At the next table, two old men were holding a lively conversation. I imagined them seventy years before, young and lighthearted boys, sunbathing on the rocks and caught unawares by a photographer's lens. If it weren't for the gigantic billboards framing the promenade-as always, Coca Cola stands out-nothing, perhaps, would distinguish the New York beach from a mid-twentieth-century Odessa one. Except maybe the scale. Twenty Lanzherons is Brighton Beach. Another twenty more, and you have Coney Island Beach.
Soft music created a cozy feeling and put me in the mood for nostalgic memories. Although McDonald's is not my favorite place to spend time in, I ordered a hamburger and a cola, settled myself at a table decorated with a woodcut of a seventy-year-old pier, and relaxed.
An assault on my eyes made me sit up and prick up my ears-a familiar figure came out of the restroom and, unhindered by the restaurant's sights, headed for the exit. Doroshenko! I followed him to the door-with my eyes, of course; paused and allowed him to get about 30 yards away from the restaurant; and went out onto the street.
Doroshenko crossed the road and headed down Neptune Avenue in the direction of my house. I followed on the opposite side of the street, keeping the required distance from him along a diagonal. In no hurry, he reached 5th West and turned left. There could be no more doubt-Grisha was heading for my apartment. I did a hundred-meter dash, flew into my building from the other direction, and, so as not to run into him in the elevator, sped to the stairs.
In spite of regular workouts at the gym, a sprint at my age, including running up the stairs to the sixth floor, is no easy chore. My heart was working on overdrive. At every exhalation, a fairly large portion of coronary fuel exhaust dirtied the air. During those minutes, the Kyoto Protocol on reducing greenhouse gas emissions into the atmosphere was bursting at the seams. Luckily, my fuel reserves lasted only about five minutes. My heart calmed down and returned to its accustomed rhythm.
Once I'd caught my breath, I took a peek down the hall. It was empty. I hid around the corner and started listening for the elevator. Grisha didn't appear. I started thinking that I had suspected him in vain, and prepared to leave my hiding place. At that moment, the elevator stopped once more on the sixth floor.
«One last try,» I decided, «If Grisha doesn't show up, the game is over.»
I counted to ten and carefully peered down the hall. Uh-oh! Grisha's ear was glued to the door of the long-suffering apartment.
I came out of hiding and drew my pistol.
«Hands up!»
Grisha started, turned around-his face was distorted from terror, and his hand reached instinctively towards his pocket.
«Don't even think of twitching! The slightest movement, and the whole clip will be in your noggin!»
Grisha froze.
«On the floor! Lie down on the floor!»
«Zhenya…»
«Get on the floor, bastard! I'll shoot you without warning!»
«Zhenya, wait…»
Without dropping my weapon, I pulled my badge out of my pocket and showed it to him from a distance: «wiggle a foot and I'll mow you down like a dog!»
I don't think he recognized the emblem of the FBI-most likely, he decided the badge was a policeman's-but the surprise effect worked. He silently obeyed.
«Hands behind your head!»
The command was obeyed without a murmur. He tried to pronounce some sort of sounds, but the curt commands, reinforced by the gun muzzle held to the back of his head, made it impossible for him to disobey.
«Legs! Spread your legs wide!»
I handcuffed him, frisked him-there was no weapon, I took away a key chain-forgot myself and kicked him twice with my foot; then I then unlocked the door with my own key, and commanded: «Slowly! On your knees! Get inside!»
The command, «slowly» might as well not have been issued-without the aid of hands, or, to be precise, with one's hands fettered behind one's back with handcuffs, it's not easy to stand up. A fulcrum isn't useful only for turning the Earth.
I closed the door and, without letting him collect himself, I prodded him in the stomach with the pistol. «Now! Quickly! Who are you working for?!»
«Nobody. You misunderstood me.»
«What, Mr. Innocent, are you doing here?» A hefty box on the ear backed up the question.
Grisha twitched, but I immediately shoved the pistol muzzle into his nostril and pressed gently on it: «Want me to blow your nose?»
Grisha looked despondent. «I came to visit you. I wanted to talk to you. Take away the gun, I'm begging you.»
«Son of a bitch!» I sat across from him, keeping him in my sights as before: «Go on!»
«I rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, and I started listening to see whether anyone was home. And that's all. Suddenly you appear and start waving a gun. Zhenya, we used to be friends…»
«Save the whining for your little wife. I don't have time for it. Look closely-,» I pulled my FBI badge out of my pocket and shoved it under his eyes-man, you've really blown it big time. I won't even hand you over to the investigators. I'll shoot you on the spot like a mad dog. Then I'll call the police: 'I found,' I'll say, 'a robber in my apartment, and killed him when he tried to escape.' They'll bury you like a homeless bum, and your Rayechka»-I mentioned the name of his new wife, which gave him quite a surprise (his eyes popped out of their sockets)-«won't even know where to look for you to bring a little pot of flowers to your grave once a year. You make the choice: either you're open with me, and tell me the whole truth, or I'll count to three. One! Two! Three! Talk!» I went over to him, held the muzzle to his temple, and cocked the gun.
«Put down the pistol. I'll tell you everything,» pleaded Grisha.
«Just don't think of pulling the wool over my eyes. If I get the feeling you're lying, I won't even say 'three'!»
«I swear! By our friendship…»
«Don't talk about friendship. Keep it brief! Let me remind you, I'm not going to say 'three'!»
«I got the keys to the apartment from Sophia. Right before she left for Europe…»
«And entrusted you with checking her mail in Oceanside,» I added, showing him what I knew. So that he'd know: for his own good, it would be better if he didn't get evasive, and told the truth.
«If you know, why do you ask?»
«I'll ask the questions! Go on! And get it through your head: if I get the feeling you're being sneaky, I'm not going to stand on ceremony.»
«She's supposed to get her bank statements every month; and, so that the postal workers wouldn't start having too many questions, she asked me to collect her mail.»
«Why you in particular?»
«Excuse my saying so, but we were intimate, and she…»
«Son of a bitch!» I lost control of myself and knocked him to the floor with a sharp blow to the jaw.
«And the keys?! How did you get them?» The last question need not have been asked-the answer was clear from the confession he'd just made.
Grisha lay on the floor, licked his lower lip, and, without answering, gazed warily at me.
«Enough. Get up. I'm not going to take revenge. But just try to lie about anything…»
«I'm a Russian spy…»
«What?!»
Having caught his breath, Grisha got up, sat down on a chair, and corrected what he'd said: «Not in the literal sense.»
«Don't be a girl. You started-spit it out!»
«In Cleveland, at the Diocese of the Ukrainian Autocephalous Church, I met one of our countrymen from Poltavshchina. When he found out that I was wandering around the northwestern states, he offered me a chance to earn some money by taking soil and water samples in some specific places. He said he represented Russia on a UN committee that was doing environmental monitoring. Information collected to supplement aerial photographs would help to reveal sources of air and water pollution. It was easier for private individuals to get into areas carefully guarded from diplomats and collect the necessary information. I agreed-I didn't think I
was doing anything illegal. Protecting the environment is a good thing.»
«Keep it brief!»
«Following Mikhail's instructions, I set up radiometric sensors and took soil and water samples. He didn't pay much. So, when I got back to New York, I «lost» him.»
«Is that all? Or is Mr. Spy holding back something?»
«I'm trying to tell you…»
«Then tell me! Keep it short and simple!»
«About three months ago, Mikhail tracked me down and congratulated me. He said I'd helped the Russian intelligence service carry out monitoring of US nuclear installations. He demanded that I perform some insignificant services; and if I refused, he threatened to turn me in to the FBI.»
«Look at the Big Cheese! You're telling a good, long whopper.»
«I'm telling the truth.»
«Another tall tale. What did he need you for?»
«Sophia was involved in the Zakayev trial in Denmark. I guess she was working there as an interpreter.»
My heart skipped a beat: Grisha had hit the bull's-eye. I eased up on the pressure. Grisha was glad: he'd found a soft spot. He calmed down and began a detailed account.
«All the Russians who helped Zakayev escape extradition came under scrutiny from the KGB. Including Sophia. She told me so herself. Mikhail confirmed her fears. He said he had a tape of my phone conversation with Sophia, proving my connection with terrorists. It would be enough to get me arrested. Do you see that I was in a hopeless situation? I was forced to agree.»
I fell to thinking for a long while. Apart from an insignificant slip of the tongue (out of habit, he'd called the FSB by its old abbreviation, the KGB), what he'd said cardinally changed the picture of what had happened. A new player had appeared on the field-the mysterious Mikhail, a Russian agent working in the USA under diplomatic cover of the UN.
Grisha gazed attentively at me. Once he was sure his words had produced the necessary effect, he asked piteously: «Undo the handcuffs. My hands are numb.»
I didn't react; the unexpected confession had provoked an emotional storm.
How weirdly fates are intertwined… I, without any aspirations in that direction, had become an FBI agent, while Grisha, with whom I had once shared my roof-and, as had become clear, my wife-and who had arrived in America with a noble goal-the search for the lost gold of the Zaporozhian Sich-had turned out to be a Russian spy. Of course, I had suspected Sophia of unfaithfulness even before this. But conjecture is not proof. Before today, both parties had absolutely denied adultery.
Grisha implored: «Please, undo the handcuffs. My hands are numb.»
I ignored the request and continued the interrogation: «Who called whom: did you call Sophia, or did she call you?»
«She did. I never knew her location. Mikhail intimidated me,» Grisha repeated ingratiatingly. «He said that an accusation of spying and being an accomplice to terrorists draws a life sentence. Understand, I got caught in a trap.»
«What the hell did he need you for? What did he want from you?»
«Information about Sophia. Then, when they located you in Denmark-you do have the same last name-they started taking an interest in you, and they found out that you were working for the FBI. At first, they were thinking of recruiting you-they asked my opinion. And later on, you wormed your way in somewhere, and they decided to intimidate you.»
«So that's how it is,» I thought sadly of Shchekochikhin. «It's clear which side is up.»
Grisha hurried to rectify himself: «I had the keys to the apartment. Sophia left them for me. Mikhail proposed that I pay you a visit and knock you off balance with something unusual. I thought up the tricks with the cups.»
«But after all, I changed the lock.»
Grisha smiled: «In my youth, I had lots of practice. I can disarm an alarm and open any safe in a matter of minutes.»
«And the tricks with the elevator? Are those your work too?»
«I swear to you, I wasn't involved in that. Mikhail said they'd tried to take you out, but the equipment malfunctioned. After that I decided to bail out. I came to you to confess, but see how that turned out.»
«Little lambkin. Why didn't you come in the evening? When I'm at home.»
«I work evening shifts. On a hunch, I decided to drop in during the day.»
I was taken aback. It seemed Grisha was telling the truth. He possessed the information that I'd been in Denmark; he'd talked about Sophia's participation in the Zakayev case. He even knew I worked for the FBI.
«Do you know how to find Mikhail?» I asked in a conciliatory manner.
«No. He used to find me himself and set up our meetings. There wasn't any system. Sometimes he didn't bother me for weeks. But lately he's started to appear often. To tell the truth, since they wanted to take you out, I'm a little scared. I may turn out to be next. Nobody has any use for an unnecessary witness. I came to you for protection.»
«Describe him.»
«He looks to be about forty-five. Thickset, short haircut, round face, brunet. What else? Height? Eyeballing it-about six feet. And I guess that's all.»
«How can I get a look at him? But in such a way that he doesn't know about it.»
«I don't know. But I can promise to call you right away if he sets up a meeting with me.»
«Agreed.» I undid the handcuffs, and he Stretched his arms with pleasure. «Get it through your head, dude, you know where I work. If you deceive me, keep in mind that you're playing with fire.»
I wrote my cell phone number on a flyer and held it out to him: «Call at any time. Including if Sophia turns up.»
I was just being cunning-there was no necessity for that. I had gotten permission to listen in on Grisha's phone, and the order signified only one thing: nitpicking. To see how fast and how precisely he followed my directions.
Grisha made a face and muttered, «I promise.»
«Then it's agreed. Get it through your head, she mustn't know about our conversation. Right now you're risking more than anyone else.»
«I understand…»
I let him out of the apartment and sat down in the armchair in a state of exhaustion. I put off writing Lloyd a detailed account until the morning. I hadn't the strength. The past week had been like a roller coaster ride. After the stresses received-the attempted murder in the elevator, and today's shocks-the coming weekend was welcome as never before. Let us mark it on the calendar: Friday, July 25, 2003. Doroshenko's visit.
I downed two shots of cognac and went to bed-nothing gets rid of nervous tension like a little alcohol combined with a deep sleep.
Grisha called sooner than I expected, on Tuesday, and left a message on the answering machine. He spoke quickly, saying he was calling from the Starbucks' restroom. He gave the address. Mikhail was waiting for him at a table, and he would try to keep him there for about fifteen minutes. He added that in the morning, Sophia had called him, but he'd tell me the details of the conversation later.
I got the message an hour later. I confess that, during work hours, I had escaped to see a new Julia Roberts film, and had unplugged the telephone. But even if I had immediately answered Grisha's call, it was inconceivable that I should fly in fifteen minutes from Lower Manhattan to the area around Astoria in Queens.
I was pleased: Grisha had carried kept his promise. Fine. Another occasion would present itself to get acquainted with the mysterious Mikhail.
I phoned the wiretapping department and requested that they immediately bring me a transcript of the morning's conversation with Sophia. Soon it lay on my desk. As the operators had established, the call was from Damascus.
Sophia: Hi, dear! I didn't wake you up, did I?
Grisha: Hi! Where are you calling from? The reception's not too good.
Sophia: (bursts out laughing): If you know too much, you'll get old sooner. I hear you perfectly.
Grisha: Oh! Everything's okay now! Where are you?
Sophia: I don't have time for a long conversation. Listen carefully and don't be sc
ared. I'm waiting for you in Damascus.
Grisha: What!?
Sophia: Fly out to Cairo as soon as possible. From there, on to Damascus. I'll pay for the tickets. I want you to do me a favor. When you arrive you get fifty thousand dollars. Right at the airport. Cash. Even if you refuse me request. If you agree, after the work is done you'll get the same amount over again. And if you wish, something more awaits you.
Grisha: What could be more than money?
Sophia: My hand and my heart.
Grisha: You already promised me that. When I arrived in America.
Sophia: The circumstances have changed. Now, everything is a lot more serious. But I won't insist. The hand and heart, you can refuse. Earn a hundred thousand and return to your lady. The money I'm offering you for two or three weeks of work, you won't earn in your lifetime. But I repeat, you have the right to count on more.
Grisha: Can I think it over?
Sophia: Of course. But make your decision quickly. I'll give you a week.
Grisha: Leave me your phone number.
Sophia: I'll call you myself. In a week. Kisses.
Grisha: From me, too. Call me day after tomorrow.
Sophia: Good. See you, beloved.
So, my little hen had been taken to Damascus. To none other than Abdel. It was incomprehensible why she needed Doroshenko, whom she was trying to drag to Syria by every possible means. Judging by her proposal, Sophia didn't doubt his devotion, and was using a cast-off trick for one more time-a promise of marriage. You had to wonder, what for? I had no doubts: Sophia was lying, and needed Grisha to carry out some task that she was not permitted to perform in the Arab world. Even for a trip to the doctor, if she didn't want to provoke a negative reaction and be subjected to obstruction, she must appear with a man.
It would be interesting to know-had she told Abdel and his relations about her Jewish origins? Or, without the least repugnance, had she proclaimed herself a Christian? Anyway, what fairy tale she told was the least of my worries. It was more important to find out why the devil she required Doroshenko.
I called Grisha and set up a meeting the next day at two p.m. at the McDonald's on West 6th. I meant to instruct him before his conversation with Sophia and, at the same time, clarify why Mikhail had paid a visit to him. The dangerous games initiated by the «diplomat,» after Russian Intelligence had discovered that I belonged to the FBI, were, at first glance, foolhardy. Asking for trouble? Why? For an agent, such acts were the equivalent of suicide.
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 20