Gulya and Sophia were the same age. Two grown-up children against a life lived aimlessly. I went up to the bookshelves and started looking at the photographs. Gulya with her husband and children. On vacation. In the park. A studio portrait. Portraits of Natasha and Timur. Together. Separately.
While I was studying the photographs, in the next room Gulya was conversing confidentially with the children, exchanging news and giving them presents. The door opened, and everyone crowded into the living room.
«Shall we sit at the table?» Gulya’s voice sounded happy.
«It’s about time.»
The meal began. Gulya mentioned that on Monday she would fly to Washington for two days, then return to New York for two days, and then set off on another journey. To the Near East.
Timur joked:
«For America, it’s the Far East. If you want the Near East, stretch your hand across the Pacific Ocean. The Land of the Rising Sun will respond with a friendly handshake.»
I was upset. Our remaining days would be divided into segments: one for me, and two for the children. They had come home for the duration of Gulya’s short-term vacation, and both intended to make the most of the time allotted to them. However, it would not be manly to dump my problems on Gulya. Thank goodness she had considered it necessary to tell me about Sophia, in violation of the CIA’s instructions. Naturally, this information would not reach Lloyd. If the CIA decided they needed to inform the FBI, perhaps Lloyd would give me some new intelligence information.
THE TRANSACTION
On Monday Gulya took the morning flight to Washington. The same day, at six o’clock in the evening, my meeting with Viktor took place at a café opposite Central Park. The transaction was performed as an exchange of a videocassette for the documents showing the connection between the operations of the Bank of New York and the consequences of corruption at the Russian State Customs Commission.
I handed him the diskette, briefly listing the files it contained.
The «Cultural Advisor» beamed with happiness-he had fulfilled an important task. He acknowledged honestly that perhaps he had made an uneven exchange, and he offered to make up the difference with a monetary reward. Such a scenario had been predicted during my morning meeting with Lloyd: Victor wanted to make a mole out of me. I politely declined, saying that I was not interested in money, and I proposed the plan Lloyd had worked out for a mutually advantageous collaboration.
«Each of us has a boss who in turn has a boss at the next higher level. It’s a sort of pyramid of directors. They are all fearful for their own position, and with each small success they rush to report their achievements to their superiors. Rewards, honors, the next star for their shoulder straps-the directors are all knocking themselves out for these rewards, often presenting what the superiors want to hear as the facts. If they don’t get the results they want; the management becomes strict. Heads fly from the bottom up, unlike the rewards, which rarely fly downwards. If we continue to maintain our informal contacts, as long as it is not considered treachery, our exchange of information that is useful to both special services will allow us to receive benefits. In Moscow and in Washington, efforts are officially coordinated by members of the FSB and FBI. But the political situation does not always allow them to follow the existing agreements. In certain situations, it is more convenient to negotiate at the level of residents.»
Viktor agreed:
«I’ve thought about this too. Things that cannot be accomplished by heads of state in the living room due to political reasons can easily be achieved in the kitchen.»
I joked:
«The exchange is uneven. You owe me.»
Viktor smirked:
«A tempting proposal, and I understand it doesn’t come from you, but I need to think it over. It’s a sensitive issue.»
But everything was already clear. Without signing any intergovernmental agreements, in fifteen minutes we had set up an unofficial channel of communication between the FSB and the FBI.
Viktor offered to outline his immediate circle of interests. We agreed to meet in the same place a week later.
Returning to my office, I watched the videocassette and then handed it to Lloyd together with a written commentary. It turned out that there were not many episodes involving Sophia-only two. The video recording, made on June eighth and tenth, confirmed that Sophia had been in Chechnya among a group of mercenaries. However, there were no reasons for concern; my telephone call with Grisha on July 29, a day before his murder, confirmed that she had successfully disentangled herself from her troubles and returned to Syria.
In principle, Viktor no longer interested me; he had nothing new to report about Sophia. But with an eye on prospects for the future, the precedent had already been set.
Clark’s decision to begin his flirtation with the FSB had not been made easily; seven years ago Earl Pitts, an employee of the New York department responsible for «Russian» affairs, had been arrested and charged with espionage. For a long time Clark could not come round; throughout the almost century-old history of the FBI, Pitts was only the second employee charged with treason.
He would have continued spying if the CIA had not had a stroke of luck: former KGB major Vasily Mitrokhin fled to the West, bringing a list of foreigners who collaborated with the foreign intelligence service. Pitts was arrested on December 18, 1996. An FBI agent introduced himself to Pitts as the Russian intelligence agent and offered to renew the collaboration that had been broken off due to the collapse of the USSR. Pitts handed the supposed intelligence agent twenty-two secret documents and found himself behind bars. Three months later he made a deal with the investigators: he acknowledged that for nine years, beginning in 1987, he had been selling secrets affecting the national security of the USA, first to the USSR and later to Russia.
The FBI had exposed the Russian spy Nicholson in the CIA system. A month later the CIA evened the score with Pitts. It was a draw. No one emerged as the winner in the constant dispute between the special services.
Clark, responsible for the operations of the New York office, blamed himself: he had overlooked the traitor. He was planning to resign. His superiors barely talked him out of it. It was time to even the score.
Sviridov was indebted to his wife for his advancement in the service. Her brother held a high position in Putin’s administration, and at his sister’s request he arranged for Viktor’s transfer to New York. Sviridov seemed to be doing his utmost; he wanted to show that he should not have been kept in secondary roles.
He agreed to share information, hoping to receive a reward from the leadership. Excellent! He was burning with desire to stand out-we would help him in his honorable intentions. The main thing was not to rush events. There was no need to shake the tree-ripe apple would fall into our hands by itself. One had to be careful when dealing with ambitious desires.
* * *
On Wednesday evening Guyla returned from the CIA headquarters located in Langley, eight miles from Washington.
Our matrimonial plans, which depended on the completion of Gulya’s mission, were coming apart at the seams. The date for her final return home was constantly being postponed, and to judge from the situation in Iraq, even naming a tentative date appeared impossible. There was a catastrophic shortage of Arabists who had the experience of living in Muslim countries. Radio interceptions for intelligence purposes remained undeciphered. Tons of documents seized from Saddam’s ministries lay unread and not translated into English.
No one had foreseen the postwar resistance. It turned out that the Shiite sheikhs, rejoicing at the overthrow of Saddam Hussein’s regime, had no desire to establish a secular state in Iraq. The Iranian burqa was closer and dearer to their hearts. Strangely enough, none of the White House analysts had thought of this.
Gulya had some choice things to say about Washington’s strategies. «Total chaos» was the most polite expression she had to say. When she quieted down, she made her proposal.
«Next month, on Oct
ober sixteenth, you will be forty-seven. It’s an odd date, but then on November third I’ll celebrate my forty-fifth birthday. If nothing supernatural happens, I’ll ask for a week off, and during the interval between those dates, we’ll fly to Las Vegas. We’ll celebrate our birthdays and register our marriage.»
There was no question about the need for me to divorce from Sophia. Gulya partially knew the story of my life; she knew that I had entered the country using false documents in the name of Leonid Nevelev, and after I passed the examination for American citizenship, I had resumed my previous name. Leonid Nevelev was a bachelor, recorded in documents at the immigration department. His family status had fortuitously passed to Yevgeny Rivilis. The actual facts were unimportant. My previous debts had been written off by the FBI.
I elaborated:
«As soon as you call and tell me the date of the flight, I’ll reserve a hotel and fly to Las Vegas with the children. We’ll meet you at the airport.»
This was accepted unanimously. We uncorked a bottle of champagne. I proposed a toast, uncharacteristically brief, considering my penchant for loquacity at the table.
«To success! Nothing can interfere with our holiday!»
Before drinking, Gulya responded with a kiss. Curtain, please. People who like to look through keyholes would be disappointed; anything having to do with the bedroom would remain behind the scenes. Those who are preoccupied with sex or particularly impatient will find a welcome in Paris, on Boulevard Clichy.
BRIGHTON BACKWATERS
The squat summer houses cluttered with trash between Neptune and Brighton Avenues are an eyesore in this neighborhood, which is nicknamed «Little Odessa.» The street urchins used to hold onto each other in a deathly grip, forming an untouchable society of bums protected by the inalienable right of «private property.» When Brighton was inhabited by Pakistanis and Latin Americans during its decline, they accepted fragments from the first wave of Russian immigrants who reached Brighton in the early seventies. They made room, but they kept their place.
Another quarter century was needed for Brighton to bloom and return to the glory it had lost during the Great Depression. It took time before the «moneybags» believed that Brighton was different from Moldavanka, the Odessa slum. Brighton’s bazaar, «Privoz,» named after the one in Odessa, with its vegetable stands on Brighton Avenue, was for many a convenient place to shop for fresh produce after the beach, and it became stable and attractive to the middle class.
The «moneybags» understood that despite the subway hanging overhead, people could not only make money here, go to expensive restaurants and enjoy the ocean’s charms, they could also live here. Everything was close by: banks, restaurants, fashionable stores. The developers purchased a parcel of land next to the ocean, ignoring the nearby hovels, and began building a complex of condominiums with an exit towards the beach. Apartments in the first buildings cost up to a million. Soon the prices doubled. It was a death sentence for the hovels.
This was a rare case when those condemned to death did not panic. Fortunately for their owners, and without the slightest effort on their part, the wooden shacks in the back streets leading to Brighton Beach Avenue skyrocketed in price. It was strange that they survived until the end of the twentieth century, strange that they were not consumed by an immense fire during the August heat, making room for the skyscrapers.
But even in this case, no tragedies would occur. The owners of the shacks would receive a decent compensation for the skyrocketing value of their plots of land, and then the process of destruction of the antiquated structures would be carried out in an orderly manner.
Alla, who was accustomed to the skyscrapers of Manhattan and, like all Muscovites, not particularly fond of Brighton, suddenly asked if I would give her a tour of «Russian America.» I agreed. We left my apartment building, walked along West 5th to Sea Breeze Avenue, and turned left. The lecture began.
«Brighton’s date of birth cannot be found in the synagogue or church records. The only thing we know is that when the elevated railroad reached Coney Island Beach-this event took place at the end of the 19th century, in 1877 to be exact-the first hotels were built on the adjacent vacant lots. Brighton began as a summer dacha of Manhattan.»
We stopped near the massive arch at the corner of Ocean and Brighton Avenues. I pointed to a corner building and started telling about a fire that flared up here two years ago, instantly consuming a drugstore and a flower shop. Within a short time, a modern three-story building with a drugstore and medical offices had grown up on the site of the fire.
She listened with interest. We reached the National Restaurant and had to stop outside the White Nights Bookstore, caught by the roar of the subway cars passing above us. I interrupted my talk, explaining by gestures that I couldn’t hear my own voice, and drew Alla into the silence of the back streets. We turned onto Brighton 4th.
The backwaters of Brighton, the numbered alley-like streets forming crossbars between Neptune and Brighton Avenues, put themselves up for sale. After joining their neighbors-no one wants to die alone-the junk houses could not resist the temptation of cold hard cash and submitted to being torn to pieces by powerful bulldozers. The emptied lots were then enclosed by fences, and newly built low-rise condominiums were squeezed in. The fences audaciously examined the passers-by, then grabbed their attention with the persistent hand of a gypsy and shouted loudly: «We buy houses! In any condition! We pay in cash!» The telephone number of the construction company was printed in prominent, eye-catching boldface.
We looked at the construction sites, and I persuaded Alla that this neighborhood, from which the middle class had recently run away, as if from the plague, had gone up in price; the owners of the hovels would inevitably sell their shacks, and in about ten years, unless some catastrophe occurs, there would be nothing left to remind people of the previous owners. The Brighton ragamuffin was growing up and turning into a respectable gentleman before our eyes.
Alla stopped in front of a half-deserted house where the front yard was covered with black polyethylene bags stuffed with all kinds of trash, and began complaining:
«Why doesn’t the sanitation board do something and fine the negligent owners?»
With her loud speech and active gesticulation so uncharacteristic of Muscovites (Alla, when did you manage to pick up such bad manners?), we attracted the neighbors’ attention. A bearded man came out of the shanty next door, apparently a Pakistani, and looked at me strangely. With a shock, we both recognized each other: I had spoken with this very man a year and a half ago at the Islamic Center of Brighton Beach. The result of that visit was Ted’s murder, which was still unsolved.
Without a word, the man concealed himself behind the door and went up to the window; as he was closing the door, I glanced at the house number. A curtain moved, forming a narrow slot, through which he began looking at us.
Alla continued to be agitated. I took her hand: «Don’t worry about it. A year from now this house won’t be here.» I pulled her behind me, frantically looking for a pretext that would enable me to leave her briefly. At least for five minutes. Before the Pakistani could go into hiding, I had to call the officer on duty and report my discovery of the presumed murderer of Ted. Then the house would be sealed off, a search would be made and he would be arrested.
We went on about ten meters and turned onto Oceanview. I grabbed my stomach, hunched up and whined pitifully:
«Sorry, I need to go…»
Alla was sympathetic.
«I told you not to buy hot foods at the store in the summer. And they drown the salads in mayonnaise and sell them as if they were fresh. You’re sure to be poisoned.»
«Who knew?» the hypocrite groaned sorrowfully.
«You have to learn how to cook. Or get married and let your wife worry about your stomach. Otherwise, someday you’ll end up in the hospital. On the other hand,» her voice trembled, and she looked at me with a grin, «you have good insurance, and you aren’t taking any risks.�
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I made a wry face; Alla was getting close to a forbidden topic, and she was two steps away from a mine field.
After walking around the block, we came out on Brighton 4th and headed for Brighton Beach Avenue. In order to be as convincing as possible, I held onto my stomach, feigning agonizing sufferings. We got to my destination point. Alla stayed outside. I went into the Cappuccino Cafe, ran to the restroom and called the officer on duty from there. Then I repeated the message on Lloyd’s answering machine.
I still had to play the final scene and bid a polite farewell to the lady. After Gulya’s departure I had resumed our meetings. Since Alla was fulfilling her duty to the Motherland by meeting with me, this was not difficult to accomplish. The pangs of conscience that sometimes visited me had now been well compensated.
I went outside, writhed and complained about my health. It all came down to the fact that the subway stop was two steps away, and we had to say goodbye.
Women have an intuitive sense for falsehoods. Alla’s face became dark, and she said a few caustic phrases about this «sudden» decline in health, but I was adamant.
«Sorry, but I’m in no condition to continue our walk.»
As I approached the ill-fated house, it was surrounded by police. I showed my badge and walked inside. Four guys dressed in jackets with the initials of our organization were conducting a search. In the corner, two women in long loose garments covered by black shawls sat on the rug and held their children. I found out that when the police appeared, there were no men in the house.
After three hours-an Urdu translator had been called in to help-our search had revealed several surprises. We found a travel bag containing a video guide to flying airplanes; a table for calculating fuel consumption; a receipt for payment of tuition at a flight school in Dayton Beach, Florida, that trained pilots for Boeing passenger planes; a map of New York; and a diagram of a Boeing 757 cockpit.
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 25