by Marvin Kaye
“My grandfather told me that you secretly became a communist at the age of sixteen after meeting that Irish-American firebrand that you eventually married. Her grandfather had been wounded in the march on Washington staged by World War I vets who felt they were cheated out of the bonuses originally promised them by the government. The man who allegedly ordered the shooting was none other than the esteemed Douglas MacArthur. That may be fact or fiction, but the general certainly had a hand in removing the marchers.
“Raised blue collar class on Manhattan’s lower East Side, your girlfriend—later wife—rebelled against the forces of what she considered corrupted capitalism and the rigid sexual strictures of the Catholic Church. Communism’s free love dogma was far more appealing to her lusty nature and she quickly seduced you after meeting you at a ball thrown by the Teamsters. Her father worked with your father—both drivers for the same trucking outfit. Soon you fell in love and joined the party too. Correct?”
“Why ask. You seem to know more about me than I know about myself.”
“Never hurts to reaffirm a fact. Anyhow my point is this. I need money. You have money. You also have secrets. And I know them. You pay me money. I keep my mouth shut. Your daughter Tara is a highly regarded heart surgeon in San Francisco. Her husband is a partner in a respected law firm. Your granddaughter—also Tara—is an accomplished stage actress here in New York City. Family shame is the last thing you need to bring down upon them. Am I right?”
“You’re right. How did you gather all these minute details about…uh…everything?”
“I told you. Grandpa was KGB and while in Germany, your boss.”
“KGB agents were very tight lipped people.”
“Toward the end the old man was losing it. He loved to babble, especially to me. I was his favorite. After the battle of Leningrad he was decorated by Stalin himself. Order of Lenin, something you know all about. A few years later came the purges. Being a dedicated communist he was forced to arrest and sometimes execute men he knew were Soviet loyalists. Grandpa was protected from Stalin’s paranoid imaginings by his boyhood companion and communist mentor—the man who eventually succeeded Stalin as prime minister—Nikita Khrushchev. Under Khrushchev’s management Grandpa rose in rank and power. But the duplicity of Soviet politics convinced him to insure his own survival with an alternate plan. He began taking photos of top secret KGB files in case he felt the need to defect to the west. This would give him something to barter with in exchange for asylum for himself and his family. As a high ranking Soviet agent he was allowed a small business on the side, so to speak, and he chose a farm. He hid these documents in camouflaged containers down a dried-up well on this property.
“A socialist at heart, he never betrayed his government but he kept taking pictures throughout the Cold War as survival insurance. He continued this policy right up to the disintegration of the Soviet Empire. When his whole belief system collapsed around him he retired to the farm, broken in mind and spirit. His son, my father, made a decent living in the black market during the last days of the USSR and used his savings to go into business after the hammer and sickle fell. But there’s no real money to be made in Russia today unless you’re in the pocket of Vladimir Putin. However there’s plenty of opportunity in the good ol’ USA. You’ve embraced capitalism, I see, and you’ve done very well too. What made you see the light?”
“When the handwriting is on the wall you don’t ignore it. I opened up a deli, expanded to a supermarket, and built up a chain. My wife was a perpetual cigarette smoker and she died of cancer. Once my daughter was out of the house, I sold all the supermarkets.”
“Very cool.”
“How much do you want?”
“I’m not greedy.”
“How much?”
“Compared to what you have, not much.”
Not bothering to conceal my impatience, I heaved a sigh, “How much?”
“One million dollars. In fifties. They’re easier to break than hundreds.”
“That’s twenty thousand bills.”
“You’re a human calculator.”
“For all the accusations you made tonight, do you expect me to believe you brought these sensitive documents through Russian and American customs without a problem and that you can produce them at will?”
“Believe it! I have connections in Russian customs and being a photojournalist—my profession—I was able to bring those records into America without raising any suspicion. The customs officer didn’t know what he was looking at anyway. I just said I was studying research documents in my native language and he bought it.”
“When you phoned were you really in Ukraine?”
“Yes, my last job before vacation. Now let’s get back to the payout.”
“Well, obviously I don’t have that kind of money lying around the house.”
“Obviously.”
“I’ll need a few days to get it.”
“A few days,” Vitali’s smug expression darkened into an uncertain frown, “why not tomorrow?”
“You don’t just pull a million out of the bank without sounding alarm bells. I’ll take so much from one bank and so much from another in increments. You’ll have the money in a few days. How do I get in touch with you?”
“Clever…clever…” The smug countenance returned. “You don’t get in touch with me. I get in touch with you.”
“So you’ll bring me the records when—”
“I won’t carry them on me. I’m not chancing any unpleasant surprises. After I get paid I’ll mail them to you.”
“How do I know you won’t keep them and blackmail me again later?”
“You don’t know. That’s just a risk you’ll have to take. What you do know is that I’ll peddle them to the highest bidder if you don’t pay me. I’ll bet many tabloids like the National Enquirer for instance would be interested in evidence of Patton’s murder.”
“All right.” I shrugged in resignation. “I’ll see you get what’s coming to you.”
* * * *
After this meeting, Vitali called me every night at nine p.m. sharp. On the fourth night I told him, “Come on up. Everything’s ready.”
Vitali arrived looking exactly as he did the first time we met. When he sat down I said, “No change of costume?”
“Nah, I’m a hipster through and through.”
“You pass for one. How come you speak English so well? Not even a trace of an accent.”
“English as a second language was a requirement of my schooling. Besides, I was an exchange student, learned all your slang right here in New York City.”
“You learned well.”
“Enough chit chat, Mr. Wells. Where’s the money?”
“Everything you need is right behind you.”
“Behind—” When he turned his head his jaw literally dropped at the sight of the two men in dark suits who entered silently from the hall and were staring at him. One was rather large with a face that exhibited visible dents and breaks that perfectly matched his menacing scowl. The other was handsome and young and sported a rather sly smile. Vitali’s voice dropped to a shocked rasp, “Who the hell are you guys?”
The big man answered, “We’re a mirage. We’re nobodies. Just like you.”
The handsome one laughed as Vitali turned back to me and said, “What is this? Who are they?”
The big man reiterated, “We don’t exist and you’ll soon join us.”
Handsome intoned, “Pretty soon you won’t exist either.”
“Vitali,” I said, “you’re very clever but not too smart. After your first phone call I informed my government friends of your digital readout on my land line and they pinpointed the pay phone you were using. If you were smart you would have used different phones for each call. You were watched on the night of
the second call—which was tapped by the way—and followed back to your lodgings. If I’m not mistaken, your tiny studio rental on St. Marks Place is being ransacked right now.”
“Wha—you can’t—I have rights—”
Visible beads of sweat formed on his brow and it seemed his complexion was a shade lighter now than when he first came in. I said, “In this age of terrorism, what with the Homeland Security Act and all, I think these gentlemen can do whatever they want to do.”
Vitali’s eyelids began to quiver and his upper body started to tremble. His voice hit a high pitch as he looked toward the men and said, “This man killed General Patton! I can prove it.”
“Wrong—wrong—wrong!” I said. “I tried to save the general.”
“Save him.” His breath came in bursts as his head swiveled back to me. “You shot him!”
“Wrong again. I had a Russian grandmother who lived across the river in Brooklyn. She belonged to the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Transfiguration that borders Greenpoint and Williamsburg by McCarren Park. My wife—then girlfriend—loved Nana, as we called her. Once they got to know each other, Nana explained the horrors that she saw under Stalinist Communism and those stories opened Megan’s eyes to the truth. Furthermore, Nana introduced her to a Russian priest who gave first hand accounts of religious oppression and life in the gulag. While she leaned toward agnosticism and was still resentful of what she felt was second class status for women in the various Christian churches, she was sensitive to all injustice and quickly became rabidly anti-communist, turning against the party. Our combined senses of adventure—remember we were only sixteen—made us decide to become spies. I contacted the FBI, and Megan and I both reported on party doings.
“Meanwhile, we were each respected by our comrades as loyal members. When Hitler invaded Russia I was ordered to join the good fight. And so I did while Megan allegedly served the party at home. My duties to communism were supposedly suspended while I fought in the war. The Office of Strategic Services was informed of my background by the FBI and I was told by an OSS chief never to inform the military about my clandestine activities unless a dire emergency arose because of the possibility of damaging security leaks.
“Once the war drew down party members contacted me. I learned in time that my expertise as a rifleman was an asset they could use. Before I came into play, several others tried to set General Patton up but nothing worked. After Patton liberated me and then chose me as an aide, they felt they had their best bet. I went along with the program hoping to expose them once I knew their complete plan. By the time I learned the details of this assassination scheme I couldn’t return to base and warn the general because my communist superiors insisted I stay in their safe house until the hour of the deadly event.
“I accepted a Russian air rifle—copied after the British Webley—and their wood bullets. Earlier, at the party’s request—the whys of which were never explained to me—I had asked for and received a few days leave, which coincided with the general’s pheasant hunt. Apparently some mole was feeding the Russians his schedule. Now on that fateful day I had a gut feeling there might be more than one assassin deployed because communists trust no one. And I was right. Instead of shooting the general as ordered, I scoured the countryside in the vicinity of where I was to squeeze the trigger and I came across another marksman equipped with air rifle and wood bullets. I later discovered he was a Russian infantry sniper. The general’s car was making that fateful turn as I jumped him from behind. But although I spoiled his aim, my action came an instant too late. He fired and hit the general in the neck instead of the temple as the car and truck collided. We grappled—I wanted to bring him back alive for interrogation—but he pulled a knife and ended up falling on it as we fought.
“I reported back to the base and they recovered and disposed of the body. After a grueling debriefing, first by the military brass then by the OSS, I was cleared of all wrongdoing. Meantime, the general was taken to a hospital in Heidelberg where he died of a pulmonary embolism twelve days later. Many believed his demise was aided by some Communist-leaning medical personnel. But nothing could ever be proved. I was allowed to return to my spying and accepted the credit from the Communist Party for shooting General Patton. The sniper’s body was disposed of by the American military and as you correctly stated, Vitali, the Communist bosses thought he switched sides and betrayed the cause.”
My rather long-winded soliloquy was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. It belonged to the handsome agent who answered it, listened a moment, closed the phone and said, “Well…well, Mr. Vitali Darahofsky, that’s some cache of evidence you have—um—had stashed in that studio. My colleague who is fluent in Russian tells me it’s a veritable treasure trove of America’s traitors. Seems like you were really planning on cashing in on your visit to our great nation. Thank you for the info. Cuff him.”
“Yes, sir.” The big man said, “Stand up and put your hands behind your back. Do it!”
Now my original feelings of loss and anguish completely vanished, replaced with the peace and elation of philosophizing how Old Blood and Guts still seemed to be serving his country from beyond the grave by outing turncoats through the doings of this young Russian hoodlum. Vitali tried to speak but his mutterings were incomprehensible as his puckered mouth seemed to be gasping for air. I shook my head while they applied the cuffs. Then I said, “You tried to cash in and now you’re cashing out. Goodbye Vitali.”
I knew that neither I, nor the rest of the world at large, would ever see that blackmailer again.
BBC’S SHERLOCK: A REVIEW, by Carole Buggė
It’s no wonder Season Three of the BBC series Sherlock is the most watched British television series in eleven years. It’s dangerously close to being a masterpiece. I viewed the first episode with the kind of breathless excitement I felt as a child watching my favorite shows, in the bygone days before VCRs, Tivo, and DVDs—when you actually had to pay attention to what was on the screen.
After Granada Television’s terrific series starring Jeremy Brett as a moody, deeply neurotic Holmes, it was hard to imagine a more satisfying film version of Doyle’s classic original. Just as Basil Rathbone seemed the right choice to play Holmes during Britain’s war-torn years, Brett’s fidgety, restless detective felt like the perfect Holmes for our time, with Edward Hardwicke’s appealing, compassionate Watson as his ideal counterpoint. Hardwicke’s Watson was no fool à la Nigel Bruce, but an intelligent, thoughtful professional who fully understood his brilliant friend’s many downsides, and stood by him, anyway. At times you felt that without his Watson, Brett’s Holmes would have collapsed into a cocaine-fueled stupor.
The production values were impeccable, and the Granada adaptations of Doyle’s stories were often improvements on the originals, at least for the purposes of filming. The list of guest stars was a Who’s Who of popular British television actors, from John Thaw to Cheryl Campbell. Patrick Gowers’s music boasted a sly, twisting violin solo with a chromatic melody conjuring both the elegance and decadence of the Victorian era. The Granada series felt like the definitive reimagining of Doyle’s indelible characters—until now.
Arthur Conan Doyle did not invent the detective story, but he might as well have. When Sherlock Holmes burst onto the scene in A Study in Scarlet, memoirs of real life detectives such as Edinburgh’s James McLevy had steadily increased in popularity. Doyle was no doubt aware of them, and certainly was familiar with the work of Edgar Allan Poe, as well as The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins, often regarded as the first mystery novel.
But in Sherlock Holmes, Doyle created a character for the ages, in spite of his own famously ambiguous attitude toward his celebrated detective. Gifted with astonishing powers of perception and analytical acumen, Sherlock Holmes was the first Victorian superhero. It is ironic that, given the Victorians’ obsessive superstition and mysticism, their most iconic fictional character
is devoted to science and reason.
Sherlock is true to the spirit of Doyle’s original, and then some. Take the opener of Season Three, The Empty Hearse. Beginning with the play on words even a casual Holmesian would recognize, the episode is chock-a-block with a dizzying array of references, in-jokes, and homages to Conan Doyle’s stories. (In more than one review of Sherlock, the word “canonical” appears, a sacred concept to many devoted Doyle fans.) Sherlock burst out of the starting gate in 2010 like a finicky filly, full of surprises and energy and juice. The success of the show isn’t reducible to any one element any more than War and Peace can be said to be a masterpiece because it contains one of the great love stories in Russian literature. It does, but there’s so much more to chew on. There are so many pleasures in Sherlock, it’s hard to know where to begin.
The casting is as good a place as any. There is Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes, with his improbable and sudden leap from goofy character actor to quirky leading man and teen heartthrob (cf. my niece Kylie). Appearing opposite him we have the self-effacing charm of Martin Freeman, who, as a friend of mine put it, is having “a hell of a year.” In addition to playing Watson to Cumberbatch’s Holmes, he is, of course, starring as Bilbo Baggins in yet another CGI-infused Peter Jackson version of Tolkien. The chemistry between the two men is terrific—and let’s face it, the Holmes/Watson relationship is one of literature’s great love stories. Speaking of love stories, Holmes fans (cf. real life Baker Street Irregulars) figure prominently in several episodes of Sherlock (which is reminiscent of the key role science fiction fans play in the delightfully quirky Galaxy Quest).
The cast is further graced by the presence of the wonderful Rupert Graves as Lestrade, as well as Amanda Abingdon, Freeman’s real life partner, in the role of Mrs. Watson. Fresh-faced Andrew Scott is an odd choice for Doyle’s cadaverous Professor Moriarty, though his performance captures the megalomania of the mad genius. The show’s co-creator Mark Gatiss is a perfectly superior, dismissive Mycroft Holmes. Una Stubbs is adorable as Mrs. Hudson, with a past amusingly racier than Doyle’s original. Louise Brealey is particularly good as nerdy but clever scientist Molly Hooper, who is both in love with Holmes and onto him. In a satisfying scene in The Empty Hearse, she slaps him silly for his callousness toward other people’s feelings.