Death of a Spy

by Dan Mayland

  Marko was on his way to the Rustaveli metro stop late one afternoon when a white van that looked like a bread loaf on wheels pulled up next to him; before he could react, someone shoved him into the cargo bay.

  A figure appeared as the cargo door slammed shut. Marko scrambled to his knees and raised his fist, intending to strike.

  “Easy there, cowboy. This ain’t my first rodeo. Don’t make it hard on yourself. Or me.”

  Larry was sitting on a creaky bench seat that had been repaired with clear packing tape. He took a swig of some brown liquid in a clear bottle—Marko suspected it was kvass, a local concoction made from fermented rye bread.

  “What the hell, Larry?”

  “Hey, Saveljic, you ever hear of a honey trap?”

  “What am I doing here?”

  “It’s when a foreign intelligence service employs someone who possesses means of persuasion beyond what, say, I would possess. See, I’m old, and I smell.” The van hit a pothole, jolting both Marko and Larry up in the air. “So even if you were a switch hitter, you probably wouldn’t want to screw me. No honey in that trap. But a nice young lady? Potentially very effective against a young guy like you.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Your girlfriend’s a honey trap. You’re trading sex for secrets and you don’t even know it. I’m sorry, I should have considered it earlier. Stupid that I didn’t.”

  Marko laughed. The thought was absurd. “No she’s not.”

  Larry spoke slowly and definitively. “Yes, she is. She’s using you.”

  “She’s a painter. And a student.”

  “And a KGB agent who was sent to spy on both you and the Press Club.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You told her about me. You told her that you were being watched. You told her you were helping me help the Press Club.”

  That much was true, Marko admitted.

  “Why in God’s name would you tell her all that! Why? Even if she wasn’t a KGB plant—didn’t I tell you I suspected there’d be one somewhere?—even if she wasn’t, why would you share that with anyone?”

  “Last night Katerina went to visit her mother. I had trouble falling asleep, I was thinking about what you’d said about my apartment probably being bugged. Even though I’d checked all over for bugs weeks ago—”

  “You found one.”

  “Yeah. Underneath the bed. So when I saw her this morning, I told her about the bug, and yeah, I mentioned that I was helping get money to the Press Club, and that maybe that had something to do with what I found.”

  Larry shook his head, disgusted.

  “I didn’t mention your name, or describe you or anything. I mean, what did you expect me to do? You were the one who told me that if I ever found any bugs to just leave them in place, so we don’t tip people off that we’re onto them.”

  What, was he supposed to continue to make love to Katerina while the KGB was listening? The breach of trust would have been unforgivable. He’d had to tell her something. They couldn’t continue to sleep together in that bed.

  “And Katerina. What was her reaction when you told her about all this?”

  “Well, she wasn’t happy about the bed thing—I mean, that’s a pretty sleazy asshole move, even for the Soviets.”

  “This is a sleazy business, Marko. Did she seem worried?”

  “More disgusted than worried.”

  Katerina had known that the Soviets viewed the Press Club as an irritant; given that Marko was both an American and regularly attended Press Club meetings, she’d already assumed there would be a certain level of surveillance on him. He suspected she would have been more worried if she’d known the amount of money he was funneling to the Press Club, but he’d been intentionally circumspect on that front.

  “It’s possible she didn’t know about the listening device. But that doesn’t mean she’s clean, Marko.”

  “You’re so full of it. Really, Larry. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The KGB already knows about the conversation you had with her this morning, kid. A conversation that, if I’m not mistaken, occurred outside of your apartment. On the street. Where no one should have been able to hear you.”

  “You were watching me.”

  “No, Marko. But someone was watching…” Larry pointed a finger at him. “And listening. And I was watching and listening to the people who were watching and listening to you. I believe I may have intimated that we have ways of intercepting certain types of…let’s call them communications.” When Marko didn’t respond, Larry added, “They know about your conversation with Katerina this morning. They know you’ve been helping me funnel money to the Press Club. I know this for a fact. She must have told them about it. There’s no other explanation. You’re completely blown. You fucked up, Saveljic.”

  “She doesn’t care about politics. I got her to go to one Press Club meeting a few weeks ago, and then she never went back.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t care about politics. Maybe she even really likes you. Who knows what they have on her, why she’s helping them. They play an ugly game, Marko. But she is helping them, believe it. She’s selling you out.”

  Marko recalled how Katerina had taught him how to speak Russian without sounding like a fool, and all the funny and not-so-funny stories that they’d told each other about what it was like to grow up as a kid in Tbilisi, Georgia, or in Elizabeth, New Jersey—like when Katerina, as a three-year-old, had released the parking brake on the family car and crashed it into the neighbor’s fence, or the time Mark had gotten into trouble for climbing onto the roof of his duplex and throwing rocks at a neighbor’s window, this when he was six. Katerina liked U2 and Madonna and REM. She’d wept when she’d told Marko about the death of her father. He couldn’t believe that she could have been that good an actor.

  Larry said, “If I were you, I’d leave Georgia tomorrow. The Soviets have been playing nice with you up until now, but now that they know you’re a conduit for resistance money, there’s no guarantee they’re going to continue to play nice. I’m telling you this because you’re an American citizen, and even though you completely botched my operation, I kind of like you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  The van came to a stop.

  Larry added, “If you don’t leave and things go south for you, I can’t protect you, your government can’t protect you.” Larry handed him a stack of 100-ruble bills. “This was supposed to be for the Press Club. Use it instead to buy a ticket home. Pretend you got sick, I’ll make sure the Fulbright people don’t screw you over.”

  “I didn’t ask you to protect me.”

  “We won’t see each other again.” Larry pulled open the cargo bay door, doing so in a way that allowed him to stay hidden behind it. “Now get out.”

  After walking the streets for an hour, Marko came to a decision. He called Katerina from a pay phone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know your favorite place to paint?”

  “You mean—”

  “Don’t say it! Just meet me there.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Can you go now?”

  “Yes…OK, yes, but what’s wrong, Marko?”

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Marko climbed the hill that rose up behind the old city, past the tiny crooked homes and little churches, until it became too steep for buildings and was just overgrown grass and rocks and garbage.

  It was dark now, ten o’clock in the evening. The lights of the city twinkled below him, and the sky above was a strange shade of violet. A gentle breeze blew waves through the scrub grass. To his right rose an enormous aluminum statue of a woman who in one hand held a sword and in the other a bottle of wine: treat Georgians well, you will be welcomed with wine; if not, then you’ll be fought with a sword. Well, thought Marko, that would be his motto too from here on out.

  He climbed until he got to a paved footpath that traversed the top of a long ridge. He turned
left, passing the funicular, which had been shut down for the night, and walked until he reached the entrance to the botanical gardens.

  Tucked away on the back side of the ridge, in the shadow of a medieval fortress, the gardens of Tbilisi were a welcome refuge from the city. It was a wild place, crisscrossed by little dirt trails and crumbling stone walls. Because the city was on the other side of the ridge, the sound of cars was barely audible, and he could hear little but the wind rustling through the leaves.

  During the day, the price of admission was just a pittance—twenty kopeks, payable to a gnarled old woman who, if she was lucky, collected enough over the course of a day to justify her pittance of a government salary. Now, the gardens were closed for the night, but there was no gate. Just beyond the entrance, Marko veered off the path and hid in the woods.

  Katerina walked by him twenty minutes later, traveling quickly down the steep gravel path. She wore designer jeans—American style, but made cheaply in East Germany—that Marko had given her. Her loose white poet shirt had frilly flounces at the wrists and reflected enough moonlight that she seemed to glow amidst the trees.

  Marko waited in the shadows, watching. Convinced that no one was following her, he ventured out of the woods, stepped quietly onto the path, and began walking in the direction Katerina had gone, keeping to the moon shadows on the path’s periphery. Before he got to a terraced section, where there was a stand of bamboo and a reflecting pool overgrown with lily pads, he ducked back into the woods.

  Katerina would be waiting for him to approach on the main path, Marko reasoned, so he approached instead through the woods. Though he couldn’t make out her expression, he could see that she was pacing, with a nervous energy that was at odds with her usual languid demeanor.

  Marko waited, listening to the surrounding woods. The light breeze rustled the leaves of the trees; branches squeaked as they rubbed together. After a time, he made his way silently to the edge of the terrace, picked up a golf-ball-sized rock and, standing hidden behind a tall pine, hurled it into the woods on the opposite side of the terrace.

  Hearing the noise, Katerina turned. But Marko wasn’t focused on her. Instead he listened to the woods, straining his ears to pick up sounds of anyone else who might be out there.

  Nothing.

  “Katerina.” Marko spoke her name in a loud whisper. She turned.

  “Marko?”

  He stepped out briefly from behind the pine. “Over here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure you weren’t followed.” He spoke in Russian.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I think we’re safe. I was watching the path. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Into the woods, to our campsite.” Last week, they’d stayed at the gardens until dark—Katerina had been painting, Marko reading—and then hiked to the edge of the preserve, down by a stream at the base of the hill. They’d drunk wine around a small campfire, and eaten bread and sheep’s-milk cheese. “Will you come?”

  “Did you bring a blanket?”

  “Yes.”

  Katerina approached him. Her hand was warm. They stole through the woods, picking a path through the underbrush and stepping over downed trees. When they got to the campsite, Marko took off his backpack and pulled out the blanket and two candles. He spread the blanket on the flat section of land he and Katerina had cleared a week earlier; the candles he lit and propped up in rocks that were marked by wax drips, evidence of their previous outing.

  Katerina removed her satchel and placed it on the edge of the blanket. “Why are we here?”

  “Shh.” Marko put a finger to his lips, then took off his shirt.

  She wasn’t wearing a wire; that much became clear once they were naked. That, combined with the feel of her lips, and her hair brushing against his shoulder, and her breath melding with his own, deflated his anxiety and suspicion to the point where he didn’t want to confront her. But he had to, and before they began to make love. Katerina’s head rested on his chest, her ear was inches from his mouth.

  “Earlier today I told you some things.” He paused a moment, listening to the forest, then asked, “Did you…tell anyone else about them?”

  His whispered question caused her to stiffen. She lifted her head off his chest. He ran a hand through her hair and guided her head back down.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The listening device I found. How I’ve been helping the Press Club. Did you tell anyone—anyone—about all that?”

  “No.” Her body tensed. Either she wasn’t trying to mask her uneasiness or she couldn’t. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you are the only person I confided in. But now other people know what I told you.”

  “What other people?”

  Marko took a while to respond. “Who do you think?”

  “You…you are accusing me?”

  “Not accusing, just telling you what has happened.”

  “Who says that this has happened? Who?” When Marko didn’t respond, Katerina said, “The American with the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “He tells you this? He tells you I tell him your secrets?”

  “No. He says you told others.”

  “He lies.”

  Marko had considered the possibility. He’d known Katerina longer than he’d known Larry.

  “Does he?” asked Marko.

  “He has to be lying.” Katerina lifted her head again. This time, when Marko tried to guide her back down to his chest, she straddled him, cradled his head in her palms and brought her face down next to his. Her bare sex was pressed against his own. He could barely see her face in the dim flickering candlelight. “He has to be,” she whispered.

  “Get up,” said Marko.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  He put his index finger to his lips. Quiet.

  Katerina didn’t resist when he gently pushed her off him. Naked, Marko stood to his full height, walked to beyond the edge of the blanket, and picked up Katerina’s bra. Before giving it to her, he felt every inch of the fabric.

  “What are you—”

  Marko put his finger to his lips again and flashed her a threatening look. When he was convinced the bra wasn’t wired with a listening device, he handed it to her. He did the same for all the rest of her clothing. She didn’t put any of it back on. It lay in a pile in front of her. Her head was lowered. Marko thought maybe she was crying.

  When he finished with her clothes, he started inspecting every single item in her satchel—her art tools, her paints, a few pens, a little makeup kit, lip gloss, a spare sanitary napkin, loose change, a key that he’d given her to his apartment, a nail file, a schedule of her classes at Tbilisi State, a small pink leather wallet that contained thirty-six rubles, a few receipts, her driver’s license, and her internal Soviet passport.

  She faced him, shaking her head, bottom lip quivering, definitely crying now.

  It was in the satchel itself that he found it, sewn into one of the side seams, between the outer fabric and inner lining. It was unnoticeable except for a tiny bump. Marko used his teeth to rip the seam open, then fished out the device with his index finger. He held it up for a moment, examining it as best he could in the weak light. It was identical to the bug he’d found in his apartment.

  He faced Katerina and held it up. She was looking at him now, but instead of crying, she appeared confused. In front of the blanket lay a fire pit ringed by small boulders. Holding the listening device gently in place with his lips, he picked up two rocks, and sat down in front of Katerina. He showed it to her, then placed it in her hands and stared into her eyes. She shook her head—whether to deny she knew anything about it, or because she was so stricken that she’d been found out, Marko couldn’t tell.

  He took the bug back, placed it on top of one rock, and then smashed it with the other.

  “How do you explain that?” he demanded. After such a long
silence, the sound of the rocks smacking together, followed by his own voice—no longer a whisper—was jarring.

  A long silence, then, “What was it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marko stared into her eyes, searching. “Guess.”

  Her eyes began to well up with tears again. “A way for them to listen to us, but I don’t know about any of this, Marko! Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you?”

  “Does there need to be a why? Does there? Life is not a walk across a meadow, Katerina.” It was a common Russian saying that Katerina had told him her mother was fond of. “Shit happens.”

  “Stop it.”

  They faced one another for a long moment. Maybe it was her eyes, maybe it was the tone of her voice, or maybe he was just a sucker for tears. Whatever the reason, in that moment, Marko decided he believed her. He picked up the smashed bug.

  “This is a listening device. Someone planted it in your bag.”

  Katerina took it from him and examined the wires that came off of it.

  “That’s the antenna,” said Marko, as if he really knew what he was talking about. He was pretty sure it was, though.

  “I didn’t know, Marko. I swear it.”

  He studied her expression as best he could in the flickering candlelight. “Do you have any idea who could have planted this?”

  Katerina was silent for a moment. Her head dipped. “No. I take that bag with me everywhere.”

  “It was sewn in. They would have needed to take it away from you. For at least a few minutes.”

  “Maybe at school. Maybe someone took it when I was in class, or eating, and I just didn’t notice it. What happens now, Marko? What do we do?”

  Marko had to think about that one. “We lay low. We live in your dorm, finish out the spring semester, and I stay away from the Press Club and the American.”

  “And then you leave.”

  It was true. Marko would go back to the States. While Katerina would stay here trapped in Georgia. He hated the thought of that. It would be one thing if she wanted to be a part of the revolution, to see it, to help drive it forward, but she didn’t. She just wanted to live, and paint.