by David Duffy
“Okay, but how did he get…”
“Stalinist zeal. He was born in the thirties. Lots of kids got screwy patriotic names—Ninel, Stalina, Drazdraperma. Apparently Grandpa Turba was a Stalinist with a sense of humor.”
“Unlikely combination.”
“The czars couldn’t kill Russian humor, neither could the Bolsheviks.”
“What did he do, your father?”
“He was a Chekist. On Beria’s staff.”
He started at that.
“He was a zek too. Arrested with my mother in forty-six. Rejoined the Cheka sometime after he was released in forty-eight. That wasn’t unheard of, by any means.”
“And it still took Iakov and your language skills to get you out?”
“I don’t think he had any idea I existed.”
“The Cheka would have.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t been able to find those records. And I’ve been looking.”
“And your Grandpa Turba—the funny Stalinist—what about him?”
“He worked for Dzerzhinsky.”
“Dzerzhinsky!? As in Felix, founder of the Cheka, Dzerzhinsky?”
“That’s right. Turba helped set it up. He was also an early victim—he was purged and sent to the camps to die in 1937.”
“And you still believe Iakov just happened to pick you out of a crowd of zeks?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’ve got Cheka royalty running through your blood, and you can ask that?”
“I didn’t know any of this until after my career was over. I learned it all since I moved to New York.”
The waitress offered coffee. Aleksei declined. I did as well. He retreated to his thoughts, and I left him there.
A good ten minutes passed before he said, “We joked in New York about you being the first ex-Chekist. I almost believed it at the time. I guess I wanted to believe it, once I figured you were my father. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Why not? What’s changed?”
Another long wait before he said, “That night at JFK, with Iakov—seems to me, looking back now, the whole thing could’ve been a setup. I wandered into it, and you improvised.”
“I improvised, that’s true. To get you out of there.”
“Maybe. The Cheka cuts too deeply into all of us, I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t tell Polina about your Gulag past. You say you were ashamed, you say you were scared. Now you tell me how each of my ancestors is more deeply wired into the Cheka than the next. What’s the motivation this time?”
“I don’t see what you’re driving at. I spent the last twenty years trying to find out about my past because I hoped … I hoped some day to have the chance to tell you where you came from.”
“And you thought I’d be as proud of it—the Cheka part—as you are?”
I had no idea how to respond. “I don’t see where pride enters into it,” I said after a moment.
“Don’t you?” His voice was full of feeling now. Anger, bitterness, resentment raced each other to the fore. An explosion was coming, and I was responsible. But what could I have told him differently?
“Aleksei, listen, I’m sorry. I thought … I thought you’d want to know.”
Did I sound as lame to him as I did to myself?
He answered that question by pulling a bundle of notes out of his pocket. He counted off several and tucked them under his empty beer glass.
“Maybe you thought wrong.”
He stood and left, grabbing his overcoat from the rack without stopping. I didn’t try to follow.
The waitress approached hesitantly. I held out the dish of money and ordered a vodka. Half an hour later, having ordered and drunk another, I was still trying to figure out what had happened. I’d underestimated whatever was eating at him as badly as I had his mother a lifetime earlier.
I tried calling him several times over the next two days, but he was busy or avoiding me. Then I had dinner with Sasha and he dropped the hammer about Beria. How would I ever explain that—if I got the chance?
CHAPTER 11
Beria disappeared at the South Street Seaport. I got home to find my neighbors, Tina and John, loading suitcases into a cab.
“Going skiing,” Tina piped in her eternally upbeat way. Tina’s very sweet and what Americans unkindly call an airhead. I think it’s both sexist and unfair to rank a woman’s brains ahead of her other attributes, which Tina has in abundance. Today, her coat was open and her woolly sweater and leather pants stretched tight over her full figure. I tried not to observe too closely since her husband, a former linebacker for the New York Giants, is Foos’s size and solid muscle. I told them to have a good trip and went upstairs to shower.
* * *
I got the Potemkin out of the garage and drove to Bedford. It’s a foolish car, especially in winter when you can’t put the top down and a rear-wheel-drive boat is useless in snow and ice. But I don’t get a chance to drive much, and I love the feel of a battleship, albeit an American battleship, on the road.
Marianna Leitz lived on East Meadow Road, a winding, empty country lane lined by old maples, white fences, and stone walls demarcating horse farms and big estates. I found her driveway between two large columns with an electronic gate and a security camera. The gate was open.
I stopped outside to check my messages. A gray Toyota Camry rolled past and disappeared around a bend. I listened to a Gatling-gun recording from Julia Leitz recounting all of the important things she was working on, none of which meant anything to me, before she said, “I might be able to do six, if this deal doesn’t blow. If that happens, all bets are off. Come here at six, but call first. I could be in crisis mode.” Sounded like crisis mode was a perpetual state she rather enjoyed, as her brother said. Nothing from Leitz’s ex-wife or brother-in-law or brother.
The Camry came back the other way. The driver turned his head as he passed. A balding man of about my age. Maybe he was lost. Or maybe he was working.
Marianna’s driveway was long, and the house, when it finally came into view, grand, white, and handsome. Big, bare-branched trees dotted the wide, snow-covered lawn. A fenced pool area to one side, tennis court nearby, and a large children’s jungle gym–swing complex opposite.
It took a few minutes before she answered the door. She would have been attractive on a good day, but good days had been few and far between in recent months. She looked like hell this morning. Deep creases marred an otherwise fine face. Gray-brown bags hung from brown eyes surrounded by roadmap-red whites. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt and had made no attempt at makeup. Her shoulder-length blond hair frizzed in every direction. She didn’t remotely resemble a rich woman living in the lap of luxury. She made a meager effort to smile hello, accompanied by an attempt at a limp handshake, which she couldn’t quite manage.
She led me through an entrance hall and a dining room that sat twenty into a sprawling kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the double sink and spilled onto the countertop.
“Sorry,” she said, waving carelessly in their direction. “I’m a little behind.”
That was an opening, but I let it pass. Better to let her decide when to tell her story.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
She tried to smile again. “Distraction is a good thing these days. Coffee?”
I had the uncharitable feeling the coffee might be the same vintage as the dishes. I declined. She went to the counter and poured herself a cup. She kept her back to me as she took a bottle from the cabinet, added a shot and put the bottle back. Self-medicating, the attempt to hide it more form than function. I know the signs, the feeling. I’ve done it myself.
Marianna pointed to a table with four chairs by the window. It had a view of the swing set and jungle gym.
“Like I said, I appreciate your time.”
She waved again. Time was one thing she had in abundance and didn’t want.
“I’m wondering if y
ou’ve been visited by anyone asking about your brother.”
“Sebastian called, said you’d be asking. I told him … no.”
Her voice was tentative, even through the booze.
“I can understand that, but…”
“But what?”
“I’m working for your brother, I’m trying to help. I don’t have to tell him everything people tell me.” I let that sink in. “There was someone, right?”
She looked around and nodded. “I … I don’t know why I didn’t tell him, except with everything else … he can be so controlling … I just didn’t feel like it, you know? He’s got his problems, I’ve got mine.”
“Sure. Everybody does. Who were they? What did they ask? This is just between us.”
“I don’t remember too much. They said it was some kind of background check. Everything … Everything’s been a bit of a blur.”
“That’s understandable.” The thing about people who withdraw into themselves, their universe of reference draws in with them. They don’t think about the rest of us—they assume we’re looking at the world from their point of view. Booze helps that process, of course. “What can you remember?”
She took a swallow from her cup. “Two of them, a man and a woman.”
“What did they look like?”
Another wave at the air. “Ordinary. Suits. Business looking. Ordinary looking.”
“Okay. What did they say?”
“Asked a lot of questions. About Sebastian … and the family. Who we were, what we did. It was strange, to tell you the truth. I didn’t say much. The questions … They seemed … intrusive.”
“Did they ask about your … situation?”
Pause, the brain cells trying to clarify. “What do you mean by that?”
My turn to wave at the dishes. “It’s been a rough few weeks, as you said.”
The eyes blurred. “Right. They asked about Sebastian, Jenny, Pauline, the kids, a little, and about Thomas and Julia, but no … not about Jonathan or our children.”
“Did they say who they were?”
“Some law firm. They gave me a card. Not at the beginning. Only when I pressed.”
“You still have it?”
“Somewhere…”
“It could be helpful.”
“Okay.”
She stood, took a minute to get her balance and went off rummaging through kitchen drawers. Partway through the search, she returned to the table for her cup, took it to a cabinet and refilled it from the bottle without bothering to add more coffee. I looked at my watch. 10:14. Even money whether she made it to lunch.
“Ah-ha!”
She returned from the far side of the kitchen, victorious. The card read, ELIZABETH ROGERS, LINDLEY & HILL, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW, with a New York address and phone number, a Web site, and an e-mail address. I made a note of it all for form’s sake.
I wanted to ask an intrusive question of my own. Worst thing she could do was decline to answer, but I was banking on her drinking more now than when Elizabeth Rogers visited.
“How close are you all, Sebastian, your siblings, as a family?”
The eyes clarified again and narrowed. Not as soused as I thought. Her voice took a harder edge. “Why do you ask that?”
“Someone’s trying to hurt your brother—the same people who came to see you, I think. They found a way into his business and to do that they had help. You didn’t give it to them, so I guess I’m asking if there’s any bad blood elsewhere or anything else these people could have exploited.”
She watched me for a minute, stood and left the room. I could hear her voice from elsewhere in the house, talking on the phone. Checking with Leitz HQ.
She returned after a few minutes, sat, drank from her cup, and said, “Sebastian says you should call him.”
“I will, as soon as we’re finished. I’m only trying to help, as I said.” I hoped I sounded sincere.
Another swallow. “What was your question?”
“How do you all get on, the family? Any quarrels? Bad feelings? Ancient, unresolved feuds?”
“No feuds, no. Tensions, I suppose, like any family.”
“What kind of tensions?”
She thought for a moment. “Personality, mainly. We’re all pretty strong minded. Sebastian and Julia have their careers. Thomas has his … passions. Sometimes they go off in different directions. I’ve always been the easy-going one, willing to do whatever, if that kept the peace. But then, I always figured I was the one who had it all worked out—the marriage, the family…”
She banged her fists on the table in front of her and dropped her head on top of them, facedown. The cup fell on its side, spilling a puddle of brown liquid. She sobbed into balled fingers. I picked up the cup, wiped up the puddle with a well-used dish towel, found the brandy bottle in the cabinet—Presidente—and poured a few fingers. I felt no qualms about aiding and abetting. I wanted her to talk, and she’d be back at the sauce with or without my help. I put the cup on the table, reclaimed my seat, and took a chance.
“I’m sorry, Marianna. I know a little about your husband. Nobody should have to deal with what you’re going through.”
She kept crying. Two more minutes passed before she looked up, another second and half before she reached for the cup. She took two swallows before she straightened and looked at me, red-eyed.
“I’m sorry. I’m still not … It’s just so … Where were we?”
“You were talking about keeping the peace—in the family.”
She nodded, grabbing at something that wasn’t her own misery.
“Like I said, we’re all strong minded. The result of our parents dying when we were still young, I think. A car accident—you know that, right?”
I didn’t, but I’d accomplished getting on the inside of her story.
“Tell me.”
“I was fifteen, Sebastian was eighteen, Julia, fourteen, and Thomas, eight. Thomas suffered most, I think, the youngest—and a tough age. Anyway, we were a teenaged immigrant family, and we had to make do. We did, we all stayed in school, we all worked too. Sebastian was the oldest, so he was de facto head of household, and it suited him. He watched out over all of us, he always made sure we were okay, but … as we all grew older, became adults, he never backed off. He still treats us as if we’re teenagers cast adrift. He can be overprotective, and that can grate. Not his fault, he means well. Just the way it is, with everything that happened.”
“How does that manifest, the grating?”
She took a drink and stared out the window at the snow and the swing set.
“He smothers. He tries to control. It’s like, he thinks he’s still responsible for all of us, whatever happens. He can’t understand we all have our own lives now, we’ve made our own way, we’re responsible for our own…”
She stopped short, staring into her cup, realizing where she was going. “Anyway, you know what I mean.”
“Having a brother like that, who cares, isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I said.
She shook her head, as if agreeing and trying to clear her mind at the same time.
“Not bad. But … It does lead to … tensions.”
“How does he get on with your brother and sister?”
“He and Julia spar all the time. They’re the most competitive. He’s never liked her husband, and he doesn’t approve of the way she takes care of their kids. Doesn’t take care of them, in his opinion. He tries to tell her, she objects, and they end up in a fight. Thomas … Thomas goes his own way, to put it mildly. Sebastian doesn’t understand him, and Thomas doesn’t want him to. Oil and water.”
No way to ask the next question without appearing intrusive, but I hoped she was beyond caring. “Does Thomas have financial problems?”
“What? Why…? How do you know…?” She shook her head. “I’m not going to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a difficult subject, I know. I only ask because money—lack of money, debts—can make someone vulnera
ble. I think Thomas ran up some big debts. He could be desperate.”
She nodded slowly. “He’s always said it’s impossible to live in New York City on a teacher’s salary. And … have you met him?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s something of a clotheshorse—and he doesn’t shop discount, like Julia. I … I tried to help him out from time to time. But…”
I waited.
“I shouldn’t tell you this.”
Intuition—often a spy’s best friend—said don’t push it.
“I can’t force you.”
She took another drink. “I lent him some money, years ago. Fifteen thousand. Six, seven years ago, I don’t remember. He was frantic. I had the cash, he needed it. He kept promising to repay, of course, and I chased him for a couple of years without success. My husband was furious when he found out. Threatened to go to Sebastian. I urged him not to. It was family, what could I do? It was my problem, I said I’d deal with it. Eventually, it went the way of all things … subsumed by time and other concerns. He came to me one other time. Right around the time … I guess it was four years ago. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I was stunned. I had no idea.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No. I didn’t have that kind of cash this time. And I realized something was wrong, badly wrong. I urged him to get help.”
“How did he react?”
“Badly. We were in the city, at a restaurant. He called me a horrible name, loud enough for the whole place to hear. We fought and he walked out.”
“And he hasn’t asked again? Recently?” I was thinking of the $35,000 he’d paid off in November.
“No. I don’t see Thomas much these days. I’ve … I’ve had my own problems to worry about.”
“Would he have gone to your brother or Julia for a loan?”
“Not Sebastian. They argued over money before. You know about his temper…”
I nodded. “What about Julia?”
“Maybe. They’re not that close. And he’d have to get her attention.”