The Deceit of Riches

by Val M Karren

  “Is it time for me to get out of town, Del?” I asked concerned.

  “Not unless you want to. Just be a student having fun during the holidays and don’t give anybody a reason to think you’re researching anything further from your interview with Mr. P. It could be real trouble for you if you do. It goes deeper than you think,” he warned.

  “Yes, I figured that out with the FSB showed up on Sunday night at my door,” I offered.

  “What? Did you say KGB at your door? Why? What did they want?” Del was taken off guard by this revelation. He gave Els a concerned look. She looked at me.

  “They said they wanted my landlord for questioning. Tax evasion,” I replied.

  “That’s bullshit, kid. That was a recon visit. They were establishing that you were still living in that apartment and you can bet that they are watching your every move. Do you think you were followed here?” Del’s eyes starting darting around the train station again and he sat up straight in his chair startled at this news.

  “No, I lost my tag in the old city by sneaking out of the faculty through the basement. They have an idiot following me in white sneakers. He’s an idiot.” I brushed off the idea that I had been followed to the station.

  “No kid, that’s Mr. P.’s goon. Counter intelligence in this country doesn’t work like that. They have radios and people all over town watching in traffic check points and whatnot. You lose one and they will see you seven minutes later at a different location. Never the same person for more than five minutes. You’ll never know you’re being watched if they don’t want you to know it. They’re really good! It’s just about as good as a helicopter in the sky,” he chided me for my ignorance.

  “Either way, they think I’m still in lectures as I left by a completely different entrance and nobody knows I am on the move.” I tried to sound smart but knew I was in over my head.

  “Not so sure about that, kid,” Del said looking over my shoulder again, “but I think it's time for me and Els to be on a train.

  “Should Peter not come with us now to Moscow?” Els suggested. Del chewed on this question for a few moments, shifting his jaw back and forth.

  “We would need a good cover story if we did that. We aren’t prepared for it. It would create a dangerous situation for everybody, especially if he is being watched by two groups. Somebody will sound the alarm that he is gone,” Del concluded.

  “Kid, you need to start getting real obvious. Do very obvious things that make it look like you are preparing to leave. Pack up your apartment real slow so that anybody watching or letting themselves in on a regular basis can see you are slowly, deliberately getting ready to leave. Go to the Aeroflot office in town and book a ticket back to the States. Make sure everybody knows about it. Don’t do anything too fast or somebody will swoop in and grab you. Understood? Don’t do anything dumb and don’t try to lose your tag again. Keep everything you do visible. You need to make sure everybody stays bored by you being very predictable.

  “Yes, I like boring at this point!” I agreed.

  On Wednesday, I wore a bright orange rain jacket to protect me from a rainy day and to make sure that everybody who wanted to follow me could spot me a mile away. I went to all my lectures that day and walked between the lectures via Pokrovka, stopping along the way to purchase lavash, waiting in line with the ‘British Knight’ four people behind me in the line at the hole in the wall. I bought a bottle of Pepsi from a café and sat and drank it in the sun as the clouds started to dissipate around lunch time. I stopped and chatted up some girls I knew well. I could see that my shadow was getting very bored and was starting to lose interest in my movements.

  After my literature lecture with Professor Dashkova, I went back to the Telephone and Telegraph building on Gorkiy Square and scheduled a telephone call home to the United States. It was the very early morning at my parents’ home. I woke them up with some alarm and went on to tell them that I was just having a very difficult time in Nizhniy and was thinking about coming home in a week or two. My father sounded more concerned than I had hoped to make him. I tried to reassure him it was just a matter of being tired and a bit lonely, maybe some culture fatigue, but nothing to worry about. I put on some false emotion for those who were listening to my call. I hoped that my parents would go back to sleep and forget I even called, but I had to go on record with the FSB as actively planning to leave soon and this was the best way to make it public knowledge.

  After I finished upsetting my parents at four in the morning I stepped outside to the bank of public telephones on the porch of the Post Office and called Yulia’s home. This time she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Peter!” I announced in Russian this time.

  “Where are you?” Yulia seemed taken aback. I always spoke English with her on the phone.

  “I’m on Pokrovka. Just finished speaking with my parents in America.” I was speaking loudly.

  “Are they alright? Why would you call them in the middle of the night there?” she was very puzzled.

  “Listen, I need to come by and pick up my plane ticket from you. I need to schedule my flight to the USA for the summer break.” I continued to be as obvious as possible.

  “I thought we would go on the trip together, remember?” she was getting worried at this point.

  “Can I come by on my way home for tea and get my ticket, please?” I continued with my story line.

  “Yes, of course. We can talk when you are here. See you soon,” and she hung up the telephone.

  As I got on the bus at Gorkiy Square to head across the Oka to the Zarechnaya district, I noticed that the ‘British Knight’ didn’t get on the bus with me. Instead, he stepped into a car, one I didn’t recognize and they drove off in another direction down Gorkiy street and out of sight. Perhaps they figured that I can’t do any harm at home since I didn’t have a telephone in my apartment and nobody of any consequence lives on that side of the city.

  After I dragged myself to the top of the five flights of stairs to Yulia’s door, I paused a moment to catch my breath. I debated for a split second whether I should tell her everything that was going on. It has been almost six weeks since I had actually told the truth about anything I was up to. Our discussions had only been light, based on fairy-tales about the coming summer cruise, last summer and her graduating from her college in June. I had revealed nothing about my conversations with Del, my work with Misha, the interview with Mr. P, the people following me, the FSB. I decided it was all too much to put on her. I knocked on the steel door. Gung, gung, gung.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay? Why are you calling your parents on a Wednesday in the middle of the night? Why do you need your place ticket? Are you ill?" Yulia peppered me with questions as we sat in the living room.

  “Well I, uhhh, I am, uhhhh, I don’t know. I think I’m in some trouble and I don’t know what to do,” I blurted out.

  “Is it at the university? Did you have a conflict with a professor or that old witch Valentina Petrovna?” she scowled when she said Valentina’s name.

  “Yes, yes, and yes and then some more,” I nodded deliberately but not explaining any further.

  “Well, at least we have the holidays coming up and you can take a two-week break. The weather is supposed to be really nice next week! Would you like to go to Moscow with me and mama? We are going to visit my aunt for a few days. The Victory parade in Moscow is always the best. And do you remember the fireworks from last year in Moscow? They don’t do them any better anyplace else.” She thankfully forgot about my troubles, or perhaps didn’t really want to hear about it. Ignorance can be bliss.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t have the needed permission to leave Nizhniy Novgorod. I still have to ask for a travel visa for our voyage in July.” I told the truth but had no intention of staying through July. I was ready to get out as quickly as I could without looking like I was running.

  “OK, but what about this plane ticket for the summer?" I thought we agreed to do the c
ruise again this summer,” she put on a sad face.

  “Of course, we’ll do the cruise, but after that I will go home for a month. After being away for seven months, my parents said that they would like to see me for a bit before the fall term begins. My father said he would buy me a new round-trip ticket if I came home in August,” I lied. My fibs seemed to satisfy Yulia and she happily went to retrieve my money belt from her bedroom. I unzipped it to see the ticket jacket and a stack of twenty and fifty-dollar bills.

  “I’ll go apply for a travel visa tomorrow for July and August so we’re ready to sail the Volga again,” I smiled.

  Yulia served some tea and biscuits and we chatted further about something that I cannot remember as all I could think about was escape, and how to avoid looking like I was trying to be clandestine at the same time. It was a fine balancing act that drained me mentally and emotionally.

  When I arrived home that evening to my apartment, I left the drapes wide open and sat at my desk with books open and a pen in my hand. I had the look of a studious academic but I was scribbling in a stream of consciousness all my fear and worries, all the possibilities and variables I could anticipate during my secret retreat; first to Moscow, then the airport and if I could make past the passport control, maybe I could make it home.

  As I thought and wrote in my shorthand I obsessed on one thing that could be a hang-up. Even if I made it past the customs agents and boarded the aircraft, I would be flying on a Russian registered aircraft which could be forced to surrender me before the doors closed, or even return to the gate after being cleared for takeoff. A foreign registered aircraft, perhaps from Switzerland or France would not have to hand me over at the last minute to any border patrol. Once on board a foreign registered aircraft, it would be almost as if I was in their embassy. Upon arrival in Zurich or Paris, I could claim some sort of asylum or protection while they considered any request to send me back. The thought also crossed my mind that perhaps, if I could make it to Moscow, maybe on an overnight train when everybody would think I was sleeping, perhaps I could appeal for protection at the US embassy there. Maybe they would be watching for me boarding any trains in the next few days. I was probably already on a watch list. I thought deeply and carefully about how my next steps and went to soak my worried body in a hot bathtub. Tomorrow I would go about my normal business and act as if I was not suspicious nor aware of any of the people watching and following me. I would act completely normal.

  The doubts and fears swirled in a mess of fear and adrenaline. The slightest noise would have sent me sprinting. I drifted off to sleep in a whirl of intrigue and insecurity feeling that I would soon be swallowed up by a world that would not stop for me to catch my breath. I felt that I would simply be stamped out. Then, almost suddenly, I realized I was dreaming and felt my tension dissolve into sleep.

  22. Expelled

  On Thursday morning, I returned to Valentina’s office and apologized to her for my behavior on Tuesday morning. She responded as well in a professional manner. I thought for a moment that maybe I had misread everything and began to be hopeful again that things could normalize.

  “Mr. Turner, I understand your reaction although I cannot approve of it. You are a serious student and everybody at the school appreciates your hard, academic work and we understand you are not happy to give up your research and your months of work, but, this is still Russia and you must respect that you do not understand the different elements in our society as a foreigner,” she lectured.

  “Yes, I have thought about it for the last few days and I recognize that I have been reckless and should think more about my fellow students instead of my hope for glory in print,” I offered my contrition. “Perhaps I can still use the base of my research at the end of next term to write a paper that the Dean will still publish.”

  Valentina Petrovna gloated silently in a smug, superior manner and couldn’t have been more pleased to hear this admission of guilt and contrition. “I’m sure that you will check with me in the future to avoid these problems and circumstances,” she said in a self-righteous tone that made me want to jump over the desk and strangle her.

  I wondered who had gotten to her to force her to quash my project. Was she directly linked to Mr. P., or was somebody else putting pressure on her to be able to stay in the shadows? I looked through her with daggers in my eyes.

  I rode the trolley bus from Gagarin Street down to Senaya Square and walked the rest of the way to the Linguistics school for my one lecture that morning. I had decided that I would keep my usual schedule and on Thursday that meant that I would spend some time on the database in the American library not deviate from my usual activities. As I approached the building I was forced to step off the pavements and walk in the street as there were several cars parked on the sidewalk just before the entrance stairs to the school: two black Volga sedans with a burgundy Mercedes sandwiched between them. I gave them no thought, as there were no designated parking areas anywhere in the city, and the drivers would just jump the curbs and park where they wished. Train stations and airports seemed also to have no parking policy nor enforcement. I skirted the delinquent parkers by walking into oncoming traffic. Horns blared. I was in no mood for it and gave the driver a gesture that warranted another from him back. That conflict quickly settled, I bounded up the stairs and into the school.

  Following the lecture, as planned, I settled into my usual corner in the computer lab and set up my usual stack of notebooks and logged into my computer. My user name had not been changed on that terminal by any other researchers for almost four months. Everybody knew it was my spot. On occasion, I would recognize a few faces but for the most part, the students used the resources casually, for a rare reference in a research paper, but there had not been anybody up this point that made research and exploration a discipline as I had. Hence, my complete astonishment when my password was not accepted by the system, blocking me out of my account. I retyped my user name and password three times out of disbelief. There had never been any problems before!

  I stood up from my work station and approached the librarian’s desk.

  “Pardon me please, Olya Sergeyevna, but I am not able to access the computers. Has the system been reset? Do I need a renewed password to log on?" I politely inquired.

  “I am sorry, youngman, may I please see your student credentials?” The librarian asked me in a very formal manner.

  “Olya, you know who I am and you very well that I am a student here. What’s all this about?” I protested.

  “May I please see your student card, young man?” she repeated without acknowledging me.

  I walked back to my workstation and rummaged about in my book bag and returned to the service desk. I ceremoniously handed the student pass to this suddenly cold and formal librarian with whom I had spent hours upon hours with over the last four months behind these barred windows under the buzzing fluorescent lights. This had become my home away from home. How could she need to see my student card?

  “Mr. Tournaire, I am afraid that you are not entitled to use these computers at this location,” Olya replied after inspecting my credentials.

  “I’m sorry, what do you say, ma’am?” I replied not believing my ears.

  “You do not have a right to use these computers in this facility,” she repeated without looking me in the eyes.

  “Can you explain to me why this has changed since last week?” I pleaded.

  “I can only tell you that only those studying economics can use these computers, as they are part of the economics department. Your student card says that you are studying linguistics and literature, not economics,” she stated coldly with no emotion and went back to making notations in a notebook.

  “Olya Sergeyevna, please explain to me what has happened here. I have been here for four months now using these computers and the database with the permission of Dean Karamzin, who signed the permission for me to research here. I gave that paper to you in January and you created the account for
me!” I was getting rather worked up at this point. “And further, I am the only regular student that uses these resources. Can you seriously tell me that you see any students, let alone students from the economics faculty here searching for information? I am the only person in this school with English good enough to utilize what is stored on these disks.” I angrily roared as I motioned toward the wall of CDROMs in their racks covering a full wall of the library.

  The librarian did not look up from her writing. She was trying very hard not to speak back to me or let any emotion show, but just before she did look up and bid me a good day she slid a paper toward me and turned it right side up for me to read.

  “I wish you a good day, Mr. Tournaire! Now leave!” she said in an angrily to me, but her eyes motioned to the paper she held in her hands.

  The scrap of paper read, ‘THEY ARE STILL HERE WATCHING. GO!’ Reading this warning from Olya, I stomped back to my workstation and continued to spout off angry words at her while I walked away.

  “I will go to the Dean and to Valentina Petrovna and I will be back today to get my access back. I can’t believe that this has happened!” I was now acting to be angry at my friend.

  Just as I stepped to the door and opened it to exit the library I stopped and looked back quickly and gave the librarian an acknowledging nod of appreciative thanks. She replied with her eyes to hurry away. I darted out into the street to catch a departing trolley-bus.

  As I burst through the front doors of the school on to Minin Street and directly into the closing doors of the back of the bus, I saw in the corner of my eyes a startled fellow in bright white trainers smoking around the corner of the building to the right as I exited. He didn’t have the time to jump on the bus with me as I barely made it through with the doors closing on my book bag, and I was away. I hadn’t seen him earlier in the morning on Gagarin street, but as this Thursday lecture was part of my weekly routine it was no surprise to see him here again. I continued to watch him out of the back of the bus and noticed that he stepped into one of the black Volga sedans that were parked on the sidewalk that I had to walk around earlier this morning.