“Delicate.”
“Yes. He was picked up in a restricted area near the border with Norway. It looks as though he was trying to flee the country.”
Yevgenia was on the next flight to Leningrad. She had no need to explain herself to Victor: He was used to her sudden, mysterious departures on matters of state. By 3:30 A.M. she was in the KGB center on Arsenal Street shaking the hand of General Dogface, Yuri Belov. He was polite and eager to please. She knew the type too well: The bureaucracy was packed full of ass-kissers like Belov.
He took her to an observation room where she could see Anton through a two-way mirror. He lay on a cot staring at the ceiling. His beard was grizzly and his clothes were soiled with red clay. He looked like hell.
“Let me talk to him,” she demanded.
“Of course,” said Belov hesitantly. He didn’t move to open the door.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“The situation has gotten a little more complicated than it was a few hours ago,” he said.
“How so?”
“Come with me. I want to show you something.”
He took her through a maze of corridors to a small infirmary. The beds were all empty, except for one.
Yevgenia walked to the bedside and looked down at the unconscious patient, an old man. She grimaced in revulsion. The man had no nose.
“What happened to his nose?”
“We don’t know,” said Belov. “We assume frostbite: He was in the camps for years. He’s in a coma now. Last night, one of our border guards shot him trying to escape into Norway, not far from where your son was found. We believe they may have spoken.”
“So?”
Belov looked down at the man with the stub nose. “One of our officers, a captain, interrogated him before I brought him here. Before you see your son, I think you should take a look at the transcript of the interrogation.”
They went back to Belov’s office, and she sat down behind a long table. She began to read. The story was compelling and a little hard to believe — a foreigner surviving all those years in the camps, burying his identity. Then, on the last page, she came upon a name that made her stop reading and gasp.
“Andrei Vlasov?”
Belov snorted through his nose. “It kind of jumps out at you, doesn’t it?”
Yevgenia shook her head in amazement.
General Vlasov was the Soviet Union’s Benedict Arnold, a Soviet officer who had changed sides during World War II and fought alongside the Nazis. He recruited heavily from German prison camps, creating a rag-tag regiment that ultimately saw little combat. After the war, Vlasov and his men were turned over to Stalin.
Yevgenia stood and began to pace. “But Stalin executed all the vlasovites in 1945.”
“That’s what we thought. I’ve been looking through some of the files, just the ones we have up here in Leningrad, and I came across this.”
He handed her a document, yellowed with age. Yevgenia read. It was a transcript from a KGB interrogation of a Soviet POW just before his execution. In a desperate attempt to offer information to save his life, he told of how a vlasovite officer had come to the German POW camp where he was being held, Stalag 33. “The Red Army was only a day away, and everything was in chaos,” said the man. “I was working in the records office, and this vlasovite comes in and takes my German superior aside. Next thing I know, they come out, and they want my register book. I could see what was going on: The vlasovite rat bribed the Germans to substitute records. The numbers add up, but we got the wrong guy. There was a swap. Man, I feel sorry for that poor bastard!”
“The mythical missing vlasovite,” Yevgenia snorted. “It’s folklore, Stalinist propaganda. The old man loved anything that made us all suspect each other.”
“Maybe not. The stub-nose man couldn’t have known about this file, yet his story matches perfectly. He says he was in a German POW camp. He says that on the day before it was liberated by the Red Army, a vlasovite officer came and substituted records, and he was shipped out with the other traitors.”
“Which camp?”
Belov smiled. “Stalag 33.”
“The same one,” Yevgenia breathed.
“Think about it. This vlasovite, sensing the war was going against Russian traitors, went to the camp and substituted the stub-nose man’s records for his own. How hard could it have been with the chaos of the retreating German Army? Then the stub-nose man disappeared into the gulag, and the vlasovite faded back into the Soviet army.”
Yevgenia shrugged. “And the vlasovite might have survived the war and lived happily ever after — he might even have become a member of the Party for all we know!”
“Right.”
“Did the stub-nose man happen to mention who this vlasovite mystery man was? You blacked out the name on the copy you showed me.”
Belov smiled faintly. “He did.”
“Well?”
Belov spoke the name. Yevgenia’s jaw dropped.
“So you see,” said Belov, “the opportunities here are infinite for someone who plays his cards right.”
Yevgenia nodded thoughtfully.
“There’s just one little problem.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Your son, Anton. He knows too much.”
Yevgenia put away the picture and folded her hands across the desk. She sat facing the door, waiting.
Belov and Podolok arrived a few minutes later. They looked resolute, and Yevgenia knew she had to take the upper hand, or all would be lost. This was not a time for pondering the mistakes of her life. It was a time for action. It was time for the Iron Perova.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said. “Something has to be done.”
Podolok and Belov remained standing not far from the door. “I’m glad you see it that way,” said Podolok.
“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” said Yevgenia.
“I think we both felt that way, comrade,” said Podolok. “But now there is no other — ”
“I’ve been talking to Dr. Lazda quite a lot lately,” Yevgenia went on. “Anton’s long history of trouble stems from a condition called ‘compulsive truth-seeking disorder.’ It’s an actual disease. It’s related to creeping schizophrenia — I looked it up.” She shook her head. “It describes Anton perfectly.”
She began to quote what she had read so many times in the textbook Dr. Lazda had loaned her.
“The compulsive truth-seeker views his struggle as quite justified, and the road he chose as the only true road. If a doctor attempts to dissuade him, he becomes irate, angry, and tells the doctor that the meaning of his life is in the struggle, that he foresaw the possibility of arrest, but it never stopped him because he cannot renounce his ideas. Yet he still considers himself mentally healthy.”
Podolok sat down heavily on a chair and pulled out a cigarillo. Belov lit it.
Podolok spoke across the room. “Anton is schizophrenic?”
Yevgenia nodded solemnly. “Lazda warned me that his condition could resist ordinary drug therapy. It has. I had hoped I could avoid this. It’s desperate, but Dr. Lazda assures me — assures me — that it is totally justified.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Podolok.
“There is just no other way,” she said.
“What?”
“A frontal lobotomy.”
“Jesus.”
Yevgenia turned to face Podolok. Belov sat down beside him.
“It’s not like it sounds,” she said. “We all think of it as a kind of personality removal, making people into human vegetables, and all that. But Soviet medicine has come a long way from those voodoo days. You know, Dr. Lazda says they may even use a laser! So you can see how far we have come. Dr. Lazda says our specialists can now surgically remove near-term memory with only a minimum of collateral damage. It should also cure Anton of his compulsive disorders.”
Podolok smoked his cigarillo and looked at Yevgenia a long time. She wondered wha
t he was thinking. A small smile came to his lips.
“How will it be done?”
“Normally, he would be transferred to the public hospital in Perm, but in this case, I thought that would be — ”
“Not a good idea. What’s the other option?”
“We fly in a surgeon, the best, and he does the operation there at Little Rock.”
“You have someone in mind?”
Yevgenia nodded.
Podolok got to his feet. Belov rose beside him.
“Do it,” said Podolok and left the room.
Yevgenia called Dr. Svyatoslav Schmidt the next morning. He was less than enthusiastic.
“This is outrageous!” he exclaimed. “You can’t just order me around like a secretary. We have procedures. I have patients.”
“Consider it a house call.”
“Find someone else. I don’t do this sort of thing.”
“You do now.”
Dr. Schmidt paused, as if calculating how he would fare in a showdown with a junior Central Committee member. “What you’re asking me to do isn’t medicine,” he said. “It’s butchery.”
“In the hands of an ordinary surgeon, perhaps.”
“In any hands.”
“Listen to me. This is a special patient. He must have the best our country has to offer. Like it or not, that is you.”
Dr. Schmidt sighed and said, “I’m extremely busy right now.”
“Naturally. When are you free?”
Yevgenia heard him flipping through the pages of an appointment book.
“I can be at Little Rock in four weeks,” he said with disgust. “I’ll do the surgery then.”
“Very good,” Yevgenia said. “I’ll fly in myself to observe.”
43
The American embassy in Helsinki was housed in a historic building on a quiet street on the city’s north side. Its fenced-in grounds had become Katherine Sears’s new home while the lawyers and diplomats sorted out the legal mess of her status in Finland.
“Do not leave the embassy grounds,” Cameron Abbott told her shortly after their arrival. “The Sovs may try a kidnapping. General Belov’s gone back to Moscow, but the others are still skulking about. I know you’re anxious to go home, but this is going to take a while.”
“How long, Cameron?” she asked.
“Two weeks. Maybe three.”
Katherine nodded. “Can I use the telephone?”
Cameron smiled. “The code for the States is 071.”
A minute later, Katherine was on the phone with her father.
“Dad?”
“Kat?” he said groggily. It was 3:30 A.M. in Princeton. “Is that you?”
“I made it, Dad. I wanted you to know, I’m safe.”
“Where are you?”
“Helsinki.”
“Helsinki? My god. I’ll be on the next flight there.”
“No, Dad. Stay put. I’m okay. Really. I’ll be home in a few weeks, I promise.”
Katherine hung up, a bit pleased, a bit troubled.
She slept that night on a firm mattress in a guest suite in a small wing of the embassy. She awoke early, showered, dressed and went to the cafeteria, where she dined alone. Afterward, she wandered the perimeter of the embassy and tried to reflect on her experience in Russia. Already it felt disconnected from her, like a dream that fades the more you think about it.
Cameron found her wandering and led her indoors, past the Marine guard post, to the ambassador’s grand office. Flanked by a photograph of President Ronald Reagan and the American flag, a middle-aged man in a double-breasted suit and horn-rimmed glasses rose wearily and came toward her.
“So you’re the one,” he said distastefully. “You’ve had half the Embassy up all night, little lady.”
Katherine glanced at Cameron and then back at the ambassador.
The ambassador pulled at his lapel. “This is one helluva diplomatic mess, I’ll tell you that. The Sovs are raising a huge ruckus, and the Finns — well, they can’t hold out forever. They just want you out of the country, fast, and they don’t particularly care which direction you go — east or west.”
“How are the arrangements coming?” Katherine asked.
“There’s a hearing three weeks from tomorrow.”
“Then what?”
“There’s a flight out the next day. You’ll be on it.”
Katherine passed the intervening weeks nursing her bruised ribs and meeting a lot of people whose names she didn’t even bother to learn — CIA agents, Finnish police, physicians, psychologists and a slew of lawyers and embassy officials. She told them just enough to make them go away. She wasn’t sure if they believed her story, but she didn’t care. The time would come when she would want to say more, but for now she wanted only to get home.
Grayson Hines called one afternoon. Katherine didn’t ask how he had heard about her escape. He got right to the point. “If you ever feel like talking to the press — ”
“The story is yours, Grayson,” she said. “I promise.”
Later that day, Katherine was in a small conference room talking to some men who had flown up from Moscow, when Cameron came in.
“There’s someone here to see you,” he said.
Titus Waal stepped through the door.
“Titus!” Katherine exclaimed.
Titus was beaming. “Katherine Sears, as I live and breathe.”
They rushed toward each other and embraced.
“I was so worried,” said Titus. “I thought . . .”
“I know.”
The men from Moscow left, and then Titus, Cameron and Katherine began to exchange stories. For the first time, Katherine told everything. At one point, without thinking about it, she lapsed into Russian. There were parts of the story in Ivanovka that Katherine could only express in Russian. The men listened in astonishment.
“Your Russian,” Titus exclaimed. “It’s fluent.”
“I finally found a way to learn Russian. Of course, it’s not for everyone . . .”
They all laughed.
Katherine was fascinated to hear about Titus’s meeting with Victor in Stelskogo Park.
“Koos really came through with that list,” Katherine said, astonished. “You know, he’s the hero in this — him and Pavel Danilov.”
“Don’t underestimate your part, Katherine,” said Titus. “Victor never would have met me in the park if you hadn’t gone to Russia. Only you could have made him doubt his country.” Titus shook his head. “In a way, I feel sorriest for him. Imagine learning that everything you believed was a lie. He’s going to have to be awfully strong to follow this to the end.”
Katherine nodded. In some ways, Victor’s journey was more profound than her own.
Katherine decided it was time to tell the two men what she had deduced about Yevgenia Perova.
“So you think Anton may actually still be in danger?” asked Titus, after she had finished.
“Maybe. I can’t know for sure.”
“I’ll pass it along to Victor — if he calls.”
Ifhe calls.
Katherine was about to protest, but she stopped herself. What else could Cameron do? What else couldanyone do? Her duty was done. It was time to get on with her life.
A hearing the following day would resolve the cloud over her status, and then she would be free to go. Back in her room lay her new American passport and, tucked in the pages, a plane ticket.
She went out that night and sat against a tree, gazing up a long time at the stars. In the east, the Large Magellanic Cloud hung on the edge of Virgo. In two days, it would make its ascension to Pisces. But that no longer mattered. She was going home.
An hour later, Titus found her beneath the tree. Katherine looked at his face in the dim light and knew something was wrong.
“Cameron said you’d be here.”
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
Titus was supposed to be in a hotel in town.
> “Koos just called me from Amsterdam.” He paused. “He got a new dispatch from our orderly at Little Rock. It’s about Anton.”
Katherine jumped to her feet.
Titus grimaced. “I wonder if I should be telling you this.”
“What? Tell me what?”
Titus sighed. “Anton’s treatments havenot stopped, just as you feared.”
Katherine went numb.
“I’m afraid that’s not all. He’s been scheduled for surgery.”
“Surgery?”
“A frontal lobotomy, Katherine,” Titus said apologetically. “A neurosurgeon is flying in from Moscow — ”
Katherine shook her head. “My god, she’s a monster.”
“You were right. I’m so sorry.”
“Does Cameron know?”
“Yes. I told him before I came out here.”
“What did he say?”
“What could he say? If Victor calls — ”
But Katherine was already gone, sprinting over the manicured grass and past a Marine guard to the back door of the embassy.
Cameron was waiting for her in his temporary office. He was seated behind a large mahogany desk with nothing on it but an American flag paperweight.
“Katherine, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry, but — ”
“Sorry?” Katherine exclaimed. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Yevgenia is controlling the information Victor is getting. He doesn’t realize it. And now, because I escaped and blabbed to everyone about Anton being alive, she’s scheduled this lobotomy. It’s all because of me!”
“You don’t know that.”
“We’ve got to do something.”
“We?”
“Okay,you. You’ve got to get a message to Victor.”
“How?” Cameron said, annoyed. “You know what that place is like. It’s not as if I can pick up the phone and call him. I’m an attaché of the American Embassy, and he’s the son of a Central Committee member. Come on, Katherine. Be reasonable!”
Katherine paused. “Maybe he’ll still call you,” she said doubtfully.
“Actually, Katherine, that’s not possible.” His tone became apologetic. “We disconnected the phone line you were using.”
“What! How could you — ”
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