A Shadow in Moscow, page 1
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Dedication
To my Tuesday Morning Crew.
I am so thankful to be counted among you and love you all dearly.
Epigraph
I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.
—Mr. Darcy pondering Miss Elizabeth Bennet
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
But Levin was in love, and so it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in every respect that she was a creature far above everything earthly; and that he was a creature so low and so earthly that it could not even be conceived that other people and she herself could regard him as worthy of her.
—Konstantin Levin considering Princess Kitty Shcherbatsky
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Anya
One: Anya
Two: Ingrid
Three: Anya
Four: Ingrid
Five: Anya
Six: Anya
Seven: Ingrid
Eight: Anya
Nine: Ingrid
Ten: Anya
Eleven: Anya
Twelve: Ingrid
Thirteen: Anya
Fourteen: Anya
Fifteen: Ingrid
Sixteen: Anya
Seventeen: Ingrid
Eighteen: Anya
Nineteen: Anya
Twenty: Ingrid
Twenty-One: Anya
Twenty-Two: Ingrid
Twenty-Three: Anya
Twenty-Four: Ingrid
Twenty-Five: Anya
Twenty-Six: Ingrid
Twenty-Seven: Ingrid
Twenty-Eight: Anya
Twenty-Nine: Ingrid
Thirty: Anya
Thirty-One: Anya
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Katherine Reay
Also by Katherine Reay
Copyright
Prologue
Anya
Moscow, Russia
January 17, 1984
Again I ask myself, Does the end draw everyone back to the beginning?
The golden glow of memory fades. My parents, my friends Dmitri, Scott, Sonya, Tracy. Their faces float past along with my musings on Lizzy Bennet and Kitty Shcherbatsky. Friends can’t help me now. Books can’t help me now.
I’m at an end of my own making.
There is so much I need to do—and fast. Should I go see my parents? Try to offer an oblique goodbye? Will that put them in danger? Or are they already in danger? What about all those things I said to Sonya? When I die, they’ll question her again and she’ll be more frightened. How much more will she say, and will that implicate her too?
What a fool I’ve been. Olivers warned me day one that there can be no cracks in the facade, no truth among my lies. He told me to play a part and to be careful to make sure no one questioned my loyalty, dedication, and commitment to the Soviet State.
My breath shudders within me. I stop walking. Sometime in the past hour, the biting ice and wind have stopped. It’s quiet now, almost beautiful. The temperature has dropped and I can no longer feel my fingers, my face, or my feet.
I’m not brave and I have not been careful.
These truths come as a soft whisper. They settle within my soul like softly falling snowflakes. I don’t shake them off. I let them melt into me. Standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk, I let myself mourn everyone and everything I love. At the most basic level, the best stories are love stories. And despite my myriad mistakes, mine has been one too—a love story I only recognize now in its final pages.
I pray Peter gets me the cyanide pill. He must. If anyone knows the truth about me, he does. He knows I am not brave. He also knows everyone breaks and everyone talks.
The best scenario in this love story for me—for all of us—is that when the KGB comes, I’m already dead.
One
Anya
Washington, DC
March 14, 1980
“Noooooo.” I repeat my answer. This time I draw out the one-syllable word for several beats so that every note gets recorded. “I have not been contacted by nor been in conversation with any agent or representative of the US government.”
“Anya.” Sasha clicks off the machine. “You can drop your truculence. This isn’t a game.”
I almost laugh—Sasha’s been reading the English dictionary again—but I don’t because it’ll anger him. I can’t risk teasing him about his English because today this is a game and I’ve already mismanaged too many moves. I walked into the Soviet embassy with such confidence an hour ago, and nothing has turned out like I thought.
I tap the table in a two-fingered fast syncopation. Sasha’s eyes drop to my fingers. Only then do I realize how nervous this strumming sounds. I slide my hand back into my lap.
My focus flickers to the recorder centered between us. I switch from English to Russian. “You’ve asked that same question every month for almost two years. Why are you asking it twice today? Have I caused a problem? Led you to distrust me? Have I ever even been late for a meeting? I brought you bourbon.”
I hold my breath and wait.
Sasha smiles. “I did like the bourbon.”
“See?” I sit on my hands to stop their flailing. “Can I go now? I’ve got midterms this week.”
I stare at Sasha. He glares back. I can’t hold his gaze. I’m pushing too hard, but I can’t help myself. I had over a week to prepare for this moment and I still wasn’t ready.
Comrade Lieutenant Aleksandr Stanovich Galdin has been my “case officer” for the past two years. Only a few years older than me—maybe twenty-four?—he’s sturdy, with short black hair, close-set eyes, and an intensity that shatters in rare bouts of deep chuckles. And we’ve had a few of those together. I like him. Much better than my previous case officer.
That one, an indomitable fellow named Igor, viewed me and everything American as ugly, soft, tainted, and corrupt. Sasha, on the other hand, is as enthralled with some aspects of American culture as I’ve become—and with the bourbon even more so. I think we come “up to par” on baseball, hot dogs, and music. I have an affinity for colored mascara and leggings he’ll never understand.
Our monthly meetings are usually short, light, and end with us swapping our latest and greatest discoveries within our host country—all in English as Sasha is trying to improve his skills and secure that next KGB promotion.
Not today.
Upon my arrival, he walked me straight past his desk in the open office area, where we usually sit, pulled me into a windowless conference room, and set a tape recorder on the table between us.
“What’s this about, Sasha?” I airily waved a hand at the four walls, which seemed to close in tighter with each step.
“That was quite a ‘senior spring break’ trip, Comrade Kadinova.” He toggled his fingers in air quotes to make sure I understood he didn’t approve of the American spring break construct. Waiting for me to digest his comment, he sat back and frowned. He also clicked the big red button on his device.
“It’s what college students do here.” I watched the cassette whirl in the machine for a few beats before continuing. “And that’s my job. To be a normal college student here and learn all I can.”
“Your job is to represent the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
“And I do that by being exemplary in every way. Besides, I told you I was going. I gave you the hotel address— Wait! What?”
Sasha had the decency to look sheepish. That’s one reason I like him. Igor never would have seen any lines, much less recognized when he’d crossed one. And to be fair, back home such lines don’t exist. Nothing is out of bounds for the KGB. But in my four years studying at Georgetown, those lines and the freedoms they represent have become very real to me.
“You were spying on me and my friends? I told you where we were going so you wouldn’t have to. They’re Americans, Sasha. They have constitutional rights against that kind of stuff.”
“You don’t have those rights. And we weren’t watching them. We were watching you. They happened to be with you.”
“That was your excuse last summer.” I kept darting my gaze to the recorder as I worked to keep my voice calm and level. But it wasn’t fear rising within me; it was anger. “I didn’t balk then and I apologized for not keeping you informed.”
I leaned forward and rested both hands on the table, palms up. “What more could I have done? And what was I going to do from Fort Lauderdale anyway? Swim to Cuba?”
“Not funny, Anya.”
“Nor is spying on me and my friends when I’ve been a model citizen.”
“A model comrade?” Sasha chastised.
That’s when I closed my eyes. I needed to be more careful. Sasha acts like a friend, and perhaps to some degree he is one, but he is first and foremost a KGB officer. One who is hand-over-hand climbing the service’s promotional ladder, and one who is recording my every breath.
“Y es . . . comrade,” I said, correcting myself.
After a few more questions and a few more of the same answers, I push my chair back and start to rise, only to drop again. “I was accepted into the Foreign Studies Initiative because my scores were exceptional, and because I am loyal. I’ve never made you or anyone else question me.”
I throw the test score comment at him as a reminder that it’s a great honor to be chosen for the Foreign Studies Initiative, maybe one higher than being chosen for the KGB. But it doesn’t matter. I may hold the honor, but Sasha holds the power.
He shuffles his stack of papers. “You’re right. You haven’t. But I follow orders.” He pauses and lifts his head. “We are moving our monthly meetings to weekly. Mondays at 4:00 p.m. It’s standard procedure for your final term. You have three months, Anya—remember that.”
My mouth drops open as arguments rise within me, not about my time left at Georgetown but about the meetings. I press my lips tight before any escape. Not quickly enough. He sees and his eyes narrow in challenge.
I don’t dare. As he made clear, I have no rights here. Instead I rise and stand still for a minute. It’s something I learned from my father. When making a point, he stretches to his full height, which is about six foot four, and stands until he gains the complete attention of the person he’s addressing before he speaks. The effect of slowing a moment down rather than speeding it up is remarkable.
I’m about five eight. It’s not overly tall, but I find it still makes an impact. I stare at Sasha, dark eyes to dark eyes—also a gift from my father, eyes so dark you can’t find my pupils—and wait until he focuses on me.
“очень хорошо, товарищ.” Very well, Comrade. I say it in clear Muscovite Russian. I then switch back to English as I know, ever striving for that promotion, Sasha prefers it. “I will be here on time and I’ll see you next Monday.”
It’s a weak power play on my part—my Russian carries those elite notes Sasha dreams of commanding and my English is light-years better than his. Sasha’s eyes widen the tiniest amount and, with that, I reach for the door, open it, and cross the open office area toward the elevator.
The Soviet Union’s rezidentura—the KGB’s main Washington, DC, office—is on our embassy’s fifth floor, and it has the slowest elevator I’ve ever ridden. I tap the button a few times, all the while feeling Sasha’s gaze boring into my back.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I push open the door to the stairwell and take out my nerves regarding Sasha, the interview, and midterms by racing down five flights of stairs, skipping two at a time as I descend the bottom three floors.
Outside the doors and the gate’s security checkpoint, a spectacular spring afternoon hits me. The cherry blossoms have just started to bud and every shade of pink bursts all around me. I stop on the sidewalk to take it in and to let Sasha go. It’s my favorite time of year in DC. Bright green grass, blue skies, sunshine-dappled parks, pink flowers, and a sense of irrepressible hope. I want this spring—my last one here—to be perfect. I refuse to let Sasha or anything else tarnish a moment of these fleeting idyllic days. I’ll need their warmth come winter.
I race across Wisconsin Avenue, round the corner, and find Scott still waiting at the bus stop bench on Davis Street. He’s one of the idyllic memories I hope to hold as well, always making me feel brighter, sunnier, and more hopeful than I believed possible.
He stands, grabs me tight, and kisses me hard. “That took longer than usual. I was beginning to worry.”
I slip my hand within his and rise on my toes to kiss him one more time. Lowering to my heels, I lie. “Same as usual.”
Hand in hand we head back toward campus.
Within a block Scott tugs at me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head as if it’s too insignificant to matter. And it is. After all, unless Sasha catches something on his tape, I played the game well enough. I’m not in danger. As for the rest—these last three months he mentioned—it’s only my heart at risk. I’m the only one caught in the abyss between what I want and what will be.
“Anya.” Scott stops. “Talk to me.”
I reach for my nearest thought and, though it’s a lie, I give it to Scott anyway. “They spied on me—on all of us—in Fort Lauderdale.”
His eyes flicker, and I sense he’s retracing our week. Six of Scott’s friends and five of mine crammed into two hotel rooms at the Sea Beach Plaza in Fort Lauderdale and had the time of our lives. Typical seniors, sunburned and still hungover, we just returned last night, to midterms beginning today.
“When?” he asks.
“I have no idea. Maybe the 3:00 a.m. snack at The Floridian?” I try to laugh away my discomfort. It’s embarrassing to have someone spying on him because they have to keep tabs on me.
“Or maybe the beach?” Scott lifts a brow. He’s not laughing, but he’s not furious either. I take it as a good sign as a movie reel of us goofing around and kissing in the waves plays before me. Heat spreads up my neck.
“It’s not right, Anya.” Scott resumes walking. “We should report this. You’re in America, not the USSR.”
I pull at his arm. “Don’t, please. They weren’t tracking you, only me, and I’m sorry your privacy was invaded, but if you report this, it becomes an Incident. A capital I incident involving the KGB on US soil.”
“That’s my point. Maybe it should be one.”
“They’ll ship me home. No questions asked. No degree. No last months with you . . . And I’ll be ruined.” Panic rises within me, for myself and for my parents. “And if the embarrassment is great enough, they’ll ruin my parents too. You know that.”
Scott stares down at me. Blue eyes to dark eyes, we stand at a stalemate until his eyes round and soften. I’ve shared enough over the years that he understands the truth in what I’m saying.
I lift on my toes to kiss him. “Thank you.”
“Only because I don’t want to make things worse for you, but it’s not right, Anya. You deserve better as a human. You—” He stops with a wry grin. “Do you think they tasked that girl from Ole Miss? I’d like to believe she just found me cute.”
I kiss him again in thanks for shifting the tone and we continue our walk, laughing at all the absurd things the KGB’s “spy” might have seen. Some boring? Definitely. We spent most of our time asleep on the beach. Some shocking? Perhaps. There was one episode of bar-top dancing we collectively bemoaned the next day. Some illegal? Not at all.
“Why’d Sasha care about spring break?” Scott pulls at my hand again.
“We Foreign Studies kids are the elite of the elite, and all our information is submitted to the US before we arrive. So as much as Sasha watches me, so does the CIA. If one of us embarrasses them or gets lost, there’s hell to pay back home.”
“The CIA watches you?”
“Maybe not them. Maybe it’s the FBI? I don’t know. I just know we’re watched all the time. In many ways I think it’s an excuse for both sides to keep track of each other over our heads. Sasha asks me at every meeting if I’ve been ‘contacted by or am in conversation with an agent or representative of the US government.’”
I mimic Igor’s stern recitation perfectly, right down to his heavy Lithuanian accent. Sasha’s worked too hard to scrub his outer-Muscovite tones to make imitating him funny.
“Lost?” Scott’s voice arcs up, as if only now processing my words. He stops so quickly I stumble into him. “How do people like you get ‘lost’?”
“They defect.” I offer the word. It’s one I seldom allow into my thoughts, much less out of my mouth. “It’s rare for Foreign Studies kids to attempt it as we’re pretty prized assets back home, being goodwill diplomats and all, but a few have tried . . . There’s a lot to love about America.” I lift on my toes again and kiss his cheek.
Scott resumes our walk in silence. It drags on long, and just as I’m about to break it, he beats me to it. “What about you? . . . Would you try? Do you want to stay?”
Two
Ingrid
Vienna, Austria
May 16, 1944
When did this happen? Ingrid mused as she walked down the steps of Austria’s Parliament Building, not breaking eye contact with the man across the street. She watched as a smile spread across Adam’s face, and almost involuntarily, he leaned forward before his foot moved in a step toward her.
