’t worry, I’ll take your case all the way to the president if I have to.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Katherine said wearily.
They said good-bye and Katherine set the receiver in the cradle. She held the phone in her lap because the cord was so short that when she picked up the receiver, the whole phone came off the desk. Why would somebody build something with such an obvious defect? she wondered. And while she was on the subject, why color it such a putrid shade of orange? She put the phone back on the cigarette-scarred desk; it rocked on the uneven floor. Was no floor, no wall, nothing built properly in this country? Didn’t Russians have pride? Or was thatdefitsit too? She looked around the dim, cold barn of White Dacha, and her gaze settled on the electrical cords that snaked over the floor. Why didn’t someone install some new electrical outlets — or at least tape down the cords before someone tripped on them? And why did the place have to smell like manure? Didn’t they have cleaning products in Russia? Mops?
Somewhere beyond the thin walls, out in the night, a cow bawled hauntingly.
Her father had given Katherine the words:
I hate this place.
In the Moscow City Council Theater, KGB Director Shatalin finished briefing Tarasov on Katherine Sears’s status.
Tarasov listened thoughtfully. “She’s savvier than anyone thought.”
“How savvy do you have to be to outsmart Belov?” snorted Shatalin.
“Good point.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Shatalin demanded.
“Do?”
“She’s alive!”
“So it seems.”
“She’s the key, you said so yourself. We have to find her
before Belov does.”
“Just like that,” Tarasov laughed.
“How can you be so cavalier?” Shatalin asked.
“My attitude doesn’t change the fact that foreign nationals on Soviet territory are the jurisdiction of Counterintelligence, so Belov is within his rights to pursue the investigation. There will be an all-out manhunt. He’ll have every informer within five hundred kilometers on the lookout. You’re his superior officer, but his power base is in the Kremlin, which means he can pretty much do as he pleases. No, I believe I’ll stick to my original strategy.”
“And what has your strategy produced so far?”
“Give me one of those Winstons,” said Tarasov.
Shatalin opened his cigarette case and tossed a cigarette into Tarasov’s lap. Tarasov lit it and drew a long breath.
“So? What have you got so far?” asked Shatalin.
Tarasov blew smoke out his nose. “Nothing.”
Shatalin snorted and stood up. The guards posted at the two aisles spoke into their walkie-talkies.
Shatalin inched to the end of the aisle. “One other thing,” he said. “Victor Perov went to the Serbsky yesterday raving that his twin brother was being held in a psychiatric hospital.”
“Why?”
“Jesus, Konstantin, who’s working for whom here?” Shatalin exclaimed. “Try givingme some answers for a change. You’re the one who’s supposed to be a goddamn genius. Or did sitting in thatgaishnik booth make you dumb?”
Tarasov didn’t reply. Shatalin shook his head in disgust and went out without another word. The two guards turned after him.
Tarasov sat alone in the theater a long time, his Winston glowing in the dark like a red eye. Was it a coincidence Victor went to the Serbsky shortly after Katherine Sears disappeared?
The Forbidden Zone Page 19