But no one rang the Huddleston bell downstairs until about 7 p.m. It was a man who then rang, but not the suspect. This man wore a mustache and a shapeless hat and had a pipe in his mouth.
The agent on the eighth floor reported that a man with a mustache and a Tyrolean-style hat had a few moments later knocked on the door of 803 and been admitted.
The deputy thought all of this interesting enough to bring to the attention of General Krivitsky himself. The general listened with characteristic patience. He then acted with characteristic decisiveness. “It is obvious that the apartment at 68 Krasina is being used by at least one American agent, perhaps more. You will,” he turned to his deputy, “organize a break-in at eleven tonight. Give Bolsky three men. Armed. Their story is that we have information that the apartment is being used by a drug merchant. Bring in whoever is there, and leave one man to search the apartment thoroughly.”
At 11:03, with the passkey obtained from the superintendent, the door to 803 swung open and four swirling flashlights came to rest on a couch in which a tall young man, quite naked, was copulating with a young woman, also naked. The lieutenant spat out a few words, the flashlights were deflected to one side, the clothes on the floor were flung at the couple, who were gruffly instructed to dress and prepare to accompany the police to headquarters.
After a decent interval, Bolsky turned on the overhead light and then looked at the couple, dressed now and holding hands. It was both surprising and gratifying that the man was the suspect whose trail had been temporarily lost.
Pavel Zelinsky led a drab life. His wife had left him, taking along his twelve-year-old son. She was unwilling, she said, any longer to put up with his alcoholic fits, during which he would often batter his wife and his son. He had submitted to a cure, and after six months’ treatment at the terrible sanitarium/detention center near Zagorsk, to his wife’s disgust he—a reformed alcoholic—had taken a job as a bartender!
Now, Galina and the boy gone, Pavel had nothing to look forward to, nothing to occupy him. He paid listless attention to the humdrum television programs in the morning before going to work; another two hours of television during his time off in the afternoon, then back to the dingy bar that served neighborhood clerical workers, night workers, and a few schoolteachers. Until closing time, at ten.
The one exhilaration came weekly. It was then that his nervous system came, however briefly, to life. This happened in the post office when he received the weekly letter from his wife—postmark illegible, no return address—reporting on how things were with her and with their son. These letters invariably arrived on Tuesday mornings, and after several months’ experience Pavel could anticipate that the letter would be inserted in his box between nine and eleven. Accordingly, he would appear at the post office at nine, the hour it opened. Every five minutes he would peer into his little window, waiting to see whether the postal clerk at the other end of the wall of boxes had inserted his letter. His letter from Galina.
Until it arrived, Pavel would kill time by running his eyes over the notices pinned on the bulletin board. Mostly they were notices to boxholders, announcing one new regulation or another. There were also announcements of forthcoming public events and neighborhood artistic doings and gallery openings.
And there was a section devoted to men and women wanted by official Moscow: the police, the Ministry of Veterans’ Affairs, the Missing Persons Bureau. He had become familiar with the photographic gallery, but today he saw a fresh face. He approached the photograph. It was of a face he knew, someone he had frequently brought a drink to, him and his wife, and his friend. He read the text carefully.
This man, Vitaly Primakov, was wanted by the Bureau of Missing Persons, who would give a “substantial reward” to anyone who came in with information on the basis of which the Bureau could locate the said Primakov.
Pavel Zelinsky had come upon something vaguely interesting, interrupting the miserable routine of his miserable life.
But it was time to check his window, and—it had arrived! He pulled the key from his pocket, opened the box, tore open the letter, and read hungrily the two-page note from Galina. She was well etc. etc. etc., Petya was doing well at school etc. etc. etc. Pavel was waiting always for that one word that she missed him, that she loved him, that she would permit him to write to her, that she would consider returning to Moscow if he was cured. But no. Petya’s grades at school. Her work hours had changed. They had had meat for lunch Thursday, on the birthday of the mayor. He stuffed the letter into his pocket.
And then thought suddenly of Vitaly Primakov. Pavel Zelinsky had, God and the angels and saints knew, absolutely nothing else to do until work time. So all right, he would report to the Bureau of Missing Persons. He approached the bulletin board to get the address: 1010 Pavlovsky Street. Convenient, right by a metro stop.
He was there in less than half an hour and was momentarily put off by the humming bureaucracy, though the clerks, mostly women, were engaged, or seemed to be, primarily in talking with one another. He waited by the long counter until one of them took note of him. To her he said that he had seen the notice asking for anyone who knew Vitaly Primakov. Well, Pavel Zelinsky knew him.
The clerk, a chubby woman whose fingernails were so long she had difficulty opening the file, found the right page and dialed the number of the officer who should be called in re Primakov. Pavel was told to go to the third floor and to ask for Comrade Valerian.
He did so. Valerian took notes as Pavel Zelinsky spoke. Vitaly and his wife—at least, Pavel took her to be his wife because she was very affectionate toward Vitaly—came quite often to the bar at Vernadskogo Prospekt. They met there often with a young man. No, he didn’t know the young man’s name but he had gathered from a conversation overheard that he was a teacher at the Pitkin School nearby.
Would he be able to identify that man, if he were shown pictures of the faculty at Pitkin?
Oh yes, that would be quite easy to do.
An official car drove Pavel Zelinsky to the KGB and he was taken to the cluttered office of Major Konstantin Vasilov. A second car came in from the Pitkin School, carrying the superintendent’s dossier of photographs of the thirty-six men and women who had taught at Pitkin at any point during the academic year. Major Vasilov instructed Pavel to examine the pictures.
He did so.
The major spoke anxiously. “Do you recognize him?”
“Yes, Comrade Major.”
“Well. Which one?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“You will get your reward, you have my word on it. Which one?”
“No, Comrade Major. I wasn’t talking about the reward. Well, perhaps you can call it a reward, in a way. I wish the help of the Bureau of Missing Persons.”
Major Vasilov looked at Pavel. An unappealing figure, perhaps forty years old, half of one front tooth missing, his hair scraggly, his shave irregular. Major Vasilov was not accustomed to being treated this way.
He decided to be stern. “Are you telling me that you refuse to identify this man unless I put the Missing Persons Bureau at your disposal?”
“Well, Comrade Major, I did not mean to sound quite so demanding. It’s just that I wish to locate my wife, to find out where she is. I am in a position to give the Bureau a great deal of help, because she writes to me every week, and perhaps the letter could be traced. For instance, last Thursday, the birthday of the mayor of the town she lives in took place. I know that.”
Major Vasilov reasoned that he had two alternatives. One was to have one of his men rough up Zelinsky—there were ample facilities to get that done, here at number 2 Dzerzhinsky. But it would be messy, and there was a distinct intractability he detected in this unprepossessing bartender. The second alternative was to grant his request. What did he, Konstantin Vasilov, care?
“I shall grant your request.” He turned to Lieutenant Bibikov. “Lieutenant, get me on the telephone Comrade Zagrev.” He turned to Pavel Zelinsky. “Zagrev is the chief of t
he Bureau of Missing Persons.”
Zagrev was on the line.
“Comrade Zagrev, it is Konstantin Vasilov. Major Vasilov, KGB. Calling on behalf of General Krivitsky. I wish to make a formal request on behalf of the KGB. Comrade Pavel Zelinsky will come by your office this afternoon to identify a missing person and to give you information on the basis of which you can be expected to locate her. Is that agreeable, Comrade Zagrev?… Yes. Well, good day. And yes, I shall pass along your regards to General Krivitsky.”
He turned now to Pavel Zelinsky. “Point to him.”
Pavel pointed to the picture of Viktor Pletnev.
CHAPTER 29
OCTOBER 1986
In the interval since the Bolshoi episode, Lieutenant Pavel Pogodin had made important inroads with, no less, General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev. A week after Bolshoi, Pavel was called into Gorbachev’s private office and there, in the presence of Pavel’s immediate superior and of the three principal officials concerned with Kremlin security, he was decorated with the Soviet Order of the Red Star. Gorbachev informally instructed him to stand at attention while he pinned the red star-shaped medal on his chest and read the citation commending him for extraordinary diligence and speed of motion in a critical security situation.
Gorbachev then told Pavel, who had been standing at attention, to go to parade rest. Pavel did so. Gorbachev informed him that the decoration must not be given any publicity until after the Kremlin officially took note of the attempt on the life of the General Secretary. “That of course is a day that may never come. It will depend on comprehensive security considerations.” But the citation would be noted in Pavel’s official record, and when it was made public, Pavel would be entitled to wear the little red star on his uniform. Gorbachev then formally embraced Pavel, and dismissed the company.
Pavel had already been relieved of his automobile radio beat. He was now posted in the principal headquarters security office at the northeast end of the Kremlin, where he was one of thirty-six men and four women. It was here that arrangements were made to provide for contingency security precautions, such as for the visit of an American President, or a May Day parade, or a trip by the General Secretary to the Caucasus. Pavel was assigned as an aide to Major Slavitz.
And very soon he learned that subordinate officers in the security unit were primarily used for the simple convenience of Politburo brass. Comrade Shevardnadze’s chauffeur having complained of bad radio reception, a junior officer was sent to “do something about it.” First Deputy Foreign Minister Kovalev’s secretary was tired of waiting for Procurement to bring in the new electronic typewriter—a junior officer was assigned the job of expediting the order.
What happened three times in the fortnight after Pavel’s posting was a request by General Secretary Gorbachev’s office, but a request in which the services of Pavel were specifically requested, by name.
Gorbachev maintained a small personal suite, a short hallway’s distance from his imperial office. He used it mostly for quick naps, for an occasional shower in the middle of the day, and as simple shelter against bureaucratic din. He wanted, he told Pavel on leading him into it, a television set “of the kind they have in modern hospitals.” One that came down on a metal arm that would suspend the screen at whatever distance from the eye the user wished, so that he might lie relaxed in bed and view a program or the news. The television must also accept videotapes, presumably inserted in an accompanying unit that would sit on an appropriate table.
Pavel said he understood exactly, and would see to it.
Major Slavitz was curious as to what it was the General Secretary had asked for. When told, he snorted that Pavel hardly had the background to supervise such an installation. Pavel readily acknowledged this but said that frankly he had been rather intimidated when the General Secretary pointed at him and said, “I wish you” to see to this.
Slavitz decided he would not interfere. But he resolved at the same time not to go out of his way to introduce Pavel to the resources of the Kremlin’s Engineering-Architectural Department. Let Pavel figure it out.
Pavel found the Soviet bureaucracy extraordinarily obliging when told that the petitioner was on a mission for the General Secretary. At three in the morning, Pavel was working with an electrician and a television engineer in the General Secretary’s hideaway suite. By 8 a.m. the metal arm was bolted to the ceiling, the little Sony television sat on its cradle, and the movement of a protruding arm positioned it wherever one desired, the springs in the arm locking it in place. A discreet cable running under the carpet connected it to a VCR unit.
Pavel had not slept at all. When at 10 a.m. the General Secretary strode into his office, his executive secretary, Maritsa, handed him a note. It was from Pavel, requesting permission to see whether the installation was acceptable. Gorbachev summoned him instantly and Pavel accompanied the General Secretary to the little room and pointed to the television over the bed. Gorbachev howled with glee, threw himself on the bed, face up toward the set, reached out for it, pushed the Power On button and viewed all four Moscow channels, one after the other. His face lit up with pleasure.
“Why can’t my other aides be like you, Pogodin! I say, well done.”
Pavel thanked him, saluted, and withdrew to his post. He would not ask Major Slavitz for permission to take even a half day off. He did what he could to stay awake until his duty watch was over, at four in the afternoon. He reached his mother’s house with his eyes half shut.
Two days later, Major Slavitz told Pavel that the General Secretary had called again for his services. “Perhaps, Pogodin, he’ll ask you to build an anti-missile missile system.” Pavel smiled demurely and walked out across the northeast courtyard past two detachments of guards. He was ushered in by the private secretary.
The grand private office of the General Secretary had not lost its imperial impact on the eye since last used by a reigning czar. There was the porticoed doorway. Fresh flowers sat on lunar-shaped marble tables on either side, pointing up toward the exuberantly painted ceiling with its great vault of puffy clouds and flying geese framed by an Italianate balustrade. On the left, an enormous chinoiserie screen, blending with the paneled walls and crystal lights, the whole of the room giving the impression of a red-carpeted avenue toward the throne at the other end of the room. Once upon a time it had been that: now in its place was an eighteenth-century gilt-edged desk, the cockpit of the de facto chief of state. Gorbachev motioned to Pavel to approach the desk. Pavel did so, saluted, and stood at parade rest.
“Relax, Pogodin. There is something I want. It is of a highly private nature. I have a remote … cousin. He is not altogether right”—Gorbachev pointed to his head, and tapped it lightly. “An accident, as a boy. But I like to humor him. He saw recently at the house of a friend one of those … French … tapes. I would like to present him with a little library of such videotapes of a relaxing … erotic nature. They are very widely viewed, as you may know, in Europe and in America especially. I could not personally be linked, you understand, with any official request for such tapes. But I am not ashamed to indulge my poor cousin with a little visual entertainment. These tapes I know are available on the black market.”
Pavel squinted his eyes, and cocked his head skeptically.
“How do I know that, Pogodin? Because I know everything is available on the black market.” Gorbachev found himself delivering a stock sentence or two from one of his speeches to the price control commissioner. He calmed down. “I need someone I can absolutely trust, and you have earned that trust, to bring me, oh, a half-dozen tapes? Now you will find in the envelope on my desk, directly in front of you—” Gorbachev reached over to snap on the table lamp, but the bulb did not light. “That accursed lamp. In any event, take the envelope over there and put it in your pocket. You will find more rubles there than you need, I am sure, to buy a little collection of the kind I am talking about. For my cousin. I wish you then to have constructed a dozen or so labels, War and Peace, Part 1,
Part 2, et cetera. Affix those labels on the tapes on the outside. And inside, remove any indication of what the tapes actually depict. I would not want my cousin’s housekeeper to know about this. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. But I do have one question.”
“Yes?”
“If the tapes I am able to find are not in the Russian language, does that matter?”
“Well, I am sure he would prefer them in Russian. But I suppose the kind of tapes he enjoys speak in Esperanto.” He smiled. “If they are truly … clever, I imagine it doesn’t matter if they are in Italian or in French or in English.”
“I understand, Comrade General Secretary.”
“And understand this, Pogodin. I am holding you personally responsible that no human being should ever know about this transaction. Upon your honor?”
“Upon my honor, Comrade General Secretary.”
It was necessary, on this occasion, to inform Major Slavitz that Pavel would need to leave the Kremlin in order to perform a private errand for the General Secretary. Major Slavitz was now resigned to it: In effect, Pavel had become a kind of all-purpose aide to the General Secretary. There wasn’t any point in giving vent to his resentment or his jealousy over Pogodin’s privileged position.
Pavel knew that pornography was not permitted in the Soviet Union, but he knew also—Andrei had made references to it—that it was to be found. Like everything else in Moscow, if you had money, and if you were willing to run a risk.
Not much of a risk, he assumed: He was not even aware that Stalin had sent to Gulag the incidental merchant caught with “dirty pictures” in the folds of a bookstore or whatever front the smut merchants used.
He walked down the pedestrian mall of the Arbat, training his eye to look for telltale signs. There was no equivalent in Moscow of what he had read about Times Square in New York City or Soho in London. But as he strolled down the wide street he felt the cosmopolitan bustle, men—and women—going this way and that, often entering doors not marked as merchandisers of anything in particular. There were, as always, the stores that sold hard-to-get food delicacies. He passed by several movie houses featuring films not widely spoken of in the official newspapers. One woman, bent over with age and presiding over the Russian equivalent of a little kiosk, beckoned to him; would he like to see her supply of “foreign magazines”? She brought up a copy of Penthouse and opened it to the center spread, which he found himself looking at inquisitively, his mind turning to Freda, a recent girlfriend, a furtive comparison crossing his mind.
A Very Private Plot Page 17