She had wanted to know every detail of his undercover assignment, claiming she could help him as she had in his problem with Victor. But Artur couldn’t reveal any concrete details to her. She hadn’t appreciated being reminded that she didn’t have security clearance, that despite her father’s high position, she wasn’t actually an agent herself.
“Your mother. Your father. My father. I’m sure they’re all quite pleased with themselves,” she had said bitingly, “to imagine they come first in your esteem. Ahead of me. Your wife.”
Semyon drew him back to the present, the glittering reception, saying, “This is what undercover work is all about.” He gave a hearty laugh and slapped Artur on the back. “Seducing that woman is your patriotic duty, son. Ha ha.”
Artur smiled uneasily at him. He sipped the last drops of his champagne and tried to read into the Spymaster’s behavior. Semyon wasn’t displaying his usual discretion, talking about this aspect of the case within Maya’s earshot.
Semyon wasn’t careless. He didn’t do things without a reason. Artur tugged at his bowtie, trying to loosen the knot ever so slightly.
He felt caught in a tug-of-war between father and daughter, each of them testing him to see where his true loyalty lay.
“I apologize for pulling you from your undercover operation. Was it that hard to give her up for the evening?” Semyon asked.
Artur hadn’t yet seduced Sofia, but Semyon didn’t know that. Artur couldn’t help but notice that Semyon hadn’t led with the question of whether seducing Sofia Reitman had yielded any significant intelligence, as if the sex alone were important in itself.
Artur couldn’t help thinking of Lilya, the dangle. Her duty was always seduction, nothing more. Did Semyon think him no better than Lilya, a pretty face to lure the target and then hand things over to the real agents?
“For this? Not at all.” Artur mimicked Semyon’s laugh, as if they were sharing an inside joke. He pretended to be delighted to be at this fancy reception, to be talking with his father-in-law about sexual conquests.
He should have been ecstatic at tonight’s opportunity to rub elbows with the elite nomenclatura, to pursue his career ambitions. He should have cultivated the same callousness Semyon showed toward Sofia because she wasn’t part of this glittering world and, therefore, didn’t matter.
But he couldn’t shed Yosef Koslovsky’s skin so easily.
A clean shave and a crisply pressed tuxedo weren’t sufficient to transform him back into his usual self. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sofia’s swollen face or Jewish accidents or what his life would be like if he had been Yosef Koslovsky’s son.
Certainly, if he had been born Artur Koslovsky, he wouldn’t be here in this world of the Communist party, of powerful men and their glamorous and decorated women, of elegant china plates with buttered crackers and beluga caviar, of glasses full of French champagne, and bellies full of rich food and ambition.
This was Artur Gregorovich’s world, the world he’d aspired to, married into. For so long, even before he’d met Maya, he’d told himself he deserved to be here. All he had to do was prove it.
Yet tonight he no longer felt secure in the knowledge he belonged. What had he done to earn the good fortune, the privilege, he enjoyed and took for granted? What had any of them done?
Semyon lowered his voice and whispered, “The news isn’t out, but Chernenko’s dying.”
Artur looked questioningly at him. Was this the moment of opportunity that had fueled so many rumors at the Lubyanka?
Chernenko’s predecessor, General Secretary Andropov, had been KGB Chairman, while Chernenko had no ties to the organization. Andropov had not approved Chernenko, but speculation was that the next General Secretary would come again from among the KGB’s ranks. If so, Semyon seemed a natural choice. The Spymaster looked and talked like a camera-ready politician, and Chernenko had shown a strong distaste for him. The wheelchair-bound General Secretary had specifically requested that they not be photographed together. Likely he didn’t want to appear weak next to the handsome and healthy Semyon, who could only benefit from the association and any comparisons that might be made.
The agents had a pool, with bets placed on when the crusty Chernenko might kick the bucket and whether Semyon would take his place.
“This isn’t my time,” Semyon said, anticipating the question. “Gorbachev is in position to be the next General Secretary.”
Ah, that did explain the urgency that Artur attend the reception. Gorbachev was tonight’s guest of honor.
“The transition makes your case more crucial than ever,” Semyon said. If his father-in-law suffered a deep disappointment over this political setback, he didn’t show it. “The Jewish problem is a liability in the Cold War, and we can’t afford for our next leader to start from a position of weakness.”
“I understand,” Artur said, intuiting that Semyon could not start with the next regime thinking he had failed.
“I might have another angle on the case. Reitman’s sister-in-law. Pretty little thing. Vera,” Semyon said.
“You want me to seduce her, too?” Artur asked. The collar of his shirt suddenly felt too tight. Sofia’s little sister was a mere teenager, a child.
“God, no. She’s too young for you,” Semyon said. “I have another man on it. Teenagers are suckers for true love.”
“Why her?” Artur asked. He understood why Sofia made a compelling target. Seeing her today handing off such a substantial sum of money to Edik, he expected she was a central figure in the plot he’d been sent to expose. But the little sister hadn’t been mentioned during his week undercover. He hadn’t even seen Vera Soifer, save for the picture in her file back at the Lubyanka.
“Let’s just say there’s been an unexpected opportunity to draw her in,” Semyon said cryptically. “And I anticipate a payoff to the efforts, even if she yields little useful information.”
He had the impression of Semyon as a Grand Master of the chessboard, moving his pieces with ruthless calculation, in a pattern only he could see. For the first time, Artur felt himself a pawn in a much larger game, one he didn’t understand, one he hadn’t chosen.
“In any case, I don’t trust Victor to get the job done,” Semyon said. “I’m glad to have you on the case. I know you’ll get me what I need.”
“Yes, sir,” Artur said against the sudden dryness in his throat. He should have been reassured that Semyon considered him more than a mere dangle, pleased even with the level of trust the Spymaster placed in him, but instead he felt an unaccountable discomfort in his gut.
Whether or not he liked the role he’d been given, his country’s fate hung in the balance. He couldn’t care about Jewish accidents or Sofia and her sister.
Maya appeared at his side, her face a chilly mask. He couldn’t change the facts of his job or what he was about to do, and he knew he needed to do some damage control, perhaps reassure her of his love.
“You look so beautiful tonight. We’ve been watching you dazzle everyone.”
She brightened with his praise. Semyon excused himself to give them a few precious moments alone before he sent Artur back to the field, once again asserting his claims.
“Did you know that Grimalsky bought his wife a fur coat and diamonds?” she asked, clearly dazzled herself. “We’ll have that someday. You’ll be so successful, and they’ll all envy us.”
He easily imagined how beautiful Maya would look wrapped in fur with those luminescent pearls circling her graceful neck. She would stand beside him as he made a speech at a podium, while reporters flashed pictures and a crowd of important politicians hung on his every word.
Tonight was evidence he was well on his way. Even though he was only thirty years old, his career had already outpaced his father’s. He had the right connections, along with the driving ambition that his father had rejected.
Russian royalty
indeed.
But for the first time he wondered how much the dream might cost him.
“Don’t you feel the men’s eyes on us right now?” He asked as he led her toward the doors. He opened the patio doors and took her out into the chilly night, hoping they could reconcile before he left again. He didn’t like the idea that she might stew in anger while he was away undercover. “They all envy me now. Because I have you.”
“It’s cold out here,” she complained.
“I’ll keep you warm.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled the sides close around her and buried her nose in the lapel, taking a long inhale. His heart constricted at this sign of her affection.
“Did you know that Grimalsky bought a new car, too?” she asked. “He paid for everything from the money he made in bribes. Just imagine what you could get. You’ll climb even higher than he can.”
“I’m not looking to become a bureaucrat,” he said. Grimalsky was a paper pusher.
“I know,” she said. “You love being an agent.” Her lips pressed into a frown. “I heard what my father said. He’s sent you out to have an affair.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this. I have to go back into the field tonight, and I don’t want you distressed at such a delicate time.” He alluded to her pregnancy. Stress couldn’t be good for the baby or for the prospects of taking this one to term. But also, he didn’t wanted to discuss this part of the job with her.
He would prefer to keep her out of it, unsullied and undisturbed by the choices he had to make to keep his country safe.
He didn’t want her to be hurt.
Maya splayed one hand over her belly. With her other, she found the pearls on her necklace. She stroked one between her thumb and forefinger. “Distressed? Why would I be distressed?”
He tipped her chin so that he could look into her lovely face. He expected to see vulnerability, not the cold, hard glimmer in her eyes.
“I know what your job entails,” she said. Her gaze sharpened with shrewd and cutting insight, and she said, “It’s not me you’re worried about.”
She stood back from him as if suddenly too disappointed in him to stay close. “It’s you! You’re going soft,” she accused. “You’ve let your parents fill your head with their nonsense.”
Her criticism took him aback. How did this conversation have anything to do with his parents?
“I told you not to let them get into your head,” she scolded. “But you did. And now you imagine you’re doing something wrong.” She poked a long, elegant finger at his chest. “Don’t you?”
Obviously, he needn’t have worried about Maya. She was every inch the good KGB wife, just as Semyon had said, and somehow that didn’t make Artur happy.
“You can’t afford to lose your conviction now,” she said. “Forget about your parents. Do whatever you have to do to keep climbing. Seduce a hundred women. I don’t care. I understand that you’re doing it for us.”
Her cold indifference, her single-minded ambition, disturbed him deeply. Didn’t she love him?
She cupped his cheek with her hand. Her fingers were cool, like ice, against his skin. “This is the way for us to get what we want.”
To get what? Fancy strings of pearls, fur coats, and cars? Press conferences and the power to treat people as pawns?
All of the things they had wanted—things he had pursued by trying to fashion himself in Semyon’s image—suddenly seemed empty, meaningless.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore.
Chapter FORTY-SIX
SOFIA
SOFIA PRESSED HER ear to the bathroom door and listened for Grisha’s exit. She clutched the keys she wore around her neck. The metal edge bit into her palm.
Mendel hadn’t alerted the KGB, hadn’t turned her in. This morning had burned away any lingering doubt. He might not want her to spy, but he wouldn’t have betrayed her.
That left the question of what the KGB knew or suspected. Why had they suddenly increased security? Would the keys still work?
She heard the hallway door open and close, and she debated her next move. Grisha might still be out there, and she couldn’t afford for him to start suspecting her if he didn’t already.
She had already used her trick with the bleach, entering the hall with the ready excuse of retrieving it after she thought he had left a first time, but Grisha had stood there waiting.
She manufactured a new excuse to go into the hallway, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. “Grisha?” she called, as if she expected to find him. “I need you to…”
She had been poised to pretend she’d forgotten something in the supply closet downstairs, but the hallway was empty.
She ran to the door to Max’s old office and shoved his key at the lock. Her fingers trembled. She fumbled the first few attempts. Then, finally, she managed to insert the key.
She turned it to the right. She met no resistance, and the lock tumbled open. It worked!
She eased open the office door and surveyed the room. Had new surveillance been installed? Would she get into the files, only to be caught on video?
She hesitated in the doorway. She feared she was walking into a trap. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before she was discovered.
But please not tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Not until my family and my people, all of them, are free, she prayed.
She sneaked over to the file cabinet. Her second key worked there, too.
She retrieved the file on the prototype and rushed back to the bathroom.
In the bathroom stall, Sofia opened the file to where she had left off. Page 25. She had a way to go to finish the report, possibly a week left of work. She pulled the shiny silver Tropel from her pocket and removed the cap to the lipstick tube. She set the page up on the window sill and balanced on her elbows to line up the shot. Click.
She flipped the finished page over into a separate pile, took a fresh page, and set up her next shot. Her body cast a shadow over the page, and she adjusted her position, keeping her arms in place but leaning away to take the next picture. Her motions were slow and awkward.
She tried to line up every shot just so. She didn’t want her effort to be wasted. She only had the one camera, and she hoped to give her allies the entirety of the report. The Tropel came loaded with only 120 frames. She couldn’t afford to waste precious frames on do-over shots.
Before she knew it, she had photographed several pages. She had a sense of quiet exultation.
She heard the door to the outer office open, and she quickly restacked the pages and put them back into the folder. A moment later, the inner door opened, and she heard Grisha’s heavy steps in the hallway.
She left the folder on the window sill and exited the stall, carefully closing the swinging door to hide the papers.
She grabbed the mop and sloshed soapy water over the floor near the door to the bathroom.
Giving her no warning, Grisha pushed the bathroom door open.
“Careful,” she said. “The floor’s wet.”
He hung back by the door and watched her mop for a full minute, obviously reluctant to leave. “Do you need something?” she asked him.
“I came to check on you,” he said. His words were slurred. His squat nose was red, and his eyes were bright. He was so obviously drunk that she had a hard time believing he was a dangerous KGB agent sent to guard the facility.
He didn’t proposition her, but he raked his eyes over her as if she were naked and offering herself to him. She feared whatever liquid courage he’d chugged down might embolden him to make a move, and she needed him to leave.
“Something’s clogging the drain in the sink, and I need to clear it out,” she said, thinking maybe he would have trouble seeing her as an object of lust if he pictured her elbow deep in sink sludge.
“W
on’t that be messy? Why are you mopping the floor first?” He was more alert than she had expected.
“Procrastination,” she said with a shrug. “I know it’s going to be slimy and gross.”
He made a face, and she was encouraged to embellish the problem. “Probably pieces of someone’s chewed up lunch. Someone in the office really likes sausage with lots of garlic. It always smells really bad when I snake the drain. I’m putting it off as long as possible, but I know I have to do it before I leave.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” He seemed delightfully squeamish and eager to avoid bearing witness to whatever yuck might be in the drain. She tucked the knowledge away, dreaming up a new set of deflections to keep him at a distance. “Stop by the desk when you’re ready to go so I can check you out,” he said.
“Will do,” she promised.
He left, and she slumped gratefully over the mop when she heard the outer door close behind him.
She counted slowly to one hundred and then sneaked out of the bathroom with the file and returned it to the laboratory office.
Later that night, when she was ready to leave, she found Grisha asleep at the guard desk. Grisha wasn’t being especially vigilant now, when he should have been standing guard and inspecting her bag on the way out to make sure she hadn’t stolen so much as a stray pencil. His head was buried in his arms. An empty bottle of vodka lay on its side at his desk. He snored loudly into his elbow.
She took in the scene and almost burst out laughing. So much for her concern about cameras, she thought, and her tension eased.
She signed her name in his ledger and tiptoed to the door.
An incredible sense of power, of invincibility almost, ran through her veins.
They didn’t suspect her. Not yet. She still had time to tip the scales and repair this broken world.
To Catch a Traitor Page 26