To Catch a Traitor

by Shuster, D. B. ;

  But it wasn’t the authorities. It was an ambulance.

  The ambulance screeched to a halt where they stood. She glanced up again at the windows. Someone had helped them. The whole world wasn’t against them. Good people could be found even in the most inhospitable places.

  The paramedics examined Edik, and Yosef pulled her aside. He took off his wool coat and handed it to her. Then he pulled off the sweater he wore underneath. “Here,” he said. “Cover up. You can’t go to the hospital like this, and I know you want to ride with him.”

  “Thanks.” She fumbled to shed her own coat and pulled the sweater on over her ruined blouse. The sweater wrapped her in heat from his body, but she couldn’t stop shivering. She shoved her arms clumsily back into her coat, and then he pulled her into the shelter of his embrace.

  Ah, she had been here once before, her cheek pressed to his broad chest, his strong arms holding her gently.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

  She didn’t feel safe with him, though. He exuded danger and virility, the way he fought with such lethal grace, the way he stared at her now so intensely, with something that looked like desire in his hazel eyes.

  She felt herself straining toward him, toward all of the things he offered that she had been denied for so, so long.

  She didn’t let herself linger in his embrace. She stepped out of his arms and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re a good man,” she said.

  He ducked his head, as if he didn’t feel he deserved her praise.

  Her parents and Mendel appeared at the end of the block, taking the edge off of her fear, even though the four KGB agents assigned to her husband and father followed. There was strength in numbers, and between the ambulance’s arrival and her family’s, she could trust Edik would get the help he needed without further incident.

  When he caught sight of her, Mendel ran toward her. His agents jogged to keep up.

  “What the hell happened?” She longed for him to gather her in his arms and hold her close, the way Yosef just had, but he kept his distance.

  He didn’t touch her. He never did anymore.

  “We were attacked.” Sofia kept her voice low and spoke quickly before the agents came into earshot.

  Mendel’s gaze roamed over her. He seemed to take in the missing buttons on her coat, and she didn’t know what else he saw. Maybe in that moment he satisfied himself that she was unharmed because all he asked was, “Where’s your hat?”

  “My hat?” She lifted her hands to her head. She hadn’t given a thought to her hat. She must have lost it in the tussle. His question disturbed her. He’d wasted the precious seconds they had before the agents were on them to ask about her hat, when there was so much else, so many more pressing matters.

  Who cared about her hat?

  Mendel turned from her and scouted the area, as if finding the hat would magically solve all of their problems.

  Taking in the scene, her mother bypassed them and joined the paramedics, taking charge of Edik’s care. Whether or not they appreciated her interference, the paramedics deferred to her mother’s medical expertise. Good, that was good.

  Her father came to her and caught her by the shoulders. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

  He asked the questions her husband hadn’t, and the contrast made her eyes burn with tears. Her father shook his head and hugged her tightly to him. She buried her face against his shoulder and greedily accepted the comfort her husband hadn’t offered, the comfort she hadn’t been free to accept from Yosef.

  “They’re putting Edik on the stretcher now,” he told her, and she could hear the simmering rage beneath his words. “Your mother will go with him. We’ll clear out and meet them later.” Her father easily read all of the nuances of the situation without needing any explanation.

  “Here.” Mendel shoved her hat at her. “Put it on,” he ordered.

  Her father bristled at his tone. “What will that solve?”

  “She’s a temptation to any man who sees her,” Mendel said. “She invites their attention.”

  “So the gang of boys that attacked us, it’s my fault?” she challenged. “That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said quickly. “You’re a beautiful woman. You can’t help it that God made you this way. But you must do your part to keep men’s animal instincts at bay. You must cover your hair,” he said.

  “Right. Because my hair sent them into a frenzy. And that’s why the neighbors joined in and cheered them on.”

  “You were wearing the hat when they attacked us,” Yosef said, asserting his presence for the first time since her family’s arrival and once again offering her support. “It didn’t stop them.”

  Mendel ignored their arguments, ignored the fact that they were still on the street and that KGB agents stood scant feet from them. “I need you to do this for me,” he said. “God demands it. God demands modesty.” His voice rose, and he scrubbed agitatedly at his arms. “I can’t keep you safe if you don’t do this.”

  His talk of God, of religion, here, on the street, after everything that had happened, when she was still shaking from the aftermath, when they still didn’t know how Edik fared, seemed the height of selfishness. She had no patience or tolerance left. He’d pushed her past her limit.

  “Keep me safe?” she nearly shrieked. If Mendel hadn’t shamed Edik for not protecting her, the whole violent episode might have gone differently. Edik wouldn’t have thrown those punches, and maybe they would have all walked away with little more than an uneasy feeling.

  “You didn’t keep me safe now. Yosef did,” Sofia said.

  Maybe it wasn’t right to blame Mendel, but she couldn’t help it. He had wanted to stay at the synagogue, spouting his faith, rather than walk home with her. “Not with your hats and prayers. He used strength and guts and wits.”

  Those were the tools they needed to fight the evil all around them.

  Faith and hope would only get them so far and offered no protection on their own.

  If there truly was a God and if God helped them, it would be because they had taken the fight into their own hands. Which was what she planned to do, what she had been doing.

  The paramedics rolled Edik’s stretcher up to the ambulance. Her mother said, “He has a head wound, and he was knocked unconscious. I won’t know how bad it is until we run some tests.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes at Mendel. “Go ahead and pray to your God if you like,” she said, and it was clear she’d overheard their entire argument. “I’ll put my faith in medical science.”

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  ARTUR

  ARTUR TRACKED SOFIA’S every movement as she paced the hospital waiting area. Arms crossed, she made a circuit back and forth, back and forth, like an exotic fish in a tank, gliding with graceful agitation within its confines.

  “Sofia, stop.” He rose and took her hand. He tried to lead her back to the row of chairs, but she seemed unwilling to sit, unable to relax her vigil.

  The hospital waiting room had other people waiting, like them, for news, but they kept to themselves. For now, Artur and Sofia were relatively alone. Her mother was with Edik, and the rest of the family had yet to arrive.

  He didn’t know how many opportunities he would have to get her alone. He knew he had to exploit every advantage right now and establish a connection, a foundation for seduction.

  He pulled her into his arms. He hugged her to him, the way he had the morning after they’d met, when she’d burst into tears at Edik’s apartment. “Edik’s safe now. You’re safe now.”

  He stroked his hand up and down her back in what was meant to be a soothing gesture, but she didn’t melt into him the way she had the other day. She pulled away.

  “Thank you for what you did today,” she said, but
she backed away as if eager to put as much distance between them as possible. “I don’t want to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

  She didn’t look up. She kept her gaze averted from him. She crossed her arms over her chest as if hugging herself and resumed her pacing.

  She wore the wool sweater he’d given her after the attack. The sweater had fitted his form, but it draped on her and swallowed her slender frame. She had such a strong presence that he hadn’t realized she was actually rather small.

  The collar of her blouse peeked out at the neckline. No one would have suspected the blouse was ripped apart underneath, but Artur knew. He had glimpsed her skin, her breasts, round and full, her soft, inviting shape.

  Her body was hidden now, but he knew what was there, and he wanted her. Wanted her secrets.

  “You’re going to wear out the floor,” he said.

  She gave him a brittle smile, as if she were losing patience with him. Perhaps she’d been grateful for his assistance earlier, but she didn’t seem to want him around now.

  She chewed her lip and made her circuit. Not talking to him. Not looking at him. Perhaps wishing he weren’t there.

  Her seeming indifference riled him. He was all the more eager to corner her, alone, in a place where he could command all of her attention, where he could strip her bare and seduce her.

  What would it be like? He would taste her olive skin and the dusky nipples he’d spied through her bra when her shirt had been torn. Salty or sweet? He would run his fingers through the mass of springy curls that Mendel wanted so desperately for her to hide from sight. Silken or wiry?

  She looked sharply at him, as if she sensed his prurient thoughts, as if she sensed how he undressed her with his gaze. For a moment, their gazes locked. He felt that odd sense of connection, and he thought, Yes, she feels it, too.

  Then abruptly, she cut her gaze away. She turned her back to him.

  Edik’s father arrived, putting an end to Artur’s attempts to stoke her desire for him. Two KGB agents, Ruben’s tail, accompanied him. The men positioned themselves across the room with their backs to the wall and watched them dispassionately.

  Did they know he was undercover? When they reported back to headquarters, would they also send details about his performance, about her unresponsiveness to his advances?

  Ruben was pastier looking than usual, and Sofia stopped her pacing and fussed over him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Mama’s with Edik. He’s going to be fine.”

  Artur recognized that the words were solely for the older man’s benefit, an effort to calm him when she hadn’t been able to calm herself.

  “I can’t lose another son,” he said.

  She shed her earlier agitation and took the chair beside him, angled toward him, and squeezed his hand. Could she give comfort but not receive it? Or was her problem with Artur?

  The precariousness of his status hit him with sudden force. He had no place in this scene. He wasn’t a family member. He’d had only the barest association with Ruben. And, so far, he’d failed to build any real rapport with Sofia.

  This shortfall wouldn’t be immediately apparent to the KGB audience that now watched from across the room, but he didn’t know how to remedy it.

  He started to feel a mild panic. His access to Ruben, Sofia, to the apartment, all of it hinged on Edik. What would happen if Edik didn’t wake up? If he didn’t go home?

  Artur had yet to secure his place. His undercover career could be over before it began, before he had anything useful to report.

  Ruben’s breathing was a little unsteady. He rubbed at his chest as if he had pain there. He turned to Artur. “I know what you did today. For Edik,” he said. “Ilya told me everything. Thank you.”

  “It was nothing,” he said, but Ruben dismissed his humility.

  “Bah! It wasn’t nothing. If he survives, it will be because of you.” His gruff voice rose with his adamance and drew the eyes of the others in the waiting room.

  Sofia urged him to quiet down. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he heeded her advice. “I’ve been thinking. Edik said you didn’t have anywhere to stay. I think you should move in with us. If—when—Edik leaves for Israel, you could rent his room.”

  “I’d like that.” Artur didn’t have to hold back his broad smile. For over a week now, he had been building toward this moment, laying the foundation for this very request. All the better that Ruben thought the idea his own.

  “I think you should take some time to think about this,” Sofia said. “Edik’s only known Yosef a couple of weeks. He’s still practically a stranger.”

  She was still suspicious of him. Because he was new? Or because he had done something to give himself away?

  Perhaps Kasparov had been right, and he was too green for such an important assignment.

  “Nonsense,” Ruben said. “He might have saved Edik’s life.”

  Sofia bristled at the brusque dismissal of her concerns, but she didn’t push the issue. She only asked, “Where are you staying now?”

  “At my girlfriend’s. Ex-girlfriend’s,” Artur quickly amended. “I moved here for her, and then it didn’t work out. She’s seeing someone else.”

  “And she’s letting you stay in her apartment?” Her question rang with suspicion.

  There were holes in the story. He hadn’t started with a well-planned alias. He had improvised on the details, and the lack of forethought haunted him now.

  “She feels guilty. She convinced me to move from Leningrad to be with her and then took up with another guy,” he explained in an effort to assuage her worry. “She’s letting me stay with her until I find something else.”

  “I see,” Sofia said in a way that suggested she didn’t buy the story at all.

  Dealing with her would be so much easier if he could get her to stop thinking so hard, if he could take her in his arms and kiss the sense out of her.

  He didn’t know if he could even accomplish that much, though. She didn’t seem to welcome his attention, and he didn’t know how he would get her alone.

  Maybe he was approaching this all wrong. What would Yosef Koslovsky, if he were real, be saying and feeling?

  He replayed the last half hour in the emergency room and could see his missteps. He shouldn’t have been trying to touch her or tell her everything was fine when they didn’t know for certain. He should have been sharing in her anxiety over Edik.

  He needed to fully become Yosef Koslovsky if he hoped to be embraced by this family, by Sofia.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Ruben scolded Sofia. “This is a good idea. It’ll be good for everyone. You know my health isn’t the best. I’ve been leaning on you too much to play hostess, and I know Mendel doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “He told you that?”

  Ruben ignored her question and kept talking. “Yosef could help me. He speaks English. He could talk to the guests when they come.”

  “My English isn’t that good,” Artur said. Yosef Koslovsky would be a little modest, and he wouldn’t want to appear too eager.

  “Meh,” Ruben said. “The visitors will like you. You’re young and handsome. Not like me.”

  Sofia’s gaze bore into him, and he sensed her taking his measure.

  He couldn’t afford to come up wanting yet again, to have her dismiss him and turn away. Indoctrinating Ruben’s visitors with anti-Soviet stories was the last thing he wanted to do, but he said, “I’m happy to help.”

  “This is dangerous,” she said.

  “I trust him,” Ruben said.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “This is dangerous for him.” She nodded her head toward Artur, but her gaze fixed on the KGB agents standing by the wall.

  “Sofia,” her uncle chided. “What would you have him do? Bury his head in the sand? There’s danger everywhe
re here. Not just from them.” Like her, he inclined his head to point to the agent. “Look at what happened to you today. Look at what happened to David.”

  “David?” Artur asked.

  “My older son,” Ruben said sadly. “He was the victim of a Jewish accident.”

  “A ‘Jewish accident?’ What’s that?” Artur had never heard the term.

  “You know, when Jewish soldiers get ‘accidentally’ killed in the army by friendly fire. During field exercises or on missions,” Sofia said. “David was killed when a gun ‘accidentally’ misfired.”

  “Surely you’ve heard of this. Maybe you know someone,” Ruben probed.

  “My father died in the army.” Artur exploited the limited details he knew of the real Yosef Koslovsky’s life. He was unhappy to realize he had scant few of them to share. “But no one ever said he was murdered.”

  Yosef had died while serving in the army with Artur’s father, but Artur didn’t know more than that.

  “Because it was an accident?” Ruben suggested with heavy cynicism.

  Artur imagined how a new initiate—how Yosef Koslovsky’s son if such a man existed and had actually been sitting here—might respond to the connection these Jews were drawing. Would Koslovsky conclude that his father had been murdered for being Jewish?

  “So, you’re saying his death was because he was Jewish?” Rationally and logically, Artur rejected the whole notion. No one had ever intimated the Jew—his mother’s fiancé—had been murdered.

  “I don’t know the details of your father’s death,” Ruben said. “All I know is that a disproportionate number of Jewish men die in the Soviet military. Due to so-called ‘accidents.’” Ruben drew finger quotes in the air.

  This was merely another example of the anti-Soviet propaganda he’d been sent to silence, all the more dangerous since Ruben seemed wholeheartedly to believe it and could point to the example of his own son. Worse, this personalized fable of Jewish oppression could be used to warp the mind of someone already feeling like he was on the fringes of Soviet society and recruit him to the cause.