Conspiracy

by Dana Black

  After her second drink, she’d had an idea. She would give him his moment in bed, and then in a month or two say she was carrying his child. That would ensure that the child would be born, and possibly Nikolai would do her the kindness of letting her marry the man she chose. So she went to bed with him and suppressed giggles at his lovemaking eagerness, along with tears at his obvious sincerity.

  Afterward he said the hour with her had been the happiest of his life. He grieved because they must never risk another meeting of this kind. Once was explainable as the official briefing session he’d intended it to be, but if she came here a second time, there would soon be talk and trouble for both of them. She went home feeling like a woman of the world, and made up a wonderful pack of lies for Tamara about the Deputy Minister’s instructions for Madrid.

  The next morning she’d thought of Dan Richards and America. If she could get away without anyone knowing about Anton, then possibly one day he would be able to escape too. He would come as soon as he could, if he knew she was waiting in America for him; she felt that, just as surely as she felt that the child within her would look like him. That was why she would tell no one, ever, who the child’s father was until Anton was by her side.

  “That’s fascinating, Katya,” Dan Richards was saying about what she’d told him of life in Moscow. “Now I wonder if you’d like to join me out on the soccer field. We’ve got our mobile van set up there, and I’m hoping to prove a world champion gymnast can teach an old sportscaster how to handle a soccer ball.”

  3

  Despite his Italian-tailored silk suit and his French silk necktie, Nikolai Kormelin looked unfashionably disconcerted as he entered Yuri Zadiev’s office. Waiting a few moments for Zadiev to finish a telephone call, he shifted from one Gucci-slippered foot to the other and glanced twice at his Omega quartz wristwatch. “My dear fellow,” he began when Zadiev had hung up, “I’m not accustomed to being summoned in so peremptory a fashion—”

  Zadiev diagnosed the man’s impatience as genuine, not bluster to conceal a weakness from the KGB. True, Kormelin had a trunk full of similarly conspicuous luxury goods, newly purchased, in his hotel room. But petty smuggling was a perquisite of the man’s position. The Minister of Economics, Kormelin’s superior, would bring four full trunks back to Moscow after a Western trip. Zadiev himself was allowed to fill an overnight bag.

  He cut Kormelin’s protest off with a nod, an understanding smile, and an index finger across the lips, gesturing for silence. “My apologies, Nikolai Petrovich,” he said, “but I need your help on a pressing matter, so I had to impose on our past friendship. Would you be kind enough to walk across the avenue with me to the stadium?”

  When they were outside the Palacio de Congresos and their voices were obscured by the traffic, Zadiev let him have it between the eyes. “Sorry to drag you out here, Comrade, but I didn’t want anyone hearing our talk. The problem is your little snow bird, Katya Romanova. She’s about to fly off to America with your child in her belly.”

  Kormelin went pale. “Katya—” he whispered. Looking up, he realized he’d virtually admitted having her in bed. And to a ranking KGB officer! But his panic diminished when he saw that Zadiev wore no look of triumph. The tall Ukrainian really seemed to want to help.

  All the same, Kormelin spoke carefully. “Please tell me more,” he said. “I haven’t seen Katya since May.”

  “June the first,” Zadiev corrected gently. “She left for your apartment in your car at seven-fifteen and returned at half past ten. Checking the records, we find that the others in your family were enjoying a holiday at your country place at the time.”

  “How do you people know she is pregnant?”

  “Only I know, Comrade.” Zadiev explained about the wired UBC studios and stadium press box, and repeated Katya’s conversation with Dan Richards verbatim. “A man ‘in a high position,’ Comrade. And she wants to protect you. I say ‘you,’ Comrade, because we have a detailed record of her movements during the last six months that I have examined personally. You are the only high official with whom she has had contact away from the public eye. In fact, you are the only male with whom she has been alone during the phase of the month in which she is fertile. Apart from ordering a genetic analysis of her fetal fluids, I can’t think of a more certain indication of your parenthood.”

  “Assuming your report is accurate,” Kormelin said quietly.

  “Correct. And also assuming that she told the truth to the American announcer. However, considering the risk involved, I find the evidence rather persuasive.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  Zadiev shrugged and was silent until they had shown their credentials to the stadium guard and passed through the gate into the parking lot. Then he turned to Kormelin, looking the smaller man directly in the eyes. He never liked to watch people squirm, so he avoided eye contact during most interrogations. With Kormelin, though, it was different. The man was sentimental, and it was plain to Zadiev that Kormelin had treated the girl honorably, else she would not be so determined both to protect him and to carry his child to birth.

  Zadiev understood offenses of sentiment and the troubles they could cause, even in a society of enlightened socialism. As he spoke, he thought of his wife, another sentimentalist. At this moment, it being a Friday, she was probably donning her peasant’s garb so as to mingle inconspicuously in the line of worshippers at the Christian Altar cubicle outside Cathedral Square. Despite Yuri’s attempts to persuade her against the practice, she would wait in line for her turn to step up to the glassed-in crucifix, portrait of the Virgin, and opened New Testament. Like the others, she would say her prayer rapidly, kiss the glass over the three holy objects, and then reach for the towel on the chain beside the glass cabinet to wipe away the spittle for the next worshipper.

  Sentiment. Religious or romantic, it was difficult to eradicate. The best Zadiev had been able to do with his wife was to persuade her to go on Fridays instead of Sundays, so that her wait on line would not be as long.

  “I wanted to ask you what to do, Nikolai,” he said. “It is your child she is taking. I thought you ought to have some say in the matter.”

  Kormelin blinked. “I thought precautions were unnecessary,” he said, musing, his mind on the evening of June the first. “She did not mention them. I thought she would have said something. Young people today are so knowledgeable, I thought surely she would know about taking precautions.”

  “Perhaps she wanted your child,” Yuri suggested. “She certainly wants it badly enough now.”

  Kormelin seemed touched by the idea. He stared at the brick wall of the stadium, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, saying nothing.

  “Our problem, however,” Zadiev went on gently, “is that she is about to leave from this stadium sometime in the next few minutes. I am afraid that my duty to the state would not be fulfilled if I stood by and let her go.”

  Kormelin shook his head. “She oughtn’t to go to America.” He gave a sigh. “Oh, Katya. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have done this to you,” he said softly. Then he looked up at Zadiev. “Is it possible that you can prevent her escape without arresting her?”

  Zadiev nodded, raising his eyebrows as if asking for further explanation.

  “I’m looking at it from all points of view,” Kormelin explained. “If you arrest her, of course there’ll be an examination and the pregnancy will be discovered, and we’ll have spoiled one of Russia’s most beautiful international assets. I feel certain she’d never perform again, not if she feels this strongly about having the baby. But if you simply make it impossible for the escape to succeed, if you can make it appear that something went wrong by mischance, that really no one knows her secret, then think of what you’ll have gained.”

  His voice became more animated as his hope lent persuasive force to his reasoning. “She won’t know there’s anything up—so she’ll continue representing the state in good form, waiting for the Americans to make
another attempt to save her. And that will give me time to think of something; possibly I’ll be able to arrange an exception to the rules for her. In confidence I tell you, Comrade, that the next few weeks may bring a great change in our department. I may have the power in a short time to overrule those cretinous bureaucrats in the Ministry of Sport. If you can simply buy me some time, I’d be most grateful.”

  Zadiev’s interest quickened. He admired the smoothness of the man’s approach. Even under stress, Kormelin’s hint that he would soon have increased power to reward Zadiev had been delivered with grace and tact. Zadiev knew well the value of giving a Deputy Minister on the way up a sense of obligation. Yet he did not wish to seem too easy. There was always the chance that Kormelin might begin to imagine that he had been manipulated, if Zadiev made the path too smooth for him. Therefore a quid pro quo was in order. And Kormelin’s hint of great changes in the offing had awakened a fear that had troubled Zadiev greatly during the last few months.

  He leaned his tall, thin frame forward in a slight bow. “It would give me pleasure to do you a service, Comrade. However, I could not take any official action in that way. You understand, I have been operating under ordinary standards of honor and decency by calling you here. All I want is to continue to operate under those same standards. I ask no support from you, either now or in the future, beyond your silence. There is only one small favor I wish to ask of you in return. A bit of information.”

  Kormelin’s face turned expressionless. “Ask,” he said.

  “I shall, Comrade, in a few minutes. At that time you will be more certain that I am speaking the truth, and I hope you will be more candid with me. Agreed?” He went on without waiting for Kormelin’s answer. “Now, if you will continue with me into the stadium, I hope to be in time to prevent the defection of Katya Romanova in precisely the manner you requested.”

  Shortly they were on the green turf of the Bernabeau field, watching the lithe figure of Katya move gracefully between cameras on the far side. Zadiev had some worry that they would move her out over there, using the truck with the cameras, but he saw Tamara in the crowd close to Katya. Getting past the burly weightlifter would require brute force, something Zadiev doubted the American TV crew would be up to. Then he saw the other truck, moving slowly out of the tunnel just to the left of where he and Kormelin were standing.

  “Watch,” he told Kormelin. “They’re going to try something cute.”

  Both men waited as the second truck parked along the sidelines across from the first and nearly half the length of the field closer to the west goal line. Two uniformed technicians, one with a belly that overflowed his belt, the other with an Afro haircut, got out and set up a handheld camera. When they were ready, they waved. On the far sideline, someone waved back.

  Dan Richards spoke into his microphone as he looked at Katya. “Okay now, Katya, we’re going to try an extended downfield run controlling the ball,” he said. “You see those cameras over there? You and I are going to run straight for them, passing the ball back and forth between us. Ready?”

  She nodded, and Richards handed the mike to a technician. Before Tamara or anyone else could interfere, he tapped the ball lightly with his wing-tipped cordovan shoe, feeling rather foolish to be jogging across the field in his coat and tie, but knowing it had to be him, and that he had to move quickly. He caught up to the ball and nudged it to Katya on his left.

  “When we reach the sideline,” he said, “you just keep right on going into the camera truck. Climb in the back and put on the technician’s uniform you’ll find there. We’ll do the rest. Just don’t tell anyone that UBC helped with your escape, or we’ll all get into trouble, okay?”

  She said, “You needn’t worry,” thanked him, and sent the ball spinning out in front of them both with a burst of speed.

  “Here they come,” said Yuri Zadiev. “We’d better move closer.”

  They strolled casually up to a spot along the green sideline turf about three yards behind the two cameramen. “You do the talking,” Zadiev said to Kormelin. “It will sound more coincidental. You were in Madrid and stopped by to see Katya at my office, and I—”

  “Yes, yes, I can manage that,” said Kormelin. He pursed his lips and watched Katya running toward him, wondering if she was carrying his son or daughter.

  Seconds later, a puffing Dan Richards stopped ten yards in front of the camera and began speaking for the benefit of those who monitored the directional microphone that Walter J. was holding up toward him. “Hey, that was pretty good for an old man, wasn’t it, Katya?”

  She kept on going, past Richards, past the cameramen, and would have run on by Zadiev and Kormelin unknowing, had she not noticed the soft black Gucci slippers and remembered them from her evening in his apartment. At first the familiarity did not penetrate, and she merely slowed. But then she heard the voice of the Deputy Minister.

  “Katarina Ivanovna!” Kormelin called. “What good fortune to have found you!”

  She looked up and saw him. And beside him Zadiev, the publicity man who everyone said was KGB. “I came by to look you up,” he was saying, “and Yuri here told me I could see you in action if I’d trouble myself to walk across the street. You look wonderful, my dear!”

  He stood and chatted with her for a few moments in Russian, inquiring about her brother and the Spanish restaurants, blocking her path to the TV van that was parked behind them. “And you, sir,” Katya replied, “how is your family and how is Moscow?” It was all she could think of to say, so great was her disappointment that he had happened to stop by for his well-meaning visit at so unfortunate a time.

  Yet Nikolai Kormelin read into the remark a self-sacrificing concern not to disrupt his domestic life and his reputation as a solid family man, as well as a would-be expatriate’s longing interest in the capital city of the Motherland. He was touched. Had Zadiev not been standing beside him, and had he not believed that the America to which she wanted to travel would soon become a country where his child could not be raised in prosperity, Kormelin would have stepped aside and let her go free.

  Instead he offered to walk her back to the opposite side of the field.

  Dan Richards had seen instantly that something had gone wrong. Cutting his prepared commentary short, he motioned to Max the cameraman to stop shooting, and walked over to where Katya stood with the two men. He looked pleasantly cordial. “Hey, Katya, found a friend? Hi, I’m Dan Richards.” If they were just about to leave, he thought, there was still a chance.

  Kromelin and Zadiev introduced themselves, neither giving his official title. Kormelin said he was only in town for the day, and wanted to take Katya shopping when she was through here with their “televising.”

  Dan’s hopes went out like a candle flame in a rainstorm. Yet he kept up a cheerful demeanor, not wanting Katya to become more discouraged than he knew she already must be. Plainly the two were prepared to stand here by the truck, and just as plainly, the burly Tamara was prepared to block any attempts at escape on the other end of the field. “Fine,” he said. “We’re just going to do a retake moving back across, the two of us, and then a few more questions.”

  They were jogging slowly back towards the opposite side. “Do you think they knew?” he asked her.

  “I don’t think so. He’s an admirer, and naturally he’d have gone to Mr. Zadiev to find out where I was when he came into town. I think it was simply bad luck.”

  “Then we’ll try again, Katya,” he said firmly. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of another way. We’ll get in touch with you before the tournament’s over. Don’t give up hope!”

  4

  On the sidelines, Kormelin and Zadiev watched the girl. Kormelin seemed lost in thought, his eyes clouded with emotion.

  Zadiev waited a few moments more, until Katya had rejoined the group behind the other camera. “That must have been difficult for you,” he said softly.

  Kormelin nodded. He whispered as though talking to himself, and Zadiev did not he
ar him. When Katya was hidden from view by the others, Kormelin cleared his throat. “It appears you were correct on all counts,” he said. “The girl must be well cared for. I shall need to make many arrangements.”

  Zadiev nodded, trying to keep his mind free of the Deputy Minister’s emotionalism over the girl’s predicament. He felt fortunate that he had brought Kormelin directiy over here, and more fortunate still that he had bullied the man into arriving precisely on time. Otherwise they would have come to the stadium after Katya had disappeared, and Zadiev would have looked the fool indeed.

  “In the meantime,” Kormelin went on, “I trust you will maintain a continued watch on her and prevent any further attempts, using the same discretion. It is important that she not be made aware of our knowledge until we can provide the proper care for her. If she was to learn now or in the next few weeks that she could not escape, I would be gravely concerned for her well-being. She is, you will appreciate, a strong-willed and emotional young woman.”

  “I shall see to it personally, Comrade Deputy Minister,” said Zadiev. “No one other than you and I knows of her condition among our people here. No one shall.”

  Kormelin bowed slightly, acknowledging the favor Zadiev was doing him. “Then that settles the matter.” He looked up again at the taller man. “Now I believe you mentioned some information that would be of use to you.”

  Zadiev suppressed a smile as the moment he had been waiting for arrived. “Yes, Comrade. Concerning something you mentioned earlier. A great change, you said, that would bring increased powers to your ministry.”

  Kormelin frowned and tugged at his lower lip again. “It is highly confidential. Even I, who created much of the plan, do not know the complete details.”