To Catch a Traitor

by Shuster, D. B. ;

  “Did you get to talk with him?” she asked, but he gave a swift shake of his head and mouthed, “Not now.”

  She pressed her lips together to hold back the torrent of words, the outpouring of years’ worth of stockpiled and bottled up love, the hundreds of questions.

  He’d said he’d seen Kolya, and she couldn’t even ask him about that. Their son had been a chubby toddler when Mendel had been taken from them, and now he was seven, reading his own books and going to school. She wanted to tell Mendel how much of him she saw in their studious boy, how very proud she was, how she’d tried to keep Mendel’s memory alive for him, about the hopes she had for them both now that they were all back together. About her overwhelming desire for another baby before she was too old.

  She tried to communicate all of this with her eyes, but Mendel’s own expression remained shuttered and severe.

  She wondered what he might be thinking. Maybe he resented the agents for dampening the joy of their reunion with their ever present menace, for making them wait this little bit longer when they had already been waiting for what seemed a lifetime.

  She cut her glance sideways to the agents and realized suddenly that they weren’t actively interfering. They stood a respectful distance away, as if giving them space for their reunion. Several seats away from her and Mendel, they were even out of range for eavesdropping if she and Mendel kept their voices low.

  That fact in itself ratcheted up her constant current of anxiety. When had the KGB ever been respectful or made anything easy?

  Her father liked to say that the agents on the street were meant to lull you into a false sense of security, thinking that only two such men spied on you.

  People accused him of being paranoid, but she knew better. Someone was always watching, always listening, always waiting to catch you.

  The KGB had a vast army of people, agents and informants, who observed and recorded. Anyone—even her newly returned husband—could be a spy or turned into an informant, even unwittingly.

  Mendel had mentioned danger, she realized, but he hadn’t signaled what kind. What if the agents weren’t the biggest threat?

  At the subway stop near their apartment, Mendel motioned for her to stand. She reached for his hand.

  His skin was dry but warm, but he pulled away with an odd little shiver, denying her even that small touch.

  She didn’t understand. What could it hurt? Wouldn’t the agents think it strange if they didn’t touch?

  Or had his feelings for her changed during their forced separation?

  She turned up the collar of her coat and stuck her hands deep into her pockets, walking with her stranger of a husband through the quiet Moscow streets, the KGB agents trailing silently after them. Mendel moved slowly, stiffly, as if his whole body ached, as if he were an old man.

  She had a deeply uneasy feeling. Something wasn’t right.

  When they reached their apartment building, the agents didn’t follow them in. They remained outside, standing watch a little distance from the door, the way her father’s agents did whenever he came to visit her.

  They rode the elevator up to the seventh floor in silence, she following his lead. Soon, she thought, they would go into the apartment where they could be alone and everything would be as it should, the way she had imagined it night after lonely night—passionate kisses, tender words, embraces that chased away the gnawing loneliness.

  He didn’t look like the man she’d imagined would return to her, but her love had always been about more than that. Pent up desire gave way to a hot, steady flow, expectant and searingly sweet.

  As soon as they were alone in the apartment, she locked the door behind them and secured the chain. She was eager to connect, to reclaim him, to find in him the man she’d loved.

  She threw herself into his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck. He tilted his head away, and her kiss glanced his chin. Then he cradled her head against his shoulder, against the rough wool of his coat.

  His fingers lingered for the briefest moment in her hair, and then he released her, long before she was ready.

  It felt like a rejection. And she couldn’t begin to guess why or to stop the tears that spilled from her eyes. The old Mendel had never been able to get enough of her. They had always been touching, kissing.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like to be touched anymore,” he said. Again, he wouldn’t look at her.

  “What did they do to you?” she blurted.

  “I can’t—won’t—talk about it,” he said. “I’m home now. And it’s done.”

  She turned away from him to shield him from her potent disappointment and unbuttoned her coat. He was the one who had endured the harsh treatment. Her suffering was nothing in comparison to his. Just look at him!

  She wouldn’t press him, she decided. It was his pain, and he could tell her when he was good and ready, but she did have other questions.

  What was the danger he’d mentioned earlier? Had it only been the presence of the agents, or was it something more?

  She hung their coats in the coat closet and stuffed her tote bag deep into the back, some innate caution driving her to keep the camera safely hidden, even from him.

  She went into the kitchen and filled the tea kettle, needing to keep her hands busy. She left the water running, a trick she’d learned to muffle what surveillance might pick up.

  “Why were you released? You still had several months left to go,” she said. “And how come no one told us?”

  “Still seeking plots everywhere,” he said. “I guess some things haven’t changed.” He sounded as if he were scolding her.

  “Nor should they,” she said a little tartly. He used to cheer her efforts and share her caution. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Who knows why they do the things they do?” he said evasively. “I just thank God I’m not there anymore.” He shut off the running tap, effectively ending their conversation.

  He knew more than he was letting on. He had returned a full six months before his sentence was up, something nearly unheard of.

  Her thoughts alighted on a minefield of devastating possibilities. Had he made a deal with the KGB? Could he be trusted? Was he their spy?

  “I want to go to bed,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”

  There was no invitation in his words. Likely he was exhausted, but he was also avoiding further conversation.

  He still hadn’t talked to her about the danger he’d mentioned in the subway station, but she had a heightened sense of it now, crowding into the room, filling all of the space between them.

  He compounded her sense of separation from him, saying, “I’ll take the couch tonight. I’m not ready to share the bed.”

  Not ready. Maybe she only needed to be patient. Maybe there was hope. She would wait as long as he needed if there was a chance he’d truly return to her.

  But what if he were already gone?

  Chapter FOUR

  ARTUR

  ARTUR SAT AT his cubicle typing up his report on his first encounter with Edouard “Edik” Soifer. The sounds of hushed, angry conversation from his supervisor’s office carried to him.

  “How can you saddle me with him? He’s never even handled an informant,” Artur’s new partner, Victor, complained.

  Victor hadn’t stopped at his cubicle next to Artur’s. He’d arrived and marched straight to their supervisor’s office, likely not expecting Artur to be in earlier than he was, especially after the late night out.

  “He’s an excellent agent,” their supervisor defended. But Kasparov didn’t sound fully convinced himself, adding, “So I’ve been told.”

  “So you’ve been told,” Victor grumbled. “By whom? By Semyon? This is a simple case of nepotism. And there’s too much at stake. How can you expect me to produce results on the Reitman case w
hen I have to babysit the Spymaster’s son-in-law?”

  Artur blew out an exasperated breath. He wished he weren’t privy to the argument, one that repeated with troubling frequency. He was a victim of his own success.

  “You’re letting your ego get in the way. You need to give him a chance,” Kasparov said.

  “A chance to what? Tank my career? Just because he’s greener than grass doesn’t mean I’m willing to get mowed down with him,” Victor said. “I already talked to Lilya. She said last night was a total bust. They got nothing.”

  “She got nothing,” Kasparov clarified. “Artur’s working on his own report.”

  “Blyad! He’s here?” Victor asked.

  “See what he has to say. You might find a benefit sticking to the side where the grass is greener,” Kasparov said.

  Victor emerged from Kasparov’s office a moment later. Although he likely realized Artur had heard the whole conversation, he made no apology. He didn’t even have the good grace to look slightly sheepish, at the very least for not having noticed Artur’s presence.

  Instead, he swooped down on Artur’s cubicle like the fat hawk the other agents agreed he resembled. “I heard last night was a bust.”

  “Not exactly.” Artur tried to sound upbeat. The truth was he was disappointed himself. He typed the last sentence of his report and pulled the paper from the typewriter, handing it to Victor with feigned bravado.

  When he’d set out with Lilya last night, he’d expected to have a book’s worth of secrets in his hands by morning. In reality, he hadn’t gathered enough information to fill a complete page.

  Victor skimmed the paper. “So you know Soifer’s involved in black market trade. He carries around gads of cash. And he comes to the same bar every Wednesday night to take orders for merchandise.”

  “And he has an associate named Sofia with a talent for price gouging for cigarettes,” Artur added.

  “That’s it? That’s all you got out of him?” Victor asked, incredulous.

  “It’s a start,” Artur said.

  Victor snorted dismissively. “It’ll take a lot more than this to demonstrate you have what it takes to be a spy handler. This isn’t enough to take to the Spymaster without embarrassing yourself.”

  Artur couldn’t help but agree with him. He had hoped to do far better.

  “Although, to be fair, this was your first experience with an informant,” Victor added with unexpected sympathy. “Sometimes these things take time.”

  Before Artur could wonder at the change in Victor’s tone, he heard the telltale slap of leather-soled shoes on linoleum, the confident stride of the Spymaster, the Chief of the Second Directorate, Foreign Intelligence. Victor must have seen Semyon coming down the hall and was now trying to put on a good show.

  Semyon paused at Artur’s desk. Even before Artur had married Maya, Semyon had taken an interest in him, but the new proximity since his assignment as Victor’s partner increased the number of visits.

  Judging by the presence of his gold cuff links, the medals from his military service, and his “lucky” red tie with the gold star at the bottom, Semyon had just met with the heads of state. He carried a notepad and a leather folio.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Artur noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the deepening lines. His father-in-law seemed to have been involved in an endless string of meetings lately. Yet he never failed to grace Artur with some small, fatherly acknowledgment,—a smile or wink or pat on the shoulder.

  “Hard at work, I see,” Semyon said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Artur hoped he wouldn’t have to report to the Spymaster on the poor results from his first spy handling assignment. He didn’t want to disappoint the man.

  “Good. Good,” Semyon said distractedly. “I’m counting on you both. I just came from the latest briefing. President Reagan is using the Jewish question to stall negotiations for nuclear disarmament. They’re standing on the Helsinki Accords and accusing us of human rights violations.”

  Semyon huffed derisively. “The hypocrites accuse us of racism and discrimination. They should take a good hard look in the mirror.”

  “This isn’t about what’s true,” Artur said. “The Main Enemy has always wanted to interfere in our internal affairs. It’s what the Americans do all over the world. They pretend they’re interested in peace, while they occupy countries and build up their arsenals. We all know this is just an excuse to continue Reagan’s Star Wars program.”

  Semyon clapped him on the shoulder. “You get it.”

  He turned to Victor. “You’ll be interested to know the American ambassadors are naming Jews by name—Sharanksy, Nudel, Reitman, Abramovich. By name!” Semyon exclaimed and then gave a weary, disgusted shake of his head.

  “Reitman?” Victor asked, looking pale.

  “Yes, Reitman,” Semyon confirmed. “I want a full status report.” Although a KGB Chief, Semyon wasn’t technically their supervisor. Victor and Artur worked for the First Directorate, domestic intelligence, and reported to Igor Kasparov. But investigating the Jews, who were communicating with foreign governments, crossed into areas of foreign intelligence, too.

  “Everything’s in place,” Victor said. “Mendel was welcomed home yesterday, no questions asked. And so far, he’s been very cooperative.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Semyon said, as if surprised and pleased Victor could impart any good news.

  “And how are you faring?” Semyon asked Artur.

  “I went after a potential informant last night,” Artur said.

  “I heard you ran into some unexpected trouble,” Semyon said.

  “The target didn’t take to Lilya,” Artur said.

  “She mentioned that,” Semyon said, leaving Artur to wonder whether Semyon was secretly keeping tabs on Artur’s performance. “Will you try again with another dangle?”

  “Actually, I’d like to see if I can get anywhere with him myself,” Artur said.

  “Why? Is he goluboy?” Semyon asked with surprise.

  “No, I don’t think he’s gay,” Artur said. “I think he’s just really awkward with women and happened to take a liking to me. I told him I was new in town, and he offered to show me around.”

  “Interesting. So you’re going undercover,” Semyon said, gracing him with unexpected approval. “Seeing if you can befriend him and pump him for intel yourself.”

  “It’s going to take a lot of time,” Victor complained. “Sex or blackmail would be so much faster.”

  “Yes,” Semyon agreed. “But those are blunt instruments. Sometimes it’s better to be more subtle and use a needle, so sharp they don’t even feel the pinch until it’s too late.”

  “He’s never been undercover before,” Victor said.

  Semyon shrugged. “We all have to start somewhere. And obviously he has a natural talent if the target invited him on his own.”

  He gave Artur a wink, patted him on the shoulder, and, in much higher spirits than when he arrived, Semyon started to whistle as he headed down the hall.

  “He has big plans for you,” Victor observed. “Wants to see you cut your teeth on the kinds of assignments needed to advance.”

  “Yes. But he’ll also understand if there’s something more pressing,” Artur said. “Like the Reitman case.”

  “You stick to your thing, and I’ll stick to mine,” Victor said. “This is a good opportunity for you. If you succeed, it will show that you’re ready for big assignments. You know, deep cover or Embassy work.”

  “But the Reitman case?” Artur asked, knowing that this was Victor’s major focus, the assignment on which he thought his own career rose or fell.

  “Is well in hand,” Victor said. “And it’s in everyone’s best interest if we all keep the Spymaster happy.”

  Chapter FIVE

  SOFIA


  WHEN SOFIA AWAKENED the next morning, Mendel was gone. If not for the blanket and pillow crumpled on her living room sofa, she might have convinced herself his return was a troubling dream.

  Her little sister stopped by before school, bringing Kolya so that he could change into clean clothes.

  Despite a ten-year age gap between Vera and Kolya, they both went to the same school. Vera rode the city bus with him every morning.

  “Is Papa here?” Kolya asked. His slim shoulders were tight and high, and his face pinched. Rather than being overjoyed to have his father back, Sofia’s little boy seemed anxious.

  When she told him Mendel had left for the morning, Kolya’s shoulders relaxed, but his face stayed pinched as if he were concentrating hard. “He looks weird, and he smells funny.”

  “He’s had a hard time,” Sofia said. “But we’ll take care of him, and things will get better.” She tousled his hair, dark and curly like hers, and spoke with a confidence she wished she felt.

  “He had a funny hat,” Kolya said, reminding Sofia about the yarmulka she’d noticed last night. She hadn’t asked Mendel about its significance, but she wondered now. Her husband used to teach Hebrew, but he had never been a religious man. Other than the rabbi and her uncle’s foreign visitors, they had never encountered anyone religious, anyone who wore a Jewish skullcap. But now Mendel was wearing one. What did it mean?

  There was so much about him that was different on the surface. She couldn’t begin to guess what might have changed inside.

  Kolya retreated to his nook, a semi-private corner of the living room partitioned by two large bookcases to form a bedroom. She heard him open and close his dresser drawers, taking out his clothes.

  She knew better than to ask if he needed her help. Only seven, he refused to be coddled or treated like a child. Mama called him her “little man.” Sofia hoped that with Mendel’s return, Kolya might allow himself to be a little boy again.

  “Mama wanted me to tell you to bring Mendel by later,” Vera said. “She said she’s looking forward to baking for him again.”