Deep Undercover

by Jack Barsky

  There was no lifeline to the other side of the Iron Curtain. All I had was a fake passport, a genuine US birth certificate, $7,000 in cash, and my wits.

  I really needed a drink, so I opened the bottle of Johnny Walker Red I had acquired in the duty-free shop at the airport.

  While slowly imbibing the scotch, I fiddled with the television remote and landed on an episode of Gilligan’s Island—American pop culture at its best.

  I woke up with a tremendous hangover the next morning, and after swallowing four aspirin, I gingerly proceeded to the hotel restaurant for my first-ever genuine American breakfast—ham and eggs over easy, of course, with toast and a side of home fries. My time in Canada had prepared me well, at least for the breakfast situation.

  With my headache abating, I was ready to face the day. There was much to be done before I could depart for New York City, my final destination.

  Back in my room, I searched the Yellow Pages for a hotel where I could find a room. Moving from city to city and hotel to hotel is a time-honored technique for spies to cover their tracks as much as possible.

  If the elaborate preparation for my infiltration into the US had one gaping hole, it was my lack of information about Chicago. I had bought a city map at the airport, but I had no idea which areas of the city were safe and which were to be avoided. That ignorance could have cost me dearly.

  I chose a hotel at random from the phone book and made a reservation by phone. I did not tip the doorman who hailed a cab for me, and only much later came to realize that this and other small cultural miscues could have easily left a trail that would alert a savvy investigator.

  When I gave the cabdriver the address of the new hotel, he looked at me rather quizzically. I soon found out why. As I carted my suitcase to the hotel entrance, I realized I was the only white person on the street. The hotel was a well-worn, run-down multistory building, probably from the 1930s. On my way to the door, I caught a glimpse of what seemed to be elevated railroad tracks.

  More warning bells went off in my mind as I entered the shabby, poorly lit lobby. The only furniture was a round table and four brownish easy chairs with a sheen that betrayed many years of use. The reception desk was tucked into a far corner behind a three-by-five-foot Plexiglas window that shielded the clerk from the public.

  A German profanity popped spontaneously into my head, which was still a bit tender from the residual effects of the hangover.

  The desk clerk was in the process of stubbing out a cigarette into a banged-up aluminum ashtray that was already overflowing with butts. When he finally looked up and saw me, he gave me the same quizzical look I had seen on the taxi driver’s face.

  “What can I do for you?”

  At this point, my instinct was to get out and go somewhere else, but where? I had no idea where I was or where I should be. Making a split-second decision, which I would have to do many times in the coming months, I decided to proceed with the check-in.

  Why not, I said to myself. I’ve lived in worse places.

  “I called and reserved a room for two nights,” I said in my best North American accent.

  “Okay,” the clerk replied.

  I paid for the room and he gave me a key, directing me toward the elevator.

  The room was just as shabby as the lobby—worn carpet, a creaky double bed with two small pillows and an ugly old bedspread, a shower with cracked tile and discolored caulking, and a faucet that dripped incessantly.

  Quite fittingly, the black-and-white TV was connected to a rabbit ears antenna and had a coin-operated on switch. For a quarter, I could buy one hour of viewing pleasure.

  As I took in my surroundings, I was suddenly shaken by a loud rumbling noise, followed by an earsplitting screech coming from the direction of the window. I opened the curtains and discovered the source of the noise—a metallic gray subway train that was rumbling along the elevated tracks I had seen on my way in to the hotel. The tracks were close enough that I could see the faces of the passengers behind the dirty tinted windows.

  What more could I ask for than a pay-TV and an up-close-and-personal view of the “L”? Welcome to the South Side of Chicago! Though I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I certainly realized later that this was the last place in town I wanted to be. If I had gotten mugged with all the cash I was carrying, I could have been stranded in Chicago with absolutely no backup plan.

  That evening, I spent three quarters to watch TV and drank the remainder of the scotch to mitigate the noise of the “L” outside my window. Fortunately, the traffic became less frequent as the evening wore on.

  The next morning, I did not need an alarm clock to get me up bright and early. The morning commute on the “L” began with a vengeance at 5:30 a.m. Even though I had prepaid for two nights, I decided that one night in that fine establishment was plenty. So after breakfast at a nearby diner, I set out on foot in the direction of the city center.

  After a half-hour walk, I noticed that the neighborhood began to look a bit more upscale. When I chanced upon a small hotel with a well-maintained exterior, I decided to investigate. In stark contrast to the place where I had stayed the previous night, the lobby here was well lit, the seating area had comfortable looking furniture of recent vintage, and the reception desk was out in the open—no bulletproof glass.

  I approached the clerk and inquired about availability. When she told me there were several rooms available, I made an important decision right on the spot and boldly registered as Jack Barsky. Luckily, the clerk did not ask me for ID. With visions of a nice, safe hotel room, I hurried back to the other hotel to collect my belongings. Before I checked out for good, I had one piece of business left to complete. It was time to commit murder.

  I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me, just to be sure and set about killing William Dyson by destroying his paper identity. Unfortunately, my five years of KGB training did not include instructions on how to destroy a passport, which proved to be more difficult than it might seem. Even the paper pages didn’t want to burn. The passport picture resisted several attempts, before I finally just cut the charred photo into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

  Then I tried to burn the plastic cover pages. Again and again, I tried to get them to burn, but they were definitely made from some sort of flame-resistant material. Every attempt resulted in an ugly molten mass and a suspicious acrid smell. Again, the only solution was to cut the plastic into small pieces and send them down the hatch into the Chicago sewer system.

  The massacre took a full thirty minutes to complete, but in the end, William Dyson had been eliminated without a trace. I was now temporarily nameless.

  To complete the metamorphosis, I cut into the back cover of the small notebook and removed the genuine copy of Jack Barsky’s birth certificate.

  I was now an American citizen with only a single piece of identification. It was a tenuous existence indeed. Quickly packing my bags, I applied a liberal dose of air freshener to the room (from my spy “toolset”) and walked out the door. When I finally settled in to my new room at the nicer hotel, the tension of the last forty-eight hours began to gradually melt away.

  As I lay on the luxurious bed, staring at the ceiling, the enormity of my situation invaded my consciousness. I was truly a lone wolf in the Second City—alone, but not yet lonely. There was too much to do, too much to think about. The real adventure still lay ahead.

  When I awoke the next morning, feeling rested and refreshed after a peaceful night’s sleep, I contemplated my next move. After breakfast at a diner just around the corner from my hotel, I decided that my first priority was to get some American clothes. Heading out into a beautiful autumn day, I strolled up and down the Magnificent Mile, gawking at all the window displays. Clearly, these stores were not for me. They were only for the rich capitalists, and I was not one of them—at least not yet.

  Veering off Michigan Avenue, I stepped into what appeared to be a much more affordable men’s clothing
store and immediately fell prey to a team of two aggressive salesmen.

  “Good afternoon, young man,” the older one said in an ingratiating tone. “You strike me as a rather imposing figure that seems in desperate need of a new outfit or two.”

  I was surprised by his forceful approach, but I managed to respond, “Maybe. What do you have? I think I need a new suit.”

  If there had been a little man in my head advising me on the right moves to make, he would have screamed, “What? Are you really that stupid? What are you going to do with a suit? You’re an unemployed and undocumented individual—get some more jeans!”

  Unfortunately, there was no little man and no voice of reason. Instead, there was a greenhorn undercover agent walking out of that store with a gray flannel suit that came with a reversible vest and two sets of pants. One side of the vest, and the corresponding pair of pants, had a light-blue and gray checkerboard pattern. They were the ugliest pair of pants I had ever seen, but to me they looked so . . . American.

  That suit would get very little wear, along with a sky-blue corduroy suit with very wide lapels that I also added to my wardrobe.

  I did better at the next store, purchasing a short navy-blue leather coat with a removable flannel liner that would serve me well in colder weather. The salesperson assured me that the coat would keep me warm during the winter. “You know, this coat is made in Poland,” he said, “and it gets really cold over there.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  IF I CAN MAKE IT THERE, I’ll make it anywhere . . .

  I was not yet familiar with that line from the famous song “New York, New York,” but I was determined to make it to the Big Apple and put myself in a position to gather useful information for the KGB.

  I arrived in New York City on October 12, a magnificent Indian summer day with a cloudless, deep-blue sky overhead and a balmy breeze wafting through the streets. What a welcome contrast to the blistering Mexican heat and the gloomy, stormy European fall!

  As soon as the Manhattan-bound bus left LaGuardia Airport, I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the famous skyline. Finally, I would see with my own eyes what I had previously admired only in photographs. My heart started beating faster with anticipation, but as the bus emerged from the Queens Midtown Tunnel, I was rather disappointed. Compared to Moscow’s expansive boulevards, the streets of Manhattan seemed narrow and constricted. I learned much later that the skyscrapers rising so close above the streets create an optical illusion that seems to squeeze the five lanes down into thin, black bands.

  I hopped off the bus at Grand Central Station, taking a moment to gaze at the ornate interior architecture of this busy Manhattan train terminal. After a few moments, I came to my senses, stopped gawking, stashed my luggage in a locker, and set out on foot to look for a hotel.

  To assist with my search for short-term lodging, the Center had given me the names and addresses of two extended-stay hotels on the East Side of Manhattan. After a full day of traveling, I was looking forward to settling into a nice, comfortable room with a color TV.

  The first hotel was only eight blocks from Grand Central Station, just off Lexington Avenue. When I entered the well-lit lobby, I perked up. This was a very nice place, indeed! On my way to the reception desk, I passed a table where a party of elegantly dressed men and women were enjoying an afternoon drink.

  “Do you have any rooms available?” I asked the attractive receptionist.

  “As a matter of fact we do. Are you looking for daily, weekly, or monthly occupancy?”

  “Monthly,” I responded without hesitation.

  “Well, you have a choice. At the low end, there is a room with a single queen-size bed. That rents for $1,800 a month.”

  Before I could let out a silent gasp, she chirped on, “But we happen to have one of the presidential suites available as well. Those suites feature a fully functional kitchen and a king-size bed. They’re all on the top floor, with windows overlooking Lexington Avenue. That room is $2,900 a month. What is your preference?”

  I hoped that my face didn’t register the shock I was feeling, but it was clearly time to beat a hasty retreat and find something more affordable. At $1,800 a month, I would deplete my cash reserves within three months. Already, my bankroll had shrunk to just over $6,000.

  I gave the receptionist the nicest smile I could muster and said, “Oh, I’m just inquiring. I won’t be ready to move until next week. May I have your phone number so I can call when I’ve made my decision?”

  With her business card in hand, I turned around and marched outside. The Center had certainly gotten that one wrong! How could anyone have thought that such an establishment would be suitable for my situation? Though I didn’t expect any different results from the second hotel, which was about ten blocks away, I went there anyway just so I could check it off my list. When I found that their prices were similar, I decided to regroup at a regular hotel and give myself time to find a more workable long-term rental.

  I found what looked to be a mid-priced hotel on Lexington Avenue and decided to make it my headquarters for the next two days. When the clerk told me they had rooms available, I told him I was ready to check in.

  “ID please,” he said absentmindedly as he pulled out a registration form.

  I froze for just a moment before doing the only thing I could do in that situation—I pulled out the birth certificate from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  “I’ll be paying for the room in cash—in advance,” I said.

  The man looked at me curiously as he took the birth certificate from my hand, but he accepted it as my identification. The cash probably helped my cause quite a bit.

  Next, he handed me a registration form and said, “Just fill this out and we’re good to go.”

  I looked at the form, and the first thing I saw was a blank line for name and address. Again this was something the Center hadn’t prepared me for. I didn’t have an American address. The only thing I could come up with was William Dyson’s address in Toronto. So I spent the first two nights in New York with a US birth certificate as my documentation and a Canadian mailing address. This was a rather uncomfortable situation and something I would have wanted to avoid even if I were still in training. But this was the real thing. I wasn’t in training anymore.

  During my first night in New York, I was awakened again and again by the insistent hissing of the steam radiator in my room. Staring at the ceiling in the dark, I felt light-years away from everything and everyone I’d ever known. My grand and glorious assignment to infiltrate the United States didn’t seem so grand and glorious at the moment after all. Right then, I realized that New York would offer as many challenges as opportunities and that my vision of a comfortable life in the US needed significant adjustment. But I knew this wasn’t the time to mope or complain. Sacrifices had to be made, and my entire life of discipline and delayed gratification had prepared me well for the situation I was now in.

  The next day, it didn’t take long to find a monthly hotel that I could afford. After checking out a few places and realigning my expectations with reality, I found a room on the Upper West Side that rented for only $600 a month. The queen-size bed had several fist-size burn holes in the mattress, and the chair and table were the foldout picnic variety, but there was a chest of drawers and a nightstand to store my belongings, an electric cooktop, a small refrigerator, and an old color TV with rabbit ears. The most important feature was the private bath with a tub and shower.

  In the evening on my second day, I set the signal indicating my safe arrival. The signal spot, which was part of the communication plan I had been given, was a brilliant choice that even Eugen would have given an A.

  The underpass at the 79th Street Boat Basin and Henry Hudson Parkway has a sidewalk that allows for pedestrian traffic. At the west entrance of the underpass, the sidewalk makes a 90-degree turn, creating a dead zone that made this operation as easy as a walk in the park.

  This spot was also conv
enient for the resident agent, who could easily see the mark while driving by on his way to work—presumably at the United Nations.

  The next day, I prepared a brief secret message to inform the Center about the details of my trip since I’d left Mexico. I made it a point to mention the bad hotel choices I had been given. This was the first chit I collected, in case I needed ammunition to balance what would surely be mistakes of my own.

  Sergej’s advice was ingrained in me now, so over the next several months, as long as the weather wasn’t too bad, I set out to explore every nook and cranny of Manhattan—from the cavernous financial headquarters along Wall Street; to Chinatown, Little Italy, and Greenwich Village; to Broadway and the majestic Avenue of the Americas; to the richly decorated display windows on Fifth Avenue; and the 770 acres of Central Park. I quickly discovered that this city was alive—it had a heartbeat all its own, and that heartbeat never stopped. What a contrast to the grim utilitarian mood that permeated both East Berlin and Moscow.

  I was particularly drawn to the area around the southern tip of Central Park, with its cavalcade of street artists, mimes, musical troupes, and pushcart vendors. I enjoyed the noise and the bustle and the thriving commerce in this little slice of capitalist America. Surely, I would soon discover the ugly underbelly of free enterprise as well.

  On one of my walking excursions, I got another reminder of how ill-prepared I was for assimilating into America. In the Soviet Union, cigarettes were dirt cheap and readily available, so it wasn’t uncommon to be approached on the street by a stranger asking for a smoke.

  I was walking past Bryant Park on the Fifth Avenue side when a young man approached me and urgently whispered, “Smoke, smoke.”

  I reached into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes and politely offered him some.

  “Here, take a couple . . .”

  His reaction was altogether strange and inexplicable.

  “Hey, if I want to play games, man, I’ll call my little brother,” he said with a sneer. “Don’t play me for a fool!”