‘And mother—she’s not dishonest.’
‘No,’ Zhukov agreed, ‘I don’t believe she is.’
The hippies moved off leaving behind cigarette packets and spent matches. An airliner smoked laboriously overhead. A leaf spiralled from the tree under which they were sitting.
‘What is his name?’ Zhukov asked.
‘Hardin. Charlie Hardin.’
‘The name is vaguely familiar. Perhaps I met him at one of my parties.’
‘He works for the F.B.I.’
‘Worked for the F.B.I., probably.’
‘Why? Do you think he got into trouble because of me?’
‘If he’s told them that he confessed to you he’s probably been sent to Alaska.’
‘That didn’t occur to me.’
‘No,’ Zhukov said, ‘because you are inclined to be a prig.’
‘A prig!’ The tears had dried. ‘How can you say that—after Georgi, after Charlie …’
‘I didn’t mean it that way. You’re a prig with human weakness. Such a prig that you can’t see its strengths. You say he wants to marry you?’
Natasha said, ‘That’s what he told me.’
‘Then I’m sure he does.’
Natasha explained that, in her opinion, Hardin was more after a defector than a wife. In fact he had said as much.
Ah yes, Zhukov advised his daughter, but the defection would be inescapable. The Americans loved a defector. ‘You might even be able to write your memoirs like Svetlana Stalin.’
Never, said his daughter.
Zhukov, not yet sure that he was guiding his daughter in the right direction, said, ‘Did he really say that he regarded you more as a defector than a wife?’
Natasha said that Hardin had implied it. ‘No, perhaps he didn’t. It just seemed that way to me.’
Zhukov stood up and surveyed the overcooked parkland. ‘I think we should return to the car or else they will presume that we’ve both defected.’
They walked in silence for a few minutes, close together. Then Natasha said, ‘If I ran away—eloped—what would happen to you?’
Zhukov shrugged. ‘Nothing much worse than what is going to happen anyway.’
‘I don’t believe that. Nothing much will happen to you now. A reprimand, maybe.’ She held his hand for a moment. ‘At least Russians understand drunkenness. And they probably approve of you hitting that idiot in the bar.’ She laughed. ‘I approve very much. And I think secretly that mother approved, too.’
‘No,’ Zhukov said, ‘she didn’t approve.’
‘Anyway I don’t think they’ll send you to Siberia. But if I disappeared they would really punish you. Force you to appeal to me to return. Imprison you until I gave myself up.’
‘The way we talk of our own people,’ Zhukov mused.
‘But that’s what would happen. Look what happened to Georgi.’
‘Listen,’ Zhukov said as they neared the Volkswagen, a sand-bug in the dying heat of summer. ‘I think Moscow will act very soon. I’m amazed that they haven’t acted sooner. I thought they would send you back to the Soviet Union much sooner than this—so that they could threaten me with retaliation against you if I didn’t carry out their orders. But I suppose they have their reasons—they always have. Perhaps they had an idea what you were doing. Then they could have shipped you back and held a real threat of punishment to you over my head. Perhaps they thought you might provide some sort of lead just as the Americans thought you would help them. I don’t know.’ He leaned against the car, keys in his hand. ‘But I do know that they will act very soon. If you love this boy go to him. I know that this is right. Don’t worry about me—I can take care of myself. You do love him, don’t you?’
Natasha said yes she did love him.
‘Go to him but prepare yourself for the guilt you will endure. It is inescapable. But in time, with children and growing old together, it will fade.’
She shook her head, flinging around the tears that had regrouped. ‘I can’t. I know what they would do to you. That’s the guilt I could never escape.’
‘Here.’ He gave her his handkerchief. ‘I promise that nothing will happen to me. I will even denounce you—if you tell me now that you will never believe what you read.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ his daughter said. ‘But I can’t leave you. Unless’—the tears stopped flowing with the thought—‘unless you defected, too.’
To this Zhukov didn’t reply. He opened up the oven of the car and they drove back to the apartment block near Dupont Circle.
Ambassador Zuvorin thumbed the file on Zhukov with regret. He had a lot of respect for the newly-promoted first secretary: a man he regarded almost as an equal, with Zhukov’s years catching up on his in the way of age (I was a teenager when Zhukov was born; when I’m a hundred he will be in his eighties.) He paused on the last entry to the file, sighed and lit his first cigarette, enjoying the first gasp of smoke in his lungs.
His trust in Zhukov would be regarded as an error of judgement by the Kremlin. But not by Zuvorin himself: a man had a right to get drunk once in a while, and he could understand Zhukov’s motives. He would also have liked to get good and drunk after the last explosive exchanges between himself and the Texan in the White House. But Zhukov should never have been a diplomat: he was too honest.
Zuvorin took himself on a tour of his palace because he thought well while he walked. The gold room, the green, the rose, the winter garden. He hoped that, before he left America, there would be time to re-establish his credentials even if Czechoslovakia had frozen relations between Russia and America. He rather thought there would—tragedy was soon digested after the first painful swallow in diplomatic circles, successful deceit was acknowledged—after the deceived had got over the first resentment at being caught with his pants down and manoeuvred a comeback. The President was good at coming back.
Soon there would be a new president. His last probably. A period of probing a new relationship, all according to the new man’s viewpoint. If he were one of the Red-menace brigade then Zuvorin would be forced to withdraw into the old abortive frigidity; and his sense of achievement would be devalued, his retirement deprived of its glow.
Zuvorin looked through a window at Washington, the elegant nest of sincere endeavour with its cuckoo eggs of personal ambition forever hatching. My city. Sometimes the gold domes of the Kremlin were only distant notes of music.
Vietnam remained the barrier to the private negotiations of his soul, and any compromise of creeds; its presence forever bloodying diplomatic approach. If the Americans withdrew, according to the electioneering promises, then there was a chance of neighbourliness between the Red and White Houses. The handshake that would invest his career with meaning. Election promises! Senile naïveté …
He adjusted his face to mask all private feeling and returned to his office, smiling at members of his staff. He re-opened Zhukov’s file and summoned him to his office.
Headmaster and errant student: Zuvorin didn’t enjoy this seniority with such a man, a man who had also fought at Leningrad. ‘I’m afraid New York didn’t work out too well,’ he observed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Zhukov said without penitence.
‘No decision has been reached yet.’ Zuvorin removed the last entry from the file and handed it to Zhukov. ‘But this doesn’t help.’
It was a feature, written with humour and in compassionate journalese, from a London newspaper. All about a Russian called Ivan who thought the Security Council should be transported to a 3rd Avenue bar named Costellos.
Zuvorin watched Zhukov read it. Somewhere, perhaps, there was a file on Ambassador Zuvorin with contributions from M. Brodsky and others.
Zhukov handed it back.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Zuvorin said.
‘You know it is. I was followed the whole time.’
‘It’s most unfortunate.’
‘Why?’ Zhukov asked. ‘There’s nothing anti-Soviet about it. Just a plea for an end to
international hypocrisy. It’s rather well done,’ he added.
‘It implies that the case put by the Soviet delegate was so much hogwash—as the President of the United States might put it.’
‘It also implies that the Western protests were hogwash because everyone knew they would be ineffectual.’
Zuvorin snapped the file closed. ‘You were very stupid. But I suppose you know that.’
‘Yes,’ Zhukov said, ‘I know it.’
‘Judges other than myself might consider you unstable.’
‘Perhaps they’re right.’
Zuvorin’s hand went to his breast as a pain sharper than its predecessors needled him. He controlled the wince and took a tablet with a glass of water, murmuring about his asthma.
‘I have to tell you,’ Zuvorin went on, ‘that it has been decided to curb your new duties while your case is considered. No more cocktail parties for a while, Comrade Zhukov.’ And no more Mrs Massingham, he thought. ‘Instead you will take over responsibility for organizing the celebrations for the anniversary of the glorious Revolution.’
‘A very responsible job,’ Zhukov observed.
‘You have been very stupid,’ Zuvorin said regretfully.
That afternoon the ambassador received a message from Moscow recalling him for talks to consider future Soviet policy towards the West and its application in Washington.
In his aseptic State Department office where integrity and intrigue were required to coalesce Wallace J. Walden summoned once again the heads of Security and Consular Affairs, Intelligence and Research, and Politico-Military Affairs; plus Hardin from the F.B.I. and Godwin from the CIA. Charlie Hardin waited outside.
Walden poured himself iced water, and said, ‘Gentlemen—and ladies—through circumstances beyond our control the Zhukov operation has gone adrift. As you know Comrade Zhukov has put his own future in jeopardy and we have to re-assess the operation in the light of events within the Russian compound.’
‘And events outside,’ Godwin asserted. ‘Like what happened to the F.B.I.’s big play with the Russian chick.’ Ash toppled from his cigarette on to his trousers and there was a tiny smell of burning.
Arnold Hardin said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Godwin.’
‘This was a joint operation,’ Godwin pointed out.
‘Sure it was. But we both had our own responsibilities. I suggest you concentrate on yours which aren’t exactly coming out smelling of roses.’
Godwin nodded happily. ‘It’s hardly the fault of the C.I.A. if Zhukov chooses to torpedo his own career.’
Gale Blair, Crawford and Bruno kept out of it.
Walden said, ‘I suggest we quit the squabbling. Sure it looks like a possible leak is going to be fouled up and we’ll have to try and find another. But the way I see it we now have a chance of two highly prestigious defections. Okay, so young Hardin failed to persuade the girl to cheat on her father. So what? With her father in disgrace—on the threshold of a posting to Siberia, more than likely—she couldn’t have got anything worth while anyway. But I do think that if the boy plays his cards right he may come over to us.’
‘I thought he had played his cards,’ Godwin said. ‘And lost. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’d confessed all to the girl.’
Arnold Hardin said quickly, ‘The game is never lost, Godwin.’ Sunlight touched his face but the sleek health had left his cheeks. ‘These kids really love each other—something you probably wouldn’t understand. I still reckon Charlie can pull it off. Which is more than can be said for the old bag you tried to get Zhukov into bed with. Jesus,’ he added, ‘what a hope.’
The girl came in with tea which they stirred thoughtfully, the silence emphatic in the girl’s presence.
When she had gone Walden said, ‘According to my sources Zhukov is in a highly nervous condition. It’s my guess that the Kremlin will pull him out. We certainly would if he was one of our men behaving like that in Moscow. Also his confidence in what’s right and wrong has taken a beating over the Czech affair. He’s so confused he’s like a hypnotized rabbit.’ Walden walked over to the window and stood there, hands behind his back as if he were warming himself, his bulk dimming the light. ‘I figure it’s only a matter of time before his daughter confides in him about her lover. If Charlie can really get to her then she’ll tell Zhukov that she’s going to come over to us. And I don’t think it’s outside the realms of possibility that he will follow her. If we play him right.’
Gale Blair ventured a question. ‘Mr Walden, how can we play him if we’ve lost contact?’
‘Through his daughter, Gale. Once Hardin has persuaded her to defect then the next logical step is for her to try and persuade her parents to come over with her. Hardin will have to work on that. Of course we know’—he was thinking aloud—‘that Zhukov’s wife is K.G.B. We know that she wouldn’t come over even if we publicly tortured her daughter. But I don’t think Zhukov knows his wife’s in the secret police. So somehow we’ll have to let him know. And then we’ll be left with two defectors—father and daughter.’
‘How will we let him know?’ Crawford from Politico-Military asked?
Walden shrugged. ‘A letter, an anonymous phone call. He might even find out himself …’ He turned and stared out the window, surveying a vast phantom crowd gathered to hear him. ‘A responsible Soviet diplomat and his daughter defecting. … The angle of the girl will really grab the kids in this youth-orientated age, especially those who might be flirting with Communism.’
Crawford was enthusiastic: he usually was. ‘It could be a terrific coup. One of the best, especially with the romantic angle. He saw it all in the pages of Cosmopolitan. ‘A beautiful Russian girl and a handsome young American guy. A real kick in the teeth for the Reds.’
Godwin stirred his tea with the handle of his spoon. ‘You guys all seem to be overlooking one thing—this chick has given young Hardin the brush-off. That sounds to me like a pretty far cry from defection.’
‘She loves him,’ Hardin repeated. ‘She’ll come over. But I wouldn’t bet on Charlie’s ability to coax her into persuading Zhukov himself to defect. She’s got integrity that girl.’
‘We’ll see,’ Walden said, ‘call young Hardin in.’
Waiting outside, chatting to Walden’s three secretaries who were as unattractive as they were available, Charlie Hardin presumed that he was in for a bollocking. He didn’t care.
He who had never chased a woman if she played it coy planned one more marriage proposal to Natasha Zhukova. Because he knew she loved him and she didn’t even know how to act coy.
If that failed … the possibility sagged inside him. A physical pain. I love you, Natasha Zhukova. The bangs of hair at your ears, your breasts in my hands, the honesty that withered any defensive half-smartness, the children we might have, waiting for me with a drink on the terrace, beside me in the car with the sun stuttering through the tall trees of the forest …
A light winked on the desk of a secretary regarding him with adoration. ‘Mr Hardin,’ she said hungrily. ‘Mr Walden wants to see you right away.’ (And I’ll be here when you come out to comfort you.)
Wallace J. Walden laid it on the line in his blunt almost honest way. ‘So you see, Charlie, the game isn’t quite over yet. I figure Zhukov is just ripe’—there was no escape from the orchard—‘for a little friendly persuasion. And who better to do it than his daughter?’
Charlie Hardin discarded all semblance of respect. ‘I’ll have another word with Natasha. But I’m going to play it straight with her. No more crummy lies. I can’t ask her to involve her father. It’s dirty.’
Walden took his punishment. ‘I know it’s dirty, Charlie. We’re all involved in a dirty game. Us and the Soviets. But …’
‘Spare me the stuff about deserting in the face of the enemy,’ Hardin said.
His father’s voice was chipped ice. ‘Watch it, Charlie. This sort of attitude isn’t going to get you any place.’
‘I don’t want to go an
y place.’
Walden’s free hand went to his scalp, adjusting an invisible skull-cap. ‘Hold it, boy. I know just how you feel. I would feel just the same way in your position. But look at it this way. That girl isn’t going to come over if she thinks the Soviets will take it out of her old man. She wants to join you, Charlie. I know that. I feel it.’ His hand moved from scalp to breast. ‘But she won’t marry you if she thinks the K.G.B. will take it out on her old man. It stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ Charlie Hardin said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t try anything.’
Godwin said, ‘I still reckon Mrs Massingham is our best bet. She isn’t just playing a part any more. She’s got a real thing going about Zhukov.’
Walden ignored him. ‘The way I see it, Charlie, it’s best for pretty well everyone if Natasha persuaded her father to seek political asylum. She will be happy, you will be happy and I figure Vladimir Zhukov will be as happy as he ever will be. And the United States of America will be very happy indeed.’
Charlie Hardin walked to the window, dominating the proceedings and hating it. There didn’t seem to be any escape from Walden’s relentless, calculating logic. After a while he said, ‘I’ll put it to her. But I’ll put all my cards on the table. I’ll be honest—if I ever get the chance to see her again.’ He faced the conspirators. ‘But aren’t we overlooking one thing?’
‘What’s that, Charlie?’ Walden asked.
‘Her mother.’
Walden smiled reassuringly. ‘I think you’ll find that will work out, Charlie. I think I told you about her mother, didn’t I? No sweat there. That will pan out just nicely, Charlie.’ He stuck a lighted match into the black crusts of his pipe. ‘Maybe you should let her know about her mother. I don’t know. I’ll work on that one, and come up with something. Now you just go home and work out a way to meet her again.’
‘Like how?’ Charlie Hardin asked. ‘Busting into the happy Zhukov home or something?’
Walden grinned. ‘You’ll find a way, Charlie. True love and all that.’ He glanced at his big wristwatch. ‘Well, I guess that just about does it gentlemen—and ladies. I’ve got to get me back to Bethesda. I’ve promised my wife I’ll address the ladies of the Church this evening.’
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