by Robert Moss
Sasha returned to studying the man sitting almost directly opposite. He had fine, chiseled features and a thin, military moustache, and was staring absently into mid-space. His attention stirred for a moment, and he met Sasha’s eyes, but turned quickly away. Today he was wearing a sober business suit and a white shirt, but the day before he had appeared in flowing tribal robes. A few years younger than Sasha, George Afigbo had already held the rank of lieutenant-general and a seat in the cabinet of his strategically situated West African country. Now, Afigbo was his government’s Ambassador-Plenipotentiary to the UN, and the reason Sasha was subjecting himself to the Chinese water-torture of the committee session.
General Luzhin had told him the background of the case. Afigbo had received officer’s training from the British, at Aldershot, and from the Soviets, at Simferopol and in the mock-Grecian building on People’s Militia Street. Afigbo didn’t like the British — he had lodged a formal complaint about racism at Aldershot — but it seemed that he liked the Russians even less.
‘Our girls won’t go near the black-asses, of course,’ the Resident explained delicately. ‘As you recall, we had to ask Castro to send us a load of Cuban girls to keep them happy. But that was after Afigbo’s time.’
Whatever his feelings about Russians and their women, the West African was ambitious and liked having money to spend. In Moscow the GRU spotted him as a coming man and soon had him on the payroll. Before long, he and a group of young officers had kicked out the London-educated barristers who were trying to run their tropical version of Westminster. Western aid dried up and Soviet advisers flooded in. Then the pendulum swung back, the Russians left, the Americans were suddenly welcome again, and George Afigbo was packed off to study semicolons and attend receptions at the UN.
‘It’s a sensitive case,’ General Luzhin told Sasha. ‘The Center believes that the CIA was behind the last coup. We can’t be sure of Afigbo’s own loyalties. As you’re aware, you can’t buy politicians in these places. You can only rent them.
‘We’ve had no contact with the African since he came here. The usual thing would be to fly in his old case officer. We can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Vlassov was declared persona non grata after the coup. They put his picture in the newspapers. Every special service in the West knows who he is now. We can’t risk compromising the African, not if he can still be used. So it’s on your head. I’ll fix it so you can attend one of these committees Afigbo is on, as an alternative delegate, so it will be natural enough for your paths to cross. Don’t push too hard. If he shies away, let him go for now.’
‘What was Vlassov’s work name?’
‘The African knew him as Peter.’
In the committee room the representative of Senegal, Sorbonne-trained and a stickler on matters of syntax, was proposing an adjectival adjustment to paragraph three. Sasha caught George Afigbo’s eye again and glanced heavenward. He thought he detected a slight wrinkle of amusement around the African’s eyes.
Soon afterwards, Afigbo got up and left the room. Sasha waited until the door was closed before following. There was no sign of the African in the most obvious place, the bar, where Sasha caught a glimpse of Nikolsky chatting to a Norwegian diplomat who looked ill at ease despite his smooth, urbane features. The Resident hadn’t mentioned whether Afigbo was a Moslem.
Sasha caught up with the African in the coffee lounge. At the sight of the Russian, the ambassador made a wide circle, evidently trying to avoid him. Sasha crossed the room and stationed himself in front of a glass case with an elaborate oriental carving inside, a gift from the People’s Republic of China. Now the ambassador could not avoid him without ostentatiously reversing direction again.
Afigbo walked briskly forward.
Without turning his face away from the glass, Sasha spoke softly but distinctly in English. ‘I have a message for you from Peter.’
The ambassador’s face was a mask. He stopped next to Sasha but swiveled away from him, as if looking for somebody in the lounge.
Sasha did not waste words. He issued precise instructions for a meeting at a small Chinese restaurant on Pearl Street.
*
As Sasha was leaving the Mission one evening, Feliks Nikolsky hailed him in the street and said, ‘Both our wives are away. Why don’t you let me show you the town tonight?’
The alternative — a frozen TV dinner at the Lucerne — was less than enticing, so Sasha agreed. But his guard was still up. He still suspected an ulterior motive for Nikolsky’s relentless sociability.
Feliks didn’t talk shop that night. He wanted to let his hair down, and he dragged Sasha from a piano bar on Mulberry Street that seemed to be peopled with mafiosi and their girlfriends to an ear-splitting discotheque where the genders seemed to be scrambled: Sasha gaped at the spectacle of men dancing with men and girls dancing with girls. ‘Could we go somewhere more orthodox?’ he whispered to Nikolsky.
They ate at an upscale singles place on First Avenue, where Nikolsky netted a couple of secretaries who were visiting town from Hicksville, Long Island. When Sasha begged off, Nikoisky reluctantly returned his own catch to the sea. They progressed to P. J. Clarke’s, where a few of the drinkers at the crowded bar greeted Feliks as an old friend.
They traveled uptown by taxi, and Feliks ordered the driver to stop in a tree-lined street.
‘Where are we?’ Sasha asked, trying to identify his surroundings. He realized, to his astonishment, that they were outside an Orthodox church. Was this some new kind of KGB provocation?
He was reassured, though no less surprised, when Nikoisky made no effort to persuade him to go inside. He cooled his heels on the sidewalk for a few minutes until Feliks reappeared.
‘Are you a believer?’ Sasha asked Nikolsky.
‘Just a seeker,’ Feliks responded, with uncharacteristic seriousness. ‘And we Russians have it in our blood,’ he added, gesturing at the darkened church. ‘Isn’t that so? Besides, it’s not so easy to go to church in Moscow.’
This was a gross understatement. If Nikolsky’s superiors got to hear that he was a churchgoer, he would probably be booted out of his service. This Nikolsky was an odd fish, all right. Sasha began to warm to him.
The next time Feliks slapped him on the shouder and demanded, ‘Ty chto mumu yebyosh? Let’s have a drink,’ Sasha didn’t hesitate.
*
Colonel Drinov might have turned out an excellent fellow, in Nikolsky’s opinion, if he had been able to follow his natural vocation as an ichthyologist. Drinov had a small aquarium in his apartment, in which bulbous Japanese fish revolved in what looked like watered ink. Drinov was especially fond of starfish, and made weekend excursions to Long Island and the New Jersey coast. In his office in the Residency, the only clue to his private obsession was a revolting object that he used for a paperweight, a stuffed piranha that Nikolsky had found for him in an East Side store that specialized in amusing gifts. Drinov had accepted the present with solemn appreciation. For the head of KR Line, fish were no laughing matter.
Drinov’s other passion was soccer. But he had given up playing years before, and was fast running to fat, the way athletes often seem to do when they abandon sports. Nikolsky had read somewhere that this was bound up with the enlargement of the cardiac vessels. As he sat on the straight-backed chair in front of Drinov’s desk, he pictured the colonel’s heart as a great hydraulic pump, squirting out waste energy. Drinov’s color was high that morning, though no higher than Nikolsky’s. Feliks had already made one quick visit to an Irish saloon on Third Avenue, because since he got up, he felt as if a rusty nail were being driven through the back of his head, toward the brain. Then when he got back to the Mission, Kostya, the KGB chauffeur, had waylaid him and suggested a quick inspection of the room where the liquor was stored. Giving Kostya the key to that room was like putting a goat in charge of the cabbage patch.
Drinov fixed Nikolsky with his practiced stare. You wouldn’t imagine that a man cou
ld look at you for that long without blinking. He must learn it from his fish, Nikolsky thought.
Feliks had no idea of why he had been summoned. Perhaps for a lecture on his personal habits.
Take it easy, you prick, he mentally rehearsed what he would have liked to say to Drinov. You’re no saint either. I know you’re fucking the cipher clerk’s wife.
Then Drinov said, ‘I understand that you know one of our far neighbors, Captain Preobrazhensky.’
‘Yes, I know him,’ Nikolsky conceded.
‘You haven’t reported on this contact,’ Drinov pointed out.
‘Oh, it’s just casual,’ Nikolsky said.
‘Nothing that would interest me?’
‘Well, he hasn’t tried to recruit me for the GRU yet.’
This earned a chuckle from Drinov. The KGB poached from the GRU; it had never worked the other way round.
Drinov asked, ‘How does he seem, this Preobrazhensky?’
‘A serious man.’ Nikolsky shrugged. ‘Normal family life. No bad habits. Some very important connections in Moscow.’
‘I see. Well, a report has come to our attention. It appears that your friend Preobrazhensky has been spending rather freely. Expensive jewelry for his wife, furs, that sort of thing. People are asking how they can afford to live this way, whether there is some irregularity concerning operational funds, or perhaps something even more serious.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you know anything about Preobrazhensky’s operations in New York?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘We have a report.’ Drinov glanced at his notebook. ‘He is involved in running an agent at the UN whose code name is Ibrahim. Do you know who that would be?’
‘It’s a name from Pushkin,’ Nikolsky observed. ‘The Negro at the court of Peter the Great.’
‘Pizdish?’ Drinov looked at him in surprise. ‘Do you imagine that these fellows in high boots read Pushkin?’
‘Preobrazhensky might.’
‘Well, I’m not interested in his reading habits. According to our source, Ibrahim is a double agent who is working for the Americans. Through him, the CIA has managed to establish contact with Preobrazhensky. He’s been taking money from the Americans.’
‘Ne pizdi,’ Feliks burst out. His gently mocking tone prevented the words from sounding harsh. ‘I don’t know about this Ibrahim business, of course, but I think I know Preobrazhensky. He’s not a man who can be bought. So his wife likes to dress up. So what? Her father can give her anything she wants. As for selling out to the Americans, he’s the last man in the Mission I’d suspect — saving Your Grace, of course, Vassiliy Ilych.’
‘It says here,’ Drinov began, turning back to his notebook, ‘that Preobrazhensky shows exaggerated admiration for the American way of life.’
It struck Nikolsky that the head of KR Line wasn’t displaying much confidence in his informant. Drinov was quoting statements of unknown veracity and using Feliks as a kind of litmus test, perhaps to give expression to his own doubts. Drinov’s source was obviously a member of Sasha’s service. How else could he know about Ibrahim? Perhaps a man Sasha worked with and saw in the Residency every day.
Drinov recounted some statements that Sasha was alleged to have made about America’s technological superiority and the greater efficiency of a market economy.
Nikolsky made a noise between his lips like escaping steam. ‘He might have said that,’ Feliks commented. ‘It doesn’t make him a traitor, does it? I’ve also heard him criticize the dangerous and unreasonable level of freedom in this country. He’s a soldier, after all. He likes discipline, authority. He despises the Americans because he thinks they’ve lost the ability to defend themselves.’
Drinov busied himself making notes in his private shorthand.
‘Is all of this going in Preobrazhensky’s file?’ Nikolsky asked.
‘This is just preliminary checking,’ Drinov said evasively. ‘There are certain...discrepancies in the original report. This Ibrahim thing will have to be looked into. Listen, your opinions have been very helpful. They tend to confirm my own instincts. Preobrazhensky has an excellent Party record, really excellent. But we can never take chances. Will you do something for me? I’d like you to maintain contact with Preobrazhensky and let me know what you find out. If there are any unusual expenses...’
*
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Nikolsky said to Sasha. They were in the corner of a saloon in German Yorkville, the sort of place where you half-expected someone to strut in dressed in lederhosen. There was a large pink-and-white girl by herself at the bar, but for once Nikolsky didn’t have eyes for the ladies. He had called Sasha and told him to meet him at the saloon on his way home.
‘There’s someone in your Residency who has it in for you,’ Feliks went on. ‘He’s a stoolie for Drinov. And he’s jealous enough to go to Drinov with some cock-and-bull story — a story about Ibrahim.’
At the mention of the name, Sasha froze. Ibrahim was the code name that had been assigned to his agent at the UN, George Afigbo. Slowly, Sasha set his beer mug down on the table.
‘Drinov asked me what I knew about Ibrahim,’ Nikolsky went on nonchalantly. He left a white moustache on his upper lip as he took a swig of his beer. ‘I told him Ibrahim is a character from Pushkin.’
Who could have told Drinov? Sasha’s mind was working fast. So far as he knew, only two others in the GRU Residency knew about his case: General Luzhin and the cipher clerk.
He slapped his hand against his forehead. Of course. He shared his office with Churkhin, and Churkhin could easily have picked up the scent. Churkhin knew he was engaged on a special assignment, and the man’s attitude had seemed odd in recent months, alternately frosty and overfamiliar. Sasha had put this down to Lydia’s showing off, and their move from the comfortable, down-at-heel Lucerne to a grander apartment a few blocks away. Lydia had fixed that when she had seen her father in Moscow.
‘Can you guess who it is?’ said Nikolsky, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I have an idea,’ Sasha replied.
‘It’s funny what envy will do,’ Feliks observed. ‘It could be worse, you know. We had a case in our own service. They hated each other’s guts. One of them sent an anonymous letter to the local security service denouncing his rival. Fantastic, isn’t it? But there you are. You can count yourself lucky that your colleague talked to Drinov instead of the FBI. By the way’ — he winked at Sasha puckishly — ‘I don’t suppose you really are a CIA agent, are you?’
Sasha swore copiously, and Nikolsky rolled to avoid an imaginary punch.
They ordered kümmel, which seemed the right thing to wash down the German beer, and Sasha said to Nikolsky, ‘You know I’m grateful. But tell me, why did you warn me?’
Nikolsky winked and held up his empty glass. ‘Postavish,’ he said. ‘You owe me one.’
*
General Luzhin was no intellectual. When Sasha had been invited to the Resident’s birthday party, he had confided to Churkhin — the weasel — that he was planning to take a book as a present.
‘Don’t bother,’ Churkhin had counseled. ‘He’s got one already.’ That had been one piece of honest advice.
On the subject of the far neighbors, the KGB, General Luzhin held opinions that were reinforced by their raw simplicity. The KGB was the enemy, forever trying to steal agents and operational secrets from its sister-service. Sasha remembered what the general had bellowed after a few drinks at the birthday party: ‘If I catch any one of you farting around with Drinov, I’ll cut your balls off.’
So Sasha felt confident of his reception as he told the Resident that he had proof that there was a KGB spy in his own office. The general’s bulging eyes looked about to pop when Sasha added, ‘Drinov knows about Ibrahim.’
‘How do you know, fuck your mother?’ Luzhin roared.
‘I got it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘From Drinov? You’ve been talking to Drinov?’
&n
bsp; ‘Not him. From someone else.’
‘Well, spit it out, damn you.’ At this instant, Luzhin’s rage seemed to be focused on Sasha. In the general’s eyes, one KGB man was as bad as another.
‘He’s a social acquaintance,’ Sasha said. ‘I’m prepared to give you the man’s name on one condition.’
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Luzhin exploded. ‘What condition?’
‘If I give you the name,’ Sasha proceeded patiently, ‘you must agree not to report it to the Center. This man is in a position to help us. He has done so already, as you can see. But if you mention the name to the Center, well, you know better than I what will happen. The Third Directorate will find out, and he’ll be finished.’
Luzhin started swearing again, but didn’t contradict Sasha. He couldn’t deny that the KGB had spies in the headquarters of his service.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what are you waiting for? Get on with it.’
When Sasha had finished, the Resident stuck his fist under his chin, and brooded in silence for a couple of minutes. He didn’t doubt Sasha’s word. He had taken a liking to this young captain, who also happened to be the son-in-law of the best military commander — in Luzhin’s opinion — that the country had. And he had suspected a leak to Drinov for a long time. There was another agent who had been blown, the one they hadn’t reported through the Kontakt system, contrary to regulations, to make sure the KGB wouldn’t know. The Resident felt in his gut that Sasha was right to point the finger at Churkhin. But where was the proof?
‘And so?’ he challenged Sasha. ‘How do you suggest we handle it?’
‘I followed him,’ Sasha said calmly.
‘Who? Churkhin? You spied on a brother officer?’
‘On a stoolie,’ Sasha said without visible emotion. ‘I saw him enter Drinov’s apartment, and leave half an hour later. I can give you the exact time and date. Is that enough?’
‘I think you’d better help me draft the telegram,’ said Luzhin.
*