Who's on First

by William F. Buckley

  “No, too early. There’s one at the Porte Champerret. You had a rough day. I see it affected your eyesight.”

  “Yeah. I figured it all out. I was paying for the evening before.”

  “Ah so. Did I exaggerate?”

  “Anthony, you only exaggerate when you recruit people into this goddam Agency.”

  “Here, take the umbrella.” Trust reached to the back seat as he braked. Blackford dashed out. Trust saw him gesticulating to the vendor impatiently. He finally returned with a copy of Le Monde.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “The old goat wanted to see me some feelthy pictures.”

  “Are they out already?”

  “Are what out already?”

  “The pictures of you and Alouette?”

  “Fun-nee.” Blackford was flipping the pages of the bulky daily while Trust groped his way to the turnoff at Porte de Clignancourt. He came to the personals and ran his finger down the columns. “Here it is!” He read it haltingly, translating as he went. “‘To Anna Krupskaya. I think you are … te portes—behaving very … unreasonably. I have always been … faithful to you and your ideals. The specific … prière—demand?… the specific demand you have made is acceptable but the articles cannot be livrés—delivered … until we are reunited. Immediately after that the distribution will be made. I am your brother.’”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. They want Kapitsa back before the Chekhov puts in at Bizerte. Not a bad situation from our point of view. We can just haggle.”

  “Rufus doesn’t like to draw out these situations. In the first place, that note isn’t very different from what they’d place there if they were on our track. They’d want to stall, just as we want to stall. Well, it’s up to Rufus, but he’ll want an update on the St.-Firmin situation.”

  “That’s what I want, too,” said Blackford. “That and a breakfast roll.” Trust stopped by a bakery and again Blackford popped out, returning with a two-foot loaf of French bread and two bottles of Coca-Cola.

  “Ugh,” said Trust, accepting both gratefully, wedging the cold bottle between his knees, and taking a bite from the hunk of bread Blackford gave him.

  “Okay, buddy, talk.”

  Trust slowed down to avoid a great big wet shaggy dog being chased by a distraught woman pulling an open umbrella behind her. He swallowed his mouthful and extended his hand for another piece of bread.

  “They’ve been together now for almost two days. Beginning yesterday, I spent time with them—Tamara, by the way, speaks perfect English, and Kapitsa’s isn’t bad, so there isn’t any trouble communicating, though of course they slide into Russian all the time. We’re ‘friends’ of Vadim from America. Vadim told us about Kapitsa when he found out reading the Russian press that his old Vorkuta camp-mate would be a member of the scientific delegation going to Paris for the International Geophysical Year bit. Vadim came to us—you’re an engineer, doing collateral work for the Air Force in the area of Cocoa Beach, where the launchers are, and you’re pretty savvy about rockets—though don’t worry, no specific ignorance will surprise Viktor. I’m an international lawyer, an old friend of yours. Our friend in Paris—Rufus—is a retired intelligence officer. We acted on our own. If he decides he wants to defect, we’ll tell him the real story; tell him we began by deceiving him—for his own protection.”

  “Does he want to defect?”

  “I don’t think so. My feeling is he would like to get away from a system he loathes—Vadim told me, after they had gone to bed last night, that Viktor’s old rage, suppressed for four years, burst out this morning, and in front of Tamara—apparently they don’t talk about it between themselves. But he seems to be terribly afraid to do anything decisive. Tamara is taking a pretty straightforward position: She’ll do anything he wants. But my guess is she is calculating one thing only.”

  “Viktor?”

  “Viktor. She told Vadim, when they were alone in the kitchen, that on the one hand she liked the idea of going to America, where Viktor would be safe from the kind of caprice that put him in Vorkuta, but that on the other hand, he is sitting now with so much high-powered information about the state of the Soviet art in rockets she wonders whether they wouldn’t succeed in tracking him down wherever he was, and bumping him off. She’s also very concerned about the Algerian business. Concerned whether the cover will stand up if Viktor decides to go back to Russia.”

  “Have you gotten anywhere trying to reassure her?”

  “Vadim has been great. He told Viktor that if he decides to pull out of Russia, Vadim knows how to put him in the hands of the CIA. Then he described to Viktor the kind of care that the Agency has taken of him in the past few years, stressing that in America he and Tamara would be physically safe. That was part good, part bad—because Viktor said he would have to continue his work if he went to the U.S., that he couldn’t just rusticate. He’s terribly involved, intellectually and emotionally, in the satellite launch—as we know. And Vadim, who obviously talks the scientific lingo with perfect facility, hasn’t had any trouble at all in drawing Viktor out. Vadim is writing down at night everything Viktor tells him, and Rufus is coding it all to Washington and Von Braun, and we’ve already got back a terrific lot of questions to ask based on leads he’s given us. It’s fascinating to listen to him, Vadim told me last night. The security neurosis in that ghetto they live in at Tyura Tam has got to be suffocating; so he’s getting a tremendous kick out of telling Vadim, scientist to scientist, the problems they’ve faced, the problems they’ve cracked, the kind of talk, he says, he can’t feel free to have even with his own colleagues. He says he’s working—like the rest of them—day and night under breakneck pressure; he says Khrushchev wants the thing up so bad he can taste it. But—get this!—he told Vadim nothing would delight Viktor—and Tamara!—personally more than if we got ours up before theirs.”

  “Hey man!” Blackford found the report exhilarating. He asked then the critical question: “Are they pretty close to going?”

  “That’s the good part. Answer: No. They’ve got a problem, something to do with the circuits in the satellite and the need to pack more power into the transistors. They’re trying everything. I have a feeling they could get a dispensation to go to the Vatican to pray to St. Jude. They’re going crazy—but they haven’t got it licked. They’ve got the launch, Viktor says, but not the electronic staying power. And they don’t want to send a lemon up there.”

  “Do we have the same problem?”

  “Apparently not.” Anthony Trust brought the Mercedes practically to a standstill to peer through the rain and see if he had reached the turn to the chateau. “We’ve got a problem with the launching fuel, and Viktor has given Vadim a couple of leads the Washington people want pursued. That’s what I have to tell Vadim—giving specific questions—first thing this morning.”

  “Why did Rufus decide to pull me in from Paris?”

  “If they decide to defect, Rufus had decided they should go separately. You would be escorting the girl. Vadim and I would take Kapitsa. Rufus wants you to—I quote him, God bless his … say, Blacky, is it possible Rufus is an illegitimate son of Queen Victoria? Courtesy of that Scottish guy? I mean, one-half Victoria and one-half a randy gamekeeper, that’s Rufus—Rufus wants you to ‘gain their confidence’—his words. That will be interesting. Tamara is something, let me tell you.”

  “You don’t have to. I could see that in the taxi, though we didn’t speak in English.”

  It was seven-fifteen, and the rain had intensified. The road to the chateau had become muddy. Anthony slowed down. He drove the car into the garage, acknowledging the friendly gesture from the well-concealed security guard at the caretakers’ cottage, whose radio had been tuned to activate anything from a single helicopter to a marine unit. Anthony thrust the umbrella into Blackford’s hand and sprinted across the courtyard into the chateau. Blackford followed him at a lope, and walked through the door Trust was holding open. He followed Trust
into the servants’ parlor by the kitchen. There Vadim was sitting, absentmindedly stirring his coffee. He greeted Oakes.

  Without going into detail, Anthony had passed along to Vadim word of Oakes’s ordeal (at Rufus’s instruction); and instinctively Vadim felt toward Blackford that protectiveness he felt for everyone who had suffered, or risked suffering, at the hands of the same people who had sustained Vorkuta. Vadim said nothing, but Blackford felt a special warmth in his handshake.

  Trust tore out the clipping from Le Monde and handed it to Vadim. “Black, why don’t you go upstairs and call Rufus—he’ll have seen the paper by now. I’m going to talk Vadim through the inquiries that came in from Washington.”

  Taking his coffee with him, Blackford climbed the stairs and rang Rufus. Blackford thought he detected a note of excitement in Rufus’s voice, but he dismissed the notion as intrinsically inconceivable.

  “Good morning. The reply to our friends should be dispatched by someone other than yourself, given the events of yesterday, the odd bits and pieces of which have by the way been disposed of.” Good old Rufus, Blackford thought, not even sarcastically. “I have been receiving considerable traffic from our principals and the decision is to try for Option #3. If he consents, the mechanical arrangements have already been worked out on a contingency basis, and you will instruct him after getting the details from me. We are thinking in terms of getting a final decision from him tonight. Spend the day with him and with her. The tack is that Option #3 permits them to have it both ways. He gets to work at home on his own thing, but also serves the higher cause. Do you understand me well enough to communicate completely with Vadim?”

  “Yes. What is the timetable if he goes along?”

  “That will depend. We are making inquiries. If in fact the vessel is headed west, then our representations are being accepted. In that event we can move more deliberately. Otherwise we may need a quick movement.”

  “When will you know?”

  “By early afternoon, though it depends a little on the weather.”

  “I got you. Am I to call?”

  “No. I’ll call.” Rufus hung up. Blackford went downstairs into the little parlor and shut the door behind him. He remained standing.

  “Instructions from Rufus: We are to attempt to persuade Viktor to go back to Russia and pass us information on a regular basis. The most secure conceivable arrangements have been worked out on a standby basis. The line is the obvious one: He can help the cause of freedom, while continuing his own work in his own country surrounded by his own friends. Vadim is to make the decision whether the proposition should be put to him alone, or jointly to Viktor and Tamara. If possible we want an answer, or in any event an indication of what the answer is likely to be, by tonight. Our response to the Soviets on the Algerian matter will depend on whether our aerial reconnaissance reveals that in fact the Chekhov is headed toward Tunisia. If it is, then they have swallowed our story and we’re safe for the time being. If not, then there are several possibilities, among them that they have a lead on us.”

  “At which point?…” Trust asked.

  “At which point, as ever, we will do whatever Rufus tells us to do.”

  20

  Blackford was astonished at the informality of Viktor Kapitsa and Tamara when he was introduced to them by Vadim. The couple had breakfasted as usual in the sitting room by their bedroom, read the papers and, gluttonously, assorted journals to which, in Russia, they had no access. It was ten-thirty and the weather had suddenly cleared, the sun turned bright, and the air, ventilating the main living room on the ground floor with a cross draft, was fresh and sweet, and a little of the languor of summer crept in, with the scent from the rose garden. On the little lake the swans were parading; there was a rowboat up on the grass, and stillness.

  Tamara’s face brightened. “Well, our taxi driver!” Vadim gave Blackford’s name as “Julian Booth.”

  “I am delighted to meet you formally, Mr. Booth, notwithstanding that your detour to our hotel has proved longer than you gave us any idea it would be.”

  Blackford smiled, shook her hand, and then the hand of the tall, thoughtful, gentle Viktor.

  “I’m sorry about that, Madame Kapitsa—”

  “Tamara.”

  “Thank you. I’m Julian. But I’m especially glad you and Dr. Kapitsa are getting a little relaxation.”

  Tamara looked at Vadim. “It has been a great pleasure to come to know the man who saved my husband’s life, and who has remained through all these years his best friend.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a flighty femininity in her tones Blackford had difficulty in reconciling with her reputation as an established astrophysicist. She wore a summer dress of vivid pink with a white silk sash and deep V-neck. Vadim had sought expert advice on a modest but chic wardrobe for the unexpected guests, freshly arrived from drabness. She had her own small pearl necklace her husband had purchased on the black market with money earned by tutoring the son of a high Soviet bureaucrat who sought admission into the Lenin Institute of Technology. She wore it always, except when at work. That, and a little gold band on her wedding finger, were all the jewelry she owned. Viktor wore light flannel gray slacks and moccasins, a blue shirt, and a very light sweater. He looked strangely at ease. Clearly he was overjoyed that Tamara shared his fondness for Vadim, who now was acting the role of the constantly solicitous host. The telephone rang and the maid summoned “Monsieur Booth.” Blackford climbed the stairs, and was back in two minutes.

  “Hot dog! The Chekhov is headed toward Tunisia. There now, Dr. Kapitsa—”

  “Viktor.”

  “There now, Viktor, that suggests the esteem in which you are held by your patrons in the Kremlin.”

  “I prefer to think of them as my owners.”

  Tamara winced. Viktor was openly violating his pledge never to express himself politically. But the news clearly elated her, and she spoke in rapid Russian to Viktor, while Vadim nodded his head in agreement, and then Vadim turned to Blackford. “I agree. I agree. It is now practically not conceivable that they doubt the Algerian cover story. Not conceivable.” And then, in a subdued voice the Kapitsas, who continued talking to each other, could not hear, Vadim asked quietly, “Does Rufus say what message he is going to give back to the embassy?”

  “No. Except he said that whatever the reply he finally decides on, he wants to deliver it in time for tomorrow’s Le Monde. I’m set to go to work on Tamara, but it would be better if you suggested the outing.”

  Vadim turned and put his arm over Viktor’s shoulder. “Quiet! Quiet, everybody, and listen to Uncle Vadim. I need to stay with Viktor for several hours to speak with him. Tamara, you have earned a little relax. I am quite certain that the French police do not look for you. Quite certain there is not given a general alert. I think Julian here can, without running any risk, take Tamara out to visit Chantilly, and perhaps have lunch—he tells me he has a favorite restaurant here. Anthony can stay in to keep up communications with Paris. All is clear?”

  Tamara addressed her husband in Russian. He replied briefly. Only then did she say, “Yes, I should be very happy to do a little touring with you, Julian. Thank you.”

  She had been once to Leningrad, she told him as they left the car in the parking lot and approached the warm chateau, surrounded by water from which summer mists rose like vapor on that windless day. And over there, she explained, the reconstruction of the old czarist palaces was progressing nicely. “Except for the palace at Tsarskoye Selo where Alexandra and the last Czar lived,” she chatted. “That is in disrepair. There was only a single foot soldier there, to shoo people away. The Bolshevik mind is so inscrutable. It is all right to restore all the beauty of the fabulous gardens of Peter’s summer palace, all the fanatical opulence of Catherine’s palace—that doesn’t offend them historically. But they do not wish to draw attention to the last, relatively modest, chateau of the last Czar. Do you know what I think?”

  Her animation surprised Blackfo
rd. Why had he supposed that a Russian physicist, if she happened to be beautiful, should compensate by being dull? “No,” he said, as he took her arm to help her slide through the narrow ticket entrance, “what do you think?”

  “I think the Soviet leadership isn’t really comfortable with the concept of regicide. It could, after all, happen to them. Stalin was morbidly paranoiac. He had good reason to be. I would suppose that any time during the thirties until the end, if you had sentenced him to death and asked for an executioner you’d have had about fifty million volunteers.”

  “One to represent each person he was responsible for killing?”

  “I suppose the figures vaguely correspond. But the business of Nicholas and Alexandra is fascinating. The authorities feel it is necessary to stress and re-stress the evil of the last Czar, though they don’t much bother in the history books, or on the museum tours, to stress the evils of their predecessors, whose palaces are maintained as museums. More, really, than museums. They are very nearly treated as shrines. But not that poor palace where poor stupid Nicholas spent those weeks before the long journey to Ekaterinburg, and where his guards amused themselves by tripping up his bicycle when he exercised. Now look at this.” She waved her hand in an arc pointing to the sumptuous and stately Chantilly: “It’s grander, I would say, than the Czar’s last palace.”

  “Wait a minute,” Blackford objected. “Nicholas lived there only because he happened to like it. Whenever he felt like it, he could hunker down at the Winter Palace. And this whole thing could fit in one of the wings of that palace.”

  “Yes, the Czars treated themselves with much generosity.” Her eyes twinkled, and Blackford marveled that such spontaneity could flower in the parched earth of Soviet society. He decided, as they strolled down the manicured gardens, to say so:

  “Tamara, you speak as if you had never worn a straitjacket.”

  “It isn’t the scientists in the Soviet Union who suffer systematic repression. Political repression, of course. But certain modes of freedom are necessary to scientific success.”