Let us suppose that the situation had changed radically, and Sophia had decided to embark on this adventure. From July twenty-ninth until today, August eighteenth, the answering service had not recorded any attempt to contact Grisha. Even if circumstances had forced her to set off on this risky journey, it had been three weeks since the last time she had let her presence be known. The border crossing, the combat engagement, the identification of the persons portrayed on the cassette. In order for this information to reach Viktor, there had to be many coincidences. The cassette had to fall into the «right» hands-someone who knew me, Sophia and the actual state of affairs. For all this to happen in twenty days was not realistic. Of course, a miracle was not out of the question. But more likely, the video recording was made before Grisha’s murder. In that case, Sophia was in danger. Either Viktor did not know this, or he was bluffing.
Sometimes whole years go by like a single day, without leaving any impressions in the memory-but sometimes there are weeks that are so saturated that one significant event can be displaced by another, and each new event is like a broad fissure, with no time to be washed away or overgrown.
It was a bloody July: Shchekochikhin’s death on the third, and Doroshenko’s murder on the thirtieth. In between, on the twentieth, was the unsuccessful attempt in the elevator. Not even three weeks into August, I could add the appearance of the four-headed dragon, the flirtation with Alla, and the meeting with Viktor-enough events for the next two years.
I had no doubt that Viktor was acquainted with Mikhail and was involved in Doroshenko’s murder. Even if there was no proof of his guilt today, it would turn up later. However, this would not change anything. Viktor Sviridov was an inviolable person, protected by diplomatic immunity.
Once I received permission to begin the deal with Viktor, I called him.
Viktor was not surprised; he had been expecting my call. I was brief.
«Can we meet tomorrow morning at ten in front of the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum?»
«No problem. Is it OK if I’m five minutes late?»
The next morning we approached the museum at practically the same time. I was walking along 5th Avenue and saw him from far away, crossing the street from the Russian Consulate side. The conversation did not last more than two minutes. Viktor listened to my counter-offers and promised a quick response. The first result was evident immediately; according to my «outside» observations, Arkady Perelman and Lyudmila Kharchenko, the third and fourth heads of the dragon, had disappeared. It turned out that when they had started spying on me, they didn’t know what they were getting into. Viktor had presented himself to them as a private detective gathering information about the client’s marital infidelity. He had asked them to perform some small services for him in exchange for a modest reward. They had read a lot of detective novels and decided to make a little on the side.
But I was not left without surveillance. On the weekends, this function was performed by head number two-Allochka Ragulina. I did not object, reassuring myself that I was fulfilling my patriotic duty.
GULYA, GULENKA, GULNARA
Gulya flew to Baghdad on May third. Her original length of service (three months) was extended to six months. I waited for her in New York at the beginning of July. September rolled in. Her return was delayed, and judging by the news from Iraq, I did not expect her anytime soon.
Even though the majority of the criminals from Saddam Hussein’s circle were captured, the dictator was not caught. He coordinated terrorist attacks against the coalition forces from his secret refuge. Iraqis who expressed a willingness to cooperate with the new authorities were killed by «friendly fire,» and car bombs began to explode near police stations, in markets and in mosques.
On July 23, 2003, the world agencies broadcast a special announcement: Saddam Hussein’s sons Uday and Qusay had been killed by US armed forces in a suburb of Mosul.
I hoped they had done this without Gulya’s help. By some incomprehensible means, she managed to appear in the thick of events on the news tapes of the leading information agencies.
Doroshenko’s murder, which had occurred a week after the death of the Hussein brothers, remained unnoticed by the mass media. Gulya did not know about it, any more than she knew about the appearance of the four-headed dragon. Her letters were brief and infrequent. I was not offended; I attributed this to the war; and despite my self-assurance that sex with Alla was a part of my work as a counterintelligence agent, I was fidgety, fearing that Gulya might return suddenly and the situation would be revealed. Experienced ladies’ men might hide a smile. Unlike them, I was not used to sitting on several chairs at once and eating soup from different plates.
It is a weak justification that a man cannot manage for long without a woman. If you had a hearty supper in a restaurant yesterday, the next day your appetite burns again. It sounds vulgar. Well, men are imperfect. Camels are luckier: they can carry reserves. However, I doubt that this feature applies to the satisfaction of sexual instincts.
The boomerang catches up with the thrower-everything returns, both the good and the bad. But to think that if Gulya were ordered to, she was ready to enter any man’s bedroom-spare me! Away! Evil spirits! Away!
Was Alla married? This was the second week she fill my apartment with the scent of French perfumes on the weekend. Perhaps on weekdays she was a devoted and loving wife, and on the weekends, with her husband’s permission, she came to Brooklyn for industrious sex. «Shtazi’s invention»-married couples specializing in «swinging,» temporarily exchanging spouses-was eagerly seized upon as a weapon by Soviet Intelligence Service. However, it remains to be seen which side is in first place; in this sex espionage, the agents from both countries have achieved great successes.
Was Alla Viktor’s wife? According to her file, the answer is negative. Her husband, a pilot for Aeroflot, rarely came to New York, which gave his wife artistic freedom. Br-r-r! I never want to hear anything like that about Gulya! I don’t want to know anything about it!
My thought became reality. As soon as I thought about Gulya, the telephone rang. A joyful voice, sounding very clear, shouted into my ear:
«Hello!»
«Where are you calling from?»
«From Queens. I just walked into the house.»
«Why didn’t you call? I would have met you.»
«It’s a long story. It turned out to be a surprise.»
I looked at the clock: eleven in the evening. Out of the corner of my eye I looked in the bathroom and saw Alla, who had taken a shower and was freshening up in front of the mirror. Pressing the telephone receiver with my hand, I went out into the living room.
Despite her tiredness, Gulya had no intention of waiting until morning.
«I’m going to take a bath. There’s nothing in the refrigerator-totally empty. Could you get something at the Russian store and come on over? I’ll expect you in about an hour.»
I swallowed my tongue. It was Saturday evening, and Alla was settling in the bedroom. I wouldn’t be able to send her on her way before morning. Gulya sensed my hesitation and exclaimed anxiously:
«What’s wrong, aren’t you happy?»
«Of course I’m happy, I’m just not feeling well.»
«All right, lazybones, I’ve missed you. I’ll take a taxi and come over now. Wash the bathtub before I get there.»
«You’re crazy! You just got home!» I exclaimed in alarm. «Absolutely not! I’ll be there in an hour. An hour and a half at the most.»
«Then I’ll see you soon! Love you!» She happily put the receiver back, leaving me in confusion.
«Come here, darling. Who were you talking to this late at night? A woman, I suppose?» Alla cooed; but the time for joking was over: the meter was set for an hour and a half. «Why are you so quiet? Are you keeping secrets from me?»
I don’t know how Figaro would have gotten out of this one; he was used to making hundred-and-eighty-degree pirouettes. A crazy day had begun. I was allotted ten seconds fo
r a response. I sighed heavily and carelessly waved my hand.
«This was a business call. In an hour I’ll have to leave the house for a little while.» I turned off the phone to prevent any unwanted calls.
In response, Alla threw her arms open wide.
…A small lie leads to a big one. An hour and a quarter later I went outside and called Gulya from my mobile phone. The sounds of the street created the background noise I needed. In a tragic voice I moaned that some scoundrel had punctured my rear tires, and I wasn’t sure whether I could get to the workshop by myself in the morning.
Gulya was upset and began to reassure me.
«Wait until morning. If you can’t get to the workshop by yourself, call the service. You can get both wheels fixed for fifteen minutes of work and twelve dollars.»
I knew this even without her help. I sighed with relief and sat in the car, and we talked for at least a half hour. We agreed on the schedule: I would arrive in Queens by eleven. We would have breakfast at a restaurant near Gulya’s house, and we would go to Manhattan for entertainment. In the evening we would meet the children, Natasha and Timur. Gulya had called them from the airport and invited them to come over at seven in the evening.
A sleepy tone had crept into Gulya’s voice. We said goodbye, and I returned home. Alla was asleep. I didn’t want to disturb her, and I settled on the couch. In the morning I would be in for some unpleasant explanations: I would say my girlfriend had returned-Alla knew about Gulya’s existence-and… Life was changeable; she would have to resign herself. If she had an emotional outburst, I would remind her that she was a married woman. Then I decided that it was not worth stirring up the beehive ahead of time. We would say goodbye in the morning, and I would put off any serious discussions until the middle of the week. Starbucks would be an ideal place to sort out our relations.
With that I fell asleep, without saying the legendary phrase once spoken by the despairing Figaro: «I hasten to laugh at everything, for fear of being obliged to weep.»
* * *
The stuffy day was relieved by a nighttime thunderstorm, with lightning and biting gusts of wind. At nine in the morning, when I went outside with Alla, there was nothing to remind us of the downpour except for some broken branches. The asphalt breathed with the evaporations of last night’s uproar.
The explanation was brief and not very pleasant. Alla reacted calmly to the news of Gulya’s return. She smiled and summed things up reasonably: «Don’t forget me. One thing doesn’t contradict the other. Besides, I’m not afraid of sports competitions.»
«Maybe we could move to your territory» I suggested, deciding to put an end to this intrigue. But considering my nature-in matters of love, Libras never take abrupt steps-I hinted that there would be a continuation.
«We’ll see,» she said evasively. «We’ll discuss it later.»
I accompanied Alla to the Neptune Avenue subway station and then took a ride to a flower shop on Brighton. Considering that the morning was devoted to repairing the car, I had about an hour to spare.
At ten thirty I parked near Gulya’s house. On the way I called her on my mobile phone and told her she was absolutely right: it took fifteen minutes to repair both tires.
Gulya was waiting outside. I handed her the flowers and she was touched, but her hunger prevailed over her other emotions. She left the bouquet in the car, and we went out for breakfast at an Italian restaurant on Austin Street. At first glance she looked weary and thinner, and without any makeup-a little older. War doesn’t make anyone younger or more beautiful. A lot of news had piled up in four months.
We were the only ones in the restaurant. As soon as we sat at the table, Gulya could not contain herself and blurted out: «I saw Sophia.»
I opened my eyes wide. The waiter came and took the order, and Gulya continued:
«The fugitive turned up not in Chechnya and not in Russia, but in Damascus, in the home of one of the high-ranking members of the BAAS party. Many members of the current Syrian leadership, including the generals, studied in the Soviet Union, and before returning to their country, they got themselves Russian wives.
«Do you know why? There was a tradition dating back to the time of the Third International that the leadership of foreign Communist parties received their training in Moscow. The foreign department of the NKVD nurtured those who were supposed to export the revolution. During Khrushchev’s era the experience of Stalin’s NKVD was extended to the People’s Friendship Institute and the military colleges-that was where the future government elite of third world countries were brainwashed. The special department of the KGB usually coaxed the government officials. Snow-white blondes, the dream of every dark-skinned stallion, captured their hearts, bedrooms and secrets. The most talented sex spies later became their wives.»
The waiter brought an omelet with bacon and coffee with toast. Gulya satisfied her hunger and continued:
«All intelligence services learn something from each other. The CIA mastered the Soviet experience, and when the opportunity arose, it did not hesitate to use it. Probing the young women who were successfully married for the purpose of recruitment-why not? One day a former Russian citizen, the wife of an official of the Syrian Ministry of Internal Affairs, was captured on camera at a nudist beach in Florida, and later-that same evening-at a night club with an athletically built Cuban. Afterwards they showed her high-quality photographs. They used the threat of disclosure to pin the victim to the wall. According to the official version-for the husband-she had come to Florida to visit her sister. But once she broke free, she remembered her youth and gave in to temptation. In order to avoid scandalous publicity, the frightened woman agreed to cooperate with the CIA.»
«So, she had a good time. Well, well…»
«At the time her husband was an ordinary member of the BAAS party. US-Syrian relations were not that strained. She could travel freely to the US and visit relatives. For a long time no one bothered her-there was no need to. But when her husband made his rapid ascension, rising up the official ladder to the position of Department Director in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the CIA reminded her of her long-ago escapades. The unbottled agent began regularly supplying our agency with secret documents.»
«Her husband brought work home, and she made photocopies?»
«How quick-witted you are,» Gulya laughed. «One day she took pictures of his birthday party. The CIA resident couldn’t contain his joy; among the diplomat’s guests he recognized a woman who had been brought to the attention of all American representatives abroad.»
The intrigue had reached its peak. Gulya became silent and cast a cunning look on me. I was fearful of my own guess, and afraid that I might be wrong, I asked carefully: «Sophia?»
Gulya nodded her head.
«Another inquiry followed, and the agent reported that Sophia was the wife of one of her husbands’ friends.»
«What?! When did she get married?!» I was filled with indignation. «And she wasn’t even officially divorced!»
«Does that upset you?» Gulya’s voice sounded touchy. «Submit a petition, and they will restore your marriage. Shall I give you the address of the Syrian embassy? Or will you find it yourself in the phone book?!»
Embarrassed, I apologized for the excessively stormy reaction and asked her to continue her story. When a woman’s equilibrium is disturbed, it is difficult for her to return to her working order immediately. The amplitude of the pendulum slowly receded, and I waited patiently. When the storm had subsided, Gulya continued.
«The agent immediately contacted the CIA headquarters and reported the discovery of the criminal who was the object of an international search. I immediately flew to Damascus. My goal was to lure Sophia to the American embassy, narcotize her and secretly get her out of the country to the nearest military base. Depending on the circumstances, the plan could be adjusted, but arresting Sophia was the top priority. As for Abdel al-Dawalibi, our hands were free; we didn’t need to be cautious in selecting our
method. The main thing was to avoid publicity. They asked the agent to organize a random meeting between me and Sophia. This was not easy; the agent had to establish friendly relations with Sophia. When she succeeded in doing this, she invited Sophia for a walk with her children. As we had arranged, they lingered at a children’s playground. And there I was.»
«Just like in the movies.»
«Exactly. Sophia recognized me at once. It didn’t take her a great effort to understand that this was no coincidence. The meeting had been arranged. She was not about to run away or become agitated, which would attract more attention. She prepared to listen.»
«How did she look?»
«At first I was amazed by the visible changes. Sophia wore a hijab on her head like the Syrians, a symbol for a woman to show that she belonged to the Muslim religion, and from a distance she didn’t look any different from any woman in Damascus. I didn’t bother to ask unnecessary questions. Clearly it was safer this way. A white woman dressed in European clothing would be the object of increased attention. The head covering was a protective cloak to keep adventure lovers away. By this time we had received additional information: Sophia had been spotted at a conspirators’ meeting with the third secretary of the Russian Embassy, the GRU resident in Syria.»
«You’re kidding!» I couldn’t restrain myself. «What a rogue!»
«There was no time for long conversations. I took the risk and identified myself as a CIA agent, and to avoid misunderstandings, I reminded her that she was being sought by Interpol. Every country belonging to this organization, including Russia-I consciously emphasized the word «Russia»-was required to take measures to detain her. Then I showed her photographs in which she was conversing with a Russian diplomat. She turned pale and felt as if the noose were tightening. She realized that if the Syrian counterintelligence should happen upon these photographs, they would not be pleased with her contacts with the Russian diplomat and intelligence agent. Sophia burst into tears and acknowledged that she had fallen into a trap. She was looking for her mother’s grave in Chechnya, and she had been captured along with her Chechen guide. At first she thought that this was an independent gang that traded hostages. It turned out that she had fallen into the hands of the Special Force of the GRU. They forced her to collaborate with them and freed her from captivity, letting her return to Damascus. She had no way out; unlike French prisons, it’s not so easy to leave a Russian one. She had to agree so she wouldn’t end up behind bars.»
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 23