The Sleeping Spy

by Clifford Irving

  When Grigorian had left, Petrovich turned again to the American soldier. The boy looked incredibly young, his immature face covered with light fuzz and blemishes. His cheeks were desperately drawn and pale, sucked in like saucers. Without warning, he began to cry. The tears ran silently out of his eyes and streamed over his cheeks and chin. Petrovich grimaced, but he made an encouraging noise and pushed a glass of tea and a pack of papirosi cigarettes across the table.

  "Easy, boy, drink the tea," he said. "It will help. Drink the tea and smoke a cigarette, and then we will talk."

  Emerson stared blankly ahead. It was as if he had not heard a word. Yuri Volanov approached the table and looked inquiringly at the captain. Petrovich nodded. Volanov squatted down next to Emerson and began to speak softly in clear, accent-free American.

  "Hey, Jim," he said. "Look, fella, drink the tea like the man says and then we'll have us a little talk, OK? Just you and me, nobody else. Your buddies are OK now - take my word for it. Hey, cheer up, will ya? The war's almost over and we'll all be going back home soon. Sound good? Hey, what's the matter? Don't you want to go home?"

  Yuri paused. Emerson sat still, silent, unfocused. The tears continued to flow.

  "Tell me about home," Yuri said, his soft voice urging. "You're from California, right? What's it like there, Jim? Come on, tell me about it."

  He went on that way, pushing, compelling, his voice a velvet web of persuasion, but without results. Emerson sat as still as a weeping statue.

  "This can't go on," Petrovich growled. "We don't have the time."

  "Comrade Captain?" Anya Ignatiev stood close to Petrovich, bent over, and spoke softly into his ear. He looked up at her sharply and murmured a question. She nodded firmly and said something more.

  "Try it," he said. "It can do no harm."

  Anya came around the table and crouched down in front of Emerson. She looked up for a moment, her eyes on Yuri's face, the fraction of a question dangling between them. Yuri's eyes were cold and hard. He looked away. Anya smiled and leaned forward until her face was close to the American's. She called his name softly.

  "Jimmy," she said, her lips only inches from his. "Is that what they call you? What do the girls call you, Jimmy?"

  She waited for an answer, and when none came she leaned forward the few inches and kissed him full on the lips. The boy reacted as if he had been poked with a hot wire. His head snapped back, twisting away, and his arms came up protectively.

  "Hey, cut that out," he said in a whining, nasal voice.

  "What's the matter?" she asked, a taunting lilt in her voice. "Didn't you like it?"

  "I don't get it," he muttered. "Where's my unit?"

  "I'll bet you liked it a lot."

  He was silent for a beat, his eyes staring into hers, then he said reluctantly, "It was OK, I guess. It's just that you surprised me, sneaking up that way."

  "You're right," Anya said gravely. "It wasn't fair, sneaking up. This time I won't sneak. This time you do it."

  "You mean it?" His lips twisted and his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

  "Of course I do. Go ahead."

  He drew back and looked around. "No. This is crazy."

  "But I thought you liked it. And we're friends. We're Russians. You're a Yank. We're all friends. I want to show you how friendly we really are."

  "Not with them watching," he said quietly.

  "Of course. That was stupid of me." She straightened up and put her hand over his. She pulled lightly and he came up out of the chair. "Come . . . we'll go where they can't watch."

  She took a lantern and led him back to the enclosed, hay-filled stall that she had just shared with Yuri Volanov. She coaxed him inside gently, hung the lantern on a peg, and closed the door.

  "Go ahead," she said, turning to face him. "You do it this time. The rest of them have gone to find your unit. We've got plenty of time. Let's not waste it."

  He put his arms around her and kissed her. She let him do it until they both were out of breath. Then she stepped back and began to remove her clothing. She undressed quickly, not making a game of it, partly because she knew that time was going quickly and partly because she was embarrassed by her coarse and bulky army-issue underwear. With her clothing gone, she turned to face him again. He had not moved. He was staring at her body, entranced again. His gaze was so openly and innocently lustful that she realized that this was probably the first time he had ever seen a totally nude woman.

  "Have you had many girls?" she asked, although sure of the answer.

  He shook his head, and his eyes slipped away from hers.

  "Ni bispakoityes, ni vazhna," she murmured. "Don't worry, it doesn't matter."

  She took his hands and brought them to her breasts. He squeezed convulsively, hurting her, but she had not expected finesse. She reached for him, felt him, and found him hard and ready. She snapped open the buckle of his belt and pulled him down to the straw. He entered her quickly and climaxed at once. She sighed, rolled out from under him, and went to work with her hands and lips until he was ready again. The second time she retained control with a slow and thrusting motion that kept him going to full completion. She even managed a tiny spark of pleasure of her own. Then she lay next to him, the sweat drying on their bodies, their fingers lightly twined. His breathing was firm and steady. He was still shocked, but he was functioning again.

  "How do you feel now?" she asked.

  "I'm OK."

  "Just OK?"

  "I feel good, very good." His face was pressed against her shoulder and his voice was muffled.

  "No more tears?"

  He shook his head, but a tremor ran through his body, then another, and he began to quiver wildly. She held him close to her until the tremors passed.

  "Jimmy, you're safe now," she said quietly. "No one is going to harm you."

  "Where's my unit?" he asked, not quite as anxiously as before.

  "You'll be with them soon. Don't worry. And soon you'll all be going home."

  His voice was unsure. "Do you really think so? That the war will be over soon?"

  "Yes. And then home to Point Balboa."

  "Do you know Point Balboa?" He moved out from under her arm and sat up. Looking down at her, his eyes were bright and he was smiling. For a moment she thought that he wanted her again, then she realized that he wanted only to talk. "You ever been to the States?"

  "No, never. But I'd love to go. What is it like?"

  "Where I live, it's up in nothern California, close to the Oregon border. You ever heard of Eureka?"

  "No, but I'd like to hear."

  'Well, Eureka's the nearest city, about twenty-five miles down the coast. They've got three movie houses there and trolley cars and the department store. Eureka's OK, I guess, but I wouldn't want to live there. Too many people bumping into you all the time and rushing around like they was going to a fire or something."

  "Not like Point Balboa?"

  "Hell, no. Nobody hurries in Point Balboa if they can help it. My dad used to say that the town is a backwater. My dad used to say that the town's in a rut, and a rut's just a grave with the ends knocked out. But there's nothing wrong with Point Balboa. Good hunting, good fishing, most of the time. Good people."

  "Tell me more."

  And he told her. He told her about growing up in Point Balboa as the son of God-fearing, churchgoing people, and how fine the life was before they died, and how very different it was afterwards. He told her about the car crash that took them both only a year before, and the sudden shock of knowing that he was alone in the world, so truly alone that the Army seemed like a home and a haven. He told her about that, and he told her about the hardware store on Arbor Street where he worked after school, and the three-speed bike that he bought with the money he earned; and about Mrs. Kupferman, who baked the best loganberry pies in town and would always give you a piece if you asked nice, and her husband, Jake, who was close to being the town drunk except that nobody dared to say it out loud. He told
her about playing end for Humboldt High; about Chub Portman, who was his best friend and who went into the Navy and got killed off Guadalcanal; about a girl called Betty, who would never give him a date, and another girl, called Pauline, who let him put his hand between her legs once in the back seat of her father's Plymouth, but that was all she ever let him do. He told her about the football game on Thanksgiving Day and the big parade on the Fourth of July, which was his own very special day, birthday and holiday combined, because he was a Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the Fourth, and when he was a kid he truly believed that the whole town turned out on that day just to celebrate with him.

  "Wonderful," Anya whispered.

  He told her about the Point Balboa United Methodist Church, and the new minister nobody liked, and the cake sales and the Friday Night Suppers and the Christian Fellowship meetings before Bible class on Sunday mornings; about the whales that you could sometimes see cruising offshore, and the tidewater pools below the rocks of the point where the crabs were good, and the old men who surf cast for bass from the beach every day at sundown; about the brother he never had and desperately wanted, about the baby sister who died when he was four, and what it was like to grow up as an only child. He told her all he knew. He gave her the collected impressions of eighteen years of small-town living, the accumulated baggage of his short life. He opened up the bags and displayed it all before her, a pathetic return for the gift she had given, and he was over an hour in the telling of it all. Twice during that time, newly confident, he casually mounted her and exploded within her, then rested for a while and talked some more. He told her all he knew, which wasn't very much, but which was more than enough for the purpose at hand.

  Yuri Volanov, sitting on the other side of the wooden wall, listened intently, his chin cupped in his hand. He made no written notes; he had no need of them, for another of the skills learned at Gaczyna was the ability to memorize verbatim and to retain that memory indefinitely. He listened carefully, clearing his brain to note and file it all away, moving from his spot only when he heard the thrashing sounds of sex. The first time it happened his face turned pale and he bit his lip. The second time he moved to the front of the barn to drink tea with the others. Petrovich raised an eyebrow when he saw him leave his post.

  "They're at it again," Yuri explained, his face set in hard lines.

  "How does it go?" asked Radichek.

  "I'm getting all I need." He cupped his tea in his hands, and the lines in his face eased. "Point Balboa, California. It sounds like a pleasant place."

  "It's the one place you'll never see," Radichek said sternly. "You understand that, don't you?"

  "I understand very well." He took another sip of his tea and went back to listen again.

  It was fully light, and Kolodny had extinguished the sputtering lanterns when Yuri decided that he had heard enough. He stood, knocked lightly on the door to the stall, and said, "All right, Anya, that's it."

  He went back to join the others at the table. Minutes later Anya came out of the stall, buttoning her blouse and brushing straw from her uniform skirt. Behind her, Emerson stood uncomfortably, blinking his eyes and grinning sheepishly. Anya looked at Yuri, her face weary and pale; he looked away from her. She nodded, as if confirming some inner thought, and strode directly to where Petrovich stood.

  "Comrade Captain," she said formally. "Permission to make a request?"

  Petrovich looked at her curiously. "Go ahead."

  "I request that the next step in the operation be done quickly. Efficiently."

  "Of course. We are not barbarians. Yuri?"

  He nodded to young Yuri Volanov, who drew a pistol from his belt holster and shot young James Emerson through the left temple. Emerson was dead when he hit the floor. His blood ran into the straw. Kolodny and Radichek at once began to strip the corpse of its clothing. They had trouble with the trousers, pulling and jerking at the belt and cuffs.

  "Anya, you got these off once before," Kolodny called. "Come show us how."

  She stared down at him, a look of disgust on her face, then turned and walked away to stand in the open doorway, looking out at the barnyard. Kolodny smiled mockingly at her back.

  Yuri Volanov disrobed quickly, folding each item of his uniform into a neat square and placing it on the table. Equally quickly, he dressed himself in Emerson's uniform, examining each piece of clothing before putting it on. Within minutes he was dressed in the combat fatigues of an American Army private, with Emerson's dog tags around his neck and Emerson's wallet resting in his pocket. The American's clothing pinched at him in several places, but not enough to call for comment. Only the boots were truly uncomfortable; they were a full size too small. He presented himself to Petrovich.

  "Are you ready, Yuri Alexandrovich?" asked the captain.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I will not insult you by asking if you have any last questions. You are too well trained for that. I will only wish you the best of fortune." He pressed Yuri's hand warmly, then nodded to Kolodny, who picked up the pistol Yuri had left on the table.

  "Careful of the bone," muttered Petrovich.

  Kolodny looked at him with a trace of reproach, then turned and shot Yuri through the upper left arm. The young lieutenant staggered but did not fall. His face screwed up with pain. Kolodny shot him again through the meaty portion of the right thigh. Now Yuri fell to the floor and lay there moaning. Kolodny put away the pistol and reached for a standard-issue Red Army rifle propped against the table. Petrovich put out a restraining hand.

  "Let me have that," he said. "You enjoy this too much."

  He took the rifle, bent over the twisted figure of Yuri Volanov, and carefully, almost tenderly, used the butt to break the young officer's right cheekbone and jaw.

  "Quickly now," he said. "You two, the body. Anya, get over here and get to work."

  Radichek and Kolodny dragged Emerson's body out into the barn-yard, covered it with piles of brushwood, and then doused it liberally from a jerrican of gasoline. Kolodny stood back, tossed a match, and a tower of flame shot up. The two men backed off from the sudden heat and watched as skin and flesh blackened, bubbled, and broke away.

  While they were tending the fire, Anya tended to Yuri. His arm and his thigh she simply cleansed and bandaged, giving the gunshot wounds the same basic attention that a Russian field medic would have given them. His face and head she bandaged more thoroughly, winding swaths of white gauze around and around. Yuri watched her silently as she worked, his eyes filled with pain.

  When she was finished, she looked at him for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry about the sex, Yuri. It was part of the job. Please remember that, always. It was part of the job."

  With great difficulty, Yuri dragged out the words. "It was what you were trained for."

  Anya stood up and reported to Petrovich, "Finished over here."

  "Finished," Radichek reported, coming in from the barnyard.

  "Very well." Petrovich picked up the field telephone and rang through to the headquarters of the Third Battalion. "Grigorian? Petrovich here. These are your final instructions. You will order an immediate reconnaissance of this area. In the barn you will find the sole survivor of the American platoon that was ambushed earlier by the Fascists. He is badly wounded. You will at once notify Division and arrange for the transfer of the wounded man to an American field hospital on the other side of the river. That is all."

  He replaced the phone and to the others said, "Move out. Everything into the truck."

  He knelt over the still figure of Yuri Volanov and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Dasvidanya, Private Emerson," he said. "You had a short war but a good one."

  Beneath the bandages the lips managed a painful grin, and a cracked and muffled voice replied, "You bet your ass, buster. I'm headin' back to the good old U.S.A."

  CHAPTER TWO

  From the Class Bulletin.......1980

  The Class of 1950, New York University, on the occasion of its Thirtieth Annual Reunion, is pl
eased to name as its Man of the Year, The Honorable James Walter Emerson, Assistant Secretary of Defense for Air.

  JAMES (jIMBO) EMERSON

  Hallowbrook Farm, Princess Falls, Va.; clubs: University (NY), NY AC, Burning Tree (Wash.), Bohemian; AB (NYU 1950), LLB (NYU Law 1952); m. Janet Sykes 1955; d. Katherine 1958.

  I wish first to thank the trustees of the Alumni Association of New York University, Washington Square College, and the officers of the Class of 1950 for this singular honor. I am, after all, nothing more than a practicing attorney who, three years ago, answered the call of his country to serve in the Department of Defense. If this qualifies me for honors, then so be it. I humbly accept the designation, and in response to the Committee's invitation, I am pleased to set forth on these pages some of the highlights of my life.

  I suppose that like anyone else who saw military service in World War II, the Army was my first memorable experience. Not that I saw all that much service, since I started off my military career as a private in the 273rd Regiment of the 69th Infantry Division and ended it holding the same exalted rank. I spent most of 1945 and part of the following year in various Army hospitals recovering from wounds received during the final days of the war against Nazi Germany, and in 1946 I was finally discharged and began my four years at New York University.

  I know that nowadays it's fashionable to sneer at the kind of life that NYU has to offer its students outside the classroom ... no football team, no campus, things like that. But for a small-town boy like myself, a hick from Point Balboa, California, being on my own at the age of twenty and attending college in New York City certainly was a heady experience. There was the excitement of living in Greenwich Village, the parties, the girls, and getting together with the gang at places like Ed Winston's, and Rocky's on Washington Place. I wonder how many people today remember standing at the bar in Rocky's with me that afternoon in October 1949, listening to the World Series on the radio, when Cookie Lavagetto hit the pinch-hit triple to spoil Bill Bevens' no-hitter. Some of those people still owe me money from that game.