To Catch a Traitor

by Shuster, D. B. ;

  She kept her eyes moving, surveying their surroundings, but she couldn’t help but be aware of the man beside her. Tall and broad, he moved with graceful athleticism and exuded robust good health. She couldn’t help but be struck by how different he was from the husk of a man her husband had become.

  “It’s clear. So far,” Paul assured her finally. She repeated his English words in her head, making sure she understood. Sometimes his accent was difficult for her to unravel. Her own teachers had used the British pronunciations, and Paul had the added curse of what he claimed was a “Brooklyn accent.”

  Sofia wouldn’t know. She had never been outside of Russia.

  “We’re not picking up any activity on their radios,” he said. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the tiny earpiece and the flesh-colored wire that disappeared into his collar. The Americans sure loved their fancy gadgets. Obviously, judging by the bug she found in the mezuzah, the Soviets did, too.

  She imagined the war of spy versus spy, with each side trying to outdo the other in surveillance and counter-surveillance. Aside from the Tropel, of which she wasn’t all that fond, Sofia didn’t rely on any hi-tech gadgetry.

  “There’s a new guard at the laboratory,” Sofia said in her best English, skipping the social niceties. At best she could have only five minutes with Paul, the time it took to walk four blocks together and then part ways. They couldn’t afford to be seen together for too long, and she had a lot to tell him.

  “He’s taken an interest in me. He notices if I’m in the bathroom too long,” she said.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Neither did she. “I’m hopeful it’s merely an attraction and not based on suspicion,” she said. “But it’s limiting my time to make the photographs. And the Tropel needs a lot of set up. It’s—how do you say it—fidgety.”

  “Finicky,” Paul corrected.

  “Tak. Finicky,” she said. The little cameras were attractively discreet, but they were hard to operate.

  “I managed to fill up the last camera, but it took longer than I had hoped.” She slipped a glove from her pocket. The little fob-shaped Tropel fit neatly inside the thumb.

  Paul accepted the glove and stuffed it in his own coat pocket.

  “Military intelligence said your last few rolls of film were invaluable. They’ve sent a wishlist of requests. It’s all in my note.” He seemed almost abashed when he told her, “There are five cameras in the package this time.”

  “I don’t know what I can do about the requests, but I definitely have enough material for all of those cameras,” she said, thinking of the report on the prototype that she was itching to get her hands on.

  He surreptitiously handed her a heavy pack wrapped in brown paper and twine. Five cameras. This was a sign of the true value of the information she provided. Each camera alone was worth more than the average Soviet citizen earned in a year.

  “I had them disguised as lipstick tubes for you this time,” he said. “I thought it would be easier to explain their presence if someone found them.”

  Someone like her husband, she thought, and only if he didn’t inspect them. Although the cameras were petite and easily concealed as everyday objects,—key fobs, lipstick tubes, lighters—anyone discovering the camera lens would have no doubt what they were used for or that they were spy gear.

  Two militia men appeared at the end of the next block. An ambush?

  Sofia fought the impulse to turn and walk the other way. “Look,” she alerted Paul.

  “I see them.”

  She forced long, slow breaths into her lungs as she walked slowly in their direction, expecting at any moment that they would grab her and make her disappear into the night.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  ARTUR

  ARTUR AND EDIK sat alone in a booth in one of the few pizza places in the city, a landmark Edik had been eager to share in his self-imposed role of tour guide. Edik had delivered on his offer to take Artur around the city, but he had yet to introduce Artur to his inner circle.

  “Her husband is home,” Edik whined.

  They were on their second bottle of wine, or rather Edik was. Artur had been careful to nurse his glass while making it look like he kept filling up, all the while topping off Edik’s glass again and again.

  “Whose husband?” Artur asked.

  “Sofia’s,” Edik hiccuped. Sofia again! Edik was incredibly discreet, or else he had few connections. He hadn’t mentioned any names, except Sofia. The woman who doled out all manner of useful advice and could get more than forty rubles per carton of Marlboros, but not quite one hundred.

  “Who’s Sofia?” Artur asked.

  “She’s the best person in the world,” Edik said, sloshing the wine in his glass.

  Ah, finally! It had taken five days and the better part of the second bottle before Edik seemed to feel loose enough to discuss the mysterious Sofia instead of merely citing some nugget of wisdom she’d imparted to him.

  “And she’s married,” Artur clarified.

  “She hasn’t been married. Well, no. I mean she was always married. To Mendel. But Mendel, he was in prison.” Edik rambled, his words running together.

  “Mendel Reitman?” Artur asked. He knew Victor was investigating Reitman, but he hadn’t connected Victor’s high-profile assignment directly with his own before now.

  “On the nose,” Edik said. He lifted his finger to touch Artur’s nose, but missed. If not for Artur’s quick reflexes, he might have been poked in the eye.

  “So, you’re in love with Sofia, but now her husband is back from prison.”

  “I’m not in love with her,” Edik protested feebly. “She’s my cousin.”

  His cousin? Edik obviously was connected directly to Reitman, an important fact that bore directly on the information Artur should be trying to cull from Edik. A fact that Victor surely knew and had deliberately neglected to share.

  Edik’s family connection to Reitman and his regular contact with foreigners placed him at or near the very center of a plot the Spymaster himself had taken a special interest in foiling.

  Holding back critical information about the connection between Edik and the Reitmans, Victor had sent Artur unprepared into the field. Artur could easily guess a myriad of reasons why, and all of them rankled.

  “If you’re not in love with her, then what difference is it to you if her husband’s back?” Did he suspect what Mendel’s return represented, the noose tightening around them?

  Edik stared morosely at his glass and didn’t answer right away, as if thinking over his words carefully.

  He seemed far too sober to interrogate. But much more alcohol, and he wouldn’t be coherent, Artur thought ruefully.

  Finally Edik said, “I’ll tell you a bad secret.”

  Artur leaned in, ready to snap up a juicy tidbit of information, hoping that maybe he had Edik where he wanted him.

  “I was hoping he wouldn’t come home,” Edik said.

  “So you could be together?” Artur guessed. Edik’s confession provided no new leads.

  “She’s better off without him,” Edik said. “He’s not a nice person. Not like she is.”

  “Why was he in prison?” Artur asked, already knowing the truth.

  “For teaching Hebrew,” Edik said.

  The lie surprised Artur. Teaching Hebrew? No; Mendel had been arrested for drug dealing and sentenced to five years in a Siberian gulag.

  “She thinks he’s a hero,” Edik said.

  “She must be happy to have him home after so much time,” Artur said.

  “She doesn’t seem happy,” Edik said.

  “When did you see her?” Artur asked.

  “This morning,” Edik said. He seemed to be telling the truth, but the KGB’s surveillance hadn’t picked up a conversation between Edik and his cousin. In
fact, the listening device hadn’t picked up much at all, aside from the muffled sounds of Edik and his father moving around their apartment. Edik constantly forgot to bring his hat with him, and the listening device picked up precious little from its perch on a shelf in the front hall closet.

  Had Edik met Sofia in the brief few moments when he went out to get the paper and forgot his hat? Edik still seemed far too sober for Artur to interrogate outright.

  “Well, you know what they say,” Artur said. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Edik asked. “Mendel isn’t absent now.”

  Artur cocked his head and regarded Edik. Was his target putting him on, or was he genuinely confused? “Maybe she forgot what he was really like when he was away, and now that he’s back, she’s remembering all the problems they used to have,” Artur explained. “Living with him again, she’s bound to see all of his flaws. All of the things that annoy her. That’s what happened with my girlfriend. She loved me when we were long distance.”

  “And now she doesn’t love you,” Edik said with a bluntness that might have stung had the girlfriend been real. He stared morosely at his glass of wine and then said, “I thought you said she dumped you for being Jewish.”

  “She did,” Artur said quickly. The Jew handled his liquor entirely too well. His speech might be muddled, but he retained an irritating lucidity. “It was one of the many flaws she found in me when she looked close.”

  Artur turned the conversation back to Edik and Sofia. “Are you in love with her?”

  “I’m not in love with Sofia,” Edik said again.

  “If you’re not in love with her, then what’s the problem? Why is it so bad that her husband’s back?” Artur asked, willing Edik to start talking about what Mendel’s return actually threatened.

  Edik changed the subject. “I have to go to the OVIR tomorrow to renew my emigration request.”

  “You want to leave?” He tried to connect the dots of Edik’s drunken logic and failed. He wasn’t sure there was a connection at all. Perhaps Edik was adroitly redirecting their conversation, but Artur doubted it. Edik raised his finger again to tap Artur on the nose, but Artur ducked out of Edik’s way and poured more wine.

  “Do you think they’ll grant you the visa?” he asked. Unless Edik had a whopper of a bribe and possibly even then, he knew for certain Edik’s request wouldn’t be granted.

  “No,” Edik said. “They’ve hardly let anyone go the last few years. Even with family in Israel.”

  “You have family in Israel?”

  “Sure; don’t you?” When Artur shook his head, Edik said, “Don’t worry. I know someone who can arrange it.”

  Artur wasn’t surprised. The Kremlin had long suspected the Jews’ plaintive requests for family reunification were based almost entirely on manufactured family trees. Lies, lies, and more lies.

  “Who?” Artur asked, fishing for the name of the contact, but Edik switched subjects. Again.

  “Anyway,” Edik said, “I’d prefer to go to America.”

  Straight into the arms of the Main Enemy, Artur thought. It figured. What else did he expect? The Jews talked about oppression and human rights, but all of that rhetoric hid the reality. Some of them might have Zionist dreams of the Jewish state, but the majority had capitalist dreams, fueled by American propaganda.

  “America?” Artur asked with disdain. “You know America’s full of homeless people,” he said, noting one of the more visible failings of the capitalist system. There were no homeless people in the Soviet Union. “And race riots.”

  Edik only shrugged. “It hardly matters,” he said dismissively, clearly not willing to confront the issues and have his eyes opened. “My visa request has already been rejected a bunch of times. I’ll probably never get to go.”

  “Did they tell you why?”

  “Different reasons. First, because I served in the Army. I had to wait five years so they couldn’t say I had access to sensitive military secrets. Then, because I didn’t have family in Israel.”

  “But you took care of that,” Artur said. Edik probably had no legitimate blood ties at all to anyone in Israel. Or America.

  “Right. But they said the family relation wasn’t close enough. Not a parent or sibling.” He drained the remainder of his glass of wine. Artur poured what was left in the bottle, but only a few drops were left. They coated the bottom of Edik’s wine glass. “Last time, no reason. They threw me out of the office and told me not to come back.”

  “Then why go back now?” The last visit should have provided enough disincentive to return.

  “Sofia says we should go every six months to keep our requests active. What other choice is there?”

  “Indeed,” Artur said, but he could easily supply other options, beginning with keeping quiet and accepting fate.

  The Jews’ vocal desire to emigrate was causing considerable political trouble. His country’s future rested on shutting down the dissension. The Jews were never going to be allowed to leave.

  “Will you come with me?” Edik asked.

  “To OVIR?”

  “I get nervous when I have to deal with those offices. I’m not good with people. Not like you,” Edik said.

  “I’m good with people?” Artur asked.

  “Yes,” Edik said. “So will you come with me?”

  “I’d be happy to.” Artur readily accepted the excuse to continue their acquaintance.

  “You’re a true friend,” Edik said. He put down his empty glass and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “If they approve me, then my father will need to rent out my room to someone. Maybe you?”

  Artur nearly choked on his surprise at the invitation. “Maybe,” he said, not wanting to sound too eager, as a plan unfolded neatly in his mind for going deep undercover and infiltrating the Jewish conspiracy.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  SOFIA

  EVEN IF THE militia hadn’t come for Sofia and Paul, the two men in uniform would surely take an interest if they heard them speaking English or caught a fragment of Paul’s lousy and heavily accented Russian.

  Sofia began to rant at Paul in Russian. “There’s so much to do. You have to do your part,” she said, and listed a range of household tasks from watering the plants to taking out the garbage.

  “Do you have a light?” one of the militia men interrupted, directing his question to Paul.

  “No. Sorry,” she said, preempting Paul’s answer. She caught him by the sleeve and pulled him forward with her, her voice rising in pretended anger. “And last week I asked you to fix the oven. But did you do it? No, of course not. You had to go out with your friends.”

  Whether or not Paul caught the full gist of her tirade, he glanced sheepishly at the militia men, who watched them pass with sympathetic nods, likely thinking him a hen-pecked husband.

  “And don’t think I didn’t hear about how you looked down Olga’s shirt. I can’t believe you!” She batted at him.

  They rounded the corner, out of range of the policemen. Paul was unusually quiet, even after the danger had passed.

  Finally, he said, “There have been too many close calls lately. I can’t even tell you the lengths I had to go to in order to get out of the Embassy undetected.” The Embassy was guarded by Russian militia men and closely monitored by the KGB. “The team had to smuggle me out in the back of a van.”

  He cleared his throat. “You’re a mother, Sofia. I appreciate what you’re doing. But what if you’re caught?”

  “We both know what will happen if I’m caught,” she said soberly. “And we both know your government would agree it’s worth the risk.”

  “The government would also agree you’ve done enough if you feel ready to stop,” he said. “Now that your husband’s home—”

  She cut him off. “How do you know he’s h
ome?”

  “I can’t tell you how we know it, only that we do.” He grinned, his wide American grin, and she supposed he was smug that the CIA had filched intelligence from the KGB.

  She was about to ask whether they had heard anything else about Mendel when he said, “You should give some thought to exfiltration.”

  “That would mean telling Mendel about all of this,” she said.

  She didn’t know what terrible things had been done to Mendel in the gulag or what deal he might have made out of desperation. The KGB had had five years to warp him and wear him down.

  Even if he had heroically resisted them, one thing was achingly clear. The man who had returned to her wasn’t the same one who’d left.

  “Yes, you’d have to tell him,” Paul confirmed, and she gathered from his answer that the CIA hadn’t picked up any intelligence that Mendel might be an informant for the KGB.

  “I’m not ready to do that yet,” she admitted, but she didn’t tell him more, didn’t share her doubts.

  She wasn’t sure she could trust Mendel, not the way she once had. Not the way she trusted Paul.

  Not yet, anyway.

  She shifted topics. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready with a drop.”

  “Godspeed,” he said. They had worked together long enough that he likely realized further argument would be a waste of his breath.

  “Please be careful,” he said.

  “Always.”

  They parted ways, and she didn’t dare look back at him.

  When she arrived home, her apartment was dark. She didn’t turn on the lights. She hung her coat in the closet by the door.

  With Paul’s package in hand, she then crept quietly toward the main room, which served as a living room by day and as Kolya’s bedroom by night.

  She listened for Kolya’s deep, rhythmic breaths behind the bookcases in his sleeping nook. He didn’t stir, even though a floorboard squeaked as she tiptoed toward the bedroom.

  She couldn’t see any light under her bedroom door. She pressed her ear to the door, but she didn’t hear Mendel moving around.