A Shadow in Moscow, page 23
“That’s the allure?” She loops her arm in mine. “You’re kidding me.”
“Just wait . . .” I roll my eyes. “My point is there are choices. Unbelievable choices every moment of every day. It’s not one sweater out of the back of Edik’s car; it’s a store with a thousand sweaters in any color you can imagine.”
She’s still got a superior smirk on her face.
“Now take all that external stuff and internalize it—and there you have even more choices.”
She blinks as if trying to see through smoke. Her expression isn’t smug any longer. “I don’t get it.”
“I didn’t either.” I sigh. My thoughts drift back to my first days when all the choices overwhelmed me. I felt like a blind person suddenly getting her sight at eighteen—she might have been told both humans and trees are “tall and thin,” but how could she discern at first glance which was which and not wonder if some trees walked and talked?
“There are a million ways to think about almost any subject, and Americans believe almost all can be justified, even if they conflict at the most basic level. And they want to debate them all the time. Openly. In class, with friends, in their government . . . I can’t tell you how many books I read and lectures I heard about human dignity, republicanism, governance, social contracts, inalienable rights . . . It’s mind-blowing. We have no understanding of freedom at that level. Even the major newspapers can print headlines that completely contradict each other—and both believe they are right.”
“How?”
“They just can. It’s all allowed, even encouraged.”
And while all that was exciting to share, I couldn’t get to the heart of it. I could barely glimpse it myself. All those freedoms, the externals of where to go, what to do and buy, as well as the internals of what to think and believe, didn’t get to the nugget Dmitri hinted at, Solidarity pointed to, and Tracy shared with me at Georgetown—the truth that deep inside, even in the most challenging and restrictive places, freedom is possible by the meaning we give to the events of our lives and how we let them seep into our souls.
But as much as I want to, I can’t share these thoughts with Sonya because I can’t fully wrap my own mind around them yet. They dance out of reach like light dappling through shadow, and she would never begin to understand them. I can barely understand them, and for a time I lived them.
Sonya breaks into my meanderings. “There’s so much more than we’ve been told.” Her gaze travels along the street and drifts up to the light poles, to the cameras mounted atop them.
I grip her arm, now sorry I got carried away. “Forgive me.”
She puts her hand over mine. “For sharing something that sounds pretty great? Nah . . . I asked. I always wondered what it was, what it truly was, that makes them fear the West so much. It’s not sweaters.”
“No. It’s not the sweaters.”
Sonya finally realizes we aren’t headed toward her apartment or mine, and asks where we’re going.
“Didn’t I say? I need to stop by the Hotel Metropol. A colleague left something at work he needs.”
A few blocks more and we reach the famed hotel’s front steps. Sonya stops and gestures to the massive doors. “I’ll wait here.”
I nod and walk up the few steps. Once inside, I check my watch. I’m early. I go to the ladies’ room to reposition the papers, then walk to the waiting area just inside the front door. The lobby has seen better days, but it still feels luxurious. I pause, pretend to dig through my bag, and check my watch again. It’s go time.
I push out the lobby door and head to the stairs, slightly left of center. I see Peter himself walking toward me. He’s wearing a dark wig and makeup has changed his skin tone. Something in his cheeks must be broadening his face because I barely recognize him. And I was half expecting him.
We are three steps apart and I shift the papers, now rolled into a tube, down the sleeve of my coat.
Two steps. His gaze skitters away.
One step. He bumps into a woman to his left and backs away.
The papers are down my arm and into my hand. I almost stop. I almost turn. I definitely react, then mask that reaction by tipping to the side myself as if I’ve been surprised. I bump into an older woman and have to reach out to keep her from falling.
The tip of the roll slides past my fingertips and I drop, using the pavement as a leverage to push them back into my sleeve.
Peter is gone.
I grab my elbow as if I’ve hurt it and push the papers up farther toward my shoulder.
Sonya turns. “There you are. Did she trip you?” She points to the older woman now stepping through the hotel’s front door.
“No, I bumped her. He wasn’t there . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Come on.” She grabs my arm, the one not holding the papers. “Give them to him tomorrow. It’s his fault for forgetting them anyway and I’m starving.”
I follow her with no understanding of what’s going on or what to do next. One thought consumes me—I’ve got the schematics for a top-secret radar system shoved up my sleeve.
Nineteen
Anya
Moscow
November 6, 1983
In-person meeting on Sunday. Safe House #6.
My heart sank at the purple mark. I messed up badly, yet purple meant I had to keep the plans hidden for four more days. Even for a night, the loose floor tile in my bathroom wasn’t going to cut it, so I’d spent hours searching for a hiding place. Around 1:00 a.m., I discovered that the air vent’s metal casing in my kitchen didn’t quite meet the wall. I tucked the pages inside. They were undetectable there and could only be retrieved with tweezers. But even with that masterful hiding place, four days? How would I survive?
I was too nervous to eat, I barely slept, and I jumped at every bump in the night. And with my building’s thin walls, there were plenty of bumps. I almost cried this morning I was so happy it’s Sunday.
I retrieve the papers, slide them down the leg of my tights, and begin my dry cleaning early. I arrive five minutes late.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Peter can’t risk yelling, but his whisper-yell is just as devastating.
“I’m only a few minutes late.” I suggest an alternate offense.
“Wednesday. You were followed, Anya. How did you not see that? You almost blew us both. You risked your friend’s life too.”
“Sonya? Who told you about her?”
“It was obvious. To both me and the KGB.” He runs his hands through his sandy hair and holds the short strands tight. “They could’ve been tracking you or her, maybe even me, but you had two agents on you. One following and one crossing into our scene right as you came out the door. If you’d been caught, you and Sonya could be dead right now and over half the embassy declared persona non grata and sent home. Olivers told you this . . . There are lots of lives involved here, Anya. You can’t be that selfish or that stupid.”
“Maybe it was just a fishing expedition. Why’d you come anyway? Last brush pass you sent that short guy, Paul. He, at least, moves like a Soviet.”
Peter morphs from angry to offended. “You didn’t give us much time, did you? I wasn’t about to risk anyone’s life but my own in what was a stupid, impulsive move. There are protocols on brush passes, Anya. Days of planning go into that split-second sleight of hand, but you didn’t give us that, did you? You had to prove you knew better. You couldn’t listen. You couldn’t obey—”
“Please. Stop.” I whisper the words. He hears them and he stops. He’s right. I didn’t think, listen, or obey orders. I thought only of myself. Speeding things up made me feel better, made me feel valuable, worthy, and not such a fool. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
The fight falls out of Peter as well. “Do you need a reminder as to what they’d do to you? And don’t pretend you could be brave because there is no brave. The KGB breaks everyone, Anya. Everyone talks. Then everyone dies.”
Peter clenches his jaw. It’s already square, but now it’s rigid and there’s a muscle flickering beneath his right ear. He might still be a little angry, but he’s mostly scared.
I accept his silence for the gift it is and I wait.
After a few seconds, he sits in the small chair at the kitchen table. The chair isn’t small, actually. I fit just fine. It’s that Peter is large. He’s tall, bulky, and built like a college baseball player. Even in his midforties, Peter is an impressive man.
I watch and realize that in these few short months, our relationship has grown deep. It has taken on a life of its own. Technically he works for me. He “handles” me and gets me what I need when I need it. But in reality, I need him more. I need him to keep track of the larger picture I cannot see. I need him not to lose faith in me or give up on me, even if I did come super close to destroying it all. I need him to believe in me. He’s like the older brother I always wanted, never want to disappoint, and would hate to see deported.
“We got away with it this time.” I lift my voice, offering my olive branch.
“How can you be sure?”
I reach down through my waist into my tights. Peter quirks a brow watching me. “This.” I slap the roll of papers into his hands with all the bravado in me. I turn into the tiny living room and collapse into an armchair. Because it isn’t much bravado.
“Don’t look so cocky. The KGB is like a cargo ship, Anya. Slow to pivot, but it gets there eventually.”
He leafs through the thin sheets. “You’ve had this with you for four days?”
I nod.
“I can’t say this isn’t big, but it was also crazy.”
“I can do more . . . I don’t think you believe I can.” It sounds like I’m begging for his approval. Maybe I am.
He carries his kitchen chair over and sets it in front of me. “I do believe you can, but you have to trust me. Do. Not. Do. This. Again.”
“Get me the Tropel and I won’t have to.”
“Is that a threat?”
I bite my lip. I was so close to saying, “It’s a fact.” But I stopped myself just in time. It’s not a threat and it’s not a fact. It’s simply a compulsion. I can’t explain it any other way, and that is not a good explanation or a reason. Yet I still can’t stop this ticking bomb inside me, compelling me to chase more, and faster.
Peter lets his question go unanswered and tilts his head back to the kitchen. We position ourselves at the table and sit for the next two hours as I walk him through every detail of the pages and write out everything else I remember on the blank papers he stores at each safe house.
Just as I’m about to leave, he brings up compensation.
“What about ‘qualitative motivations and rewards’?” I toggle my fingers because he really did sound a little pompous at our first meeting.
“Don’t mock it. That’s most important, but Uncle Sam believes in cold, hard cash too.” Peter slides a piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the amount so far. Do you want it in rubles or US dollars?”
In the end we decided on dollars held in a US bank account for some nebulous future. Although I’m fairly certain I’ll never have a chance to access it, dollars far away are better than rubles close. In a world where money doesn’t mean much, everyone sure notices when you have more.
I leave the safe house around 2:00 p.m., and with no place to go, I head home. It’s odd. I thought I’d feel this great sense of relief or that flush of accomplishment I got when I first slid the papers into my tights, but I don’t. I still feel confined and trapped and anxious. I’m not happy like I thought I’d be. I’m not—
Alone.
My apartment door is cracked open. I push at it with two fingers and find myself facing Captain Stanslych.
“I did knock.” He gestures to a living room chair. I assume he’s inviting me to sit. I do. “I received a report yesterday of an incident at the Hotel Metropol Wednesday evening. It involved another department and, well, these things take time.”
“I don’t understand.”
He scans my apartment with a casual air as if I’ve invited him for lunch. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me what you and Sonya Vitya Anatova were doing at the Hotel Metropol Wednesday evening at 7:00 p.m.”
“I . . .” I try to remember what I told Sonya that night and try to guess what she might say. I can’t let her get caught in my lie. Heat floods my face and Stanslych’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t move any other muscles, just the tiny ones around his eyes. I’m taking too long.
“I needed to get a coworker some papers. Sonya met me outside work and walked with me.”
“Which coworker needed papers?”
“There wasn’t one. I lied. I lied to Sonya because . . .” I run out of lies. I can’t name anyone real or he’ll be tracked down too. My mind draws a blank. Scott’s face rises before me. “There’s this guy. I like him, but I think he lied to me and he’s seeing someone.”
“Luka Evanovich Chaban?”
I blink. Stanslych has just named a man at work who has asked me out a few times. “No. Not him. We’ve never gone out.” I keep my thoughts focused on Scott—a face far away and untouchable. “I’ve never really spoken to this guy, but we’ve danced at a club, and I didn’t want to believe he was leading me on. I’d heard, by chance, he was going to be at the hotel . . .” I let my voice trail away.
The story is either going to work or not. Spinning it further hardly matters.
“Does this young man have a name?”
Stanslych’s question surprises me so much my thoughts skitter to a stop. I can’t come up with a name. I can’t think of my own name. But I need one. One that doesn’t belong to anyone real. One that’s common, easy to believe, hard to trace.
After what feels like another ridiculously long stretch, I blurt, “Ivan.” I shake my head. “It was stupid. But—”
I stop myself. Again, I’m spinning the tale too far. I then realize, if I’m innocent, I ought to be curious. “Why would someone report that to you?”
“Another department was following a person of interest and you were close by at one point.” Stanslych stands. “Your friend said the same thing. About the coworker.”
“You—” My voice cracks. “You talked to Sonya?”
“An officer spoke with her yesterday. She said you were delivering work papers. I knew that could not be the case.”
“I will tell her I lied.”
“That is up to you.” He scans my apartment again, absorbing every detail. “I will see you at work tomorrow.”
I follow him to the door, and just as I’m about to close it behind him, he turns. “By the way, she also told my colleague about your conversation during your walk. I found all those sweaters most interesting.” The corner of his mouth twists up and he turns away, calling behind him, “Have a good afternoon, Comrade Kadinova.”
I close the door. My legs can’t hold me any longer and I slide to the floor. It strikes me that I’m in the same spot and in the same position I was in when Sonya told me Dmitri was dead. I look around my apartment, just as Stanslych did, and I feel certain he’s planted bugs throughout it.
I can’t think. I can’t go to Peter. I quickly pack a bag and go to the only place truly safe. Home.
* * *
Have I made a mistake? While home is safe—there are never bugs—it’s not a place I can fall apart. Weakness like that isn’t allowed. My mother will fret and worry, then try to hug me back together, and my father will caution me never to mess up in the first place. “We owe everything to the State,” he always says. Everything. I quit arguing that one with him years ago. Now I must keep silent so neither will ever guess what I’ve done and continue to do.
“We didn’t expect you.” My father opens the door with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He appears more tired and thinner since I last saw him. I’ve sensed he’s pulled too tight, like a rubber band stretched to reveal the thin sections just before it snaps. I’ve encouraged him to cut back at work, but he always shakes his head and asks what he would do instead.
I usually retort that at sixty-four he should simply enjoy himself and spend time in Sochi. He loves the sea. He laughs that off, too, saying it is his honor and his duty to serve the nation. But Sochi is the only place I have ever seen him truly relaxed and happy. I often wonder if “honor and duty” should take such a toll.
Tonight, after shutting the door behind me, he leads me down the hall to the living room. I drop my bag on a chair and pause. I want a hug, but my father is not a hugger. “Should I tell Mother I’m here?”
“She’ll learn soon enough.” He waves his hand over his shoulder. “Join me.”
He heads straight for the high chest in which he stores his liquor and pulls out a bottle of Mamont. It’s the best vodka he owns. He pours fifty grams. No ice.
“You’re enjoying the good stuff tonight,” I tease, pretending to be calm in hopes I’ll become that way soon.
“We are.” He lifts the glass to me. “I hear good things about you and you haven’t come home in a while.”
I try to read his expression. I find nothing hidden within it so I step forward, accept the offered glass, and lift on my toes to kiss his cheek. It’s cool and he is definitely thinner. I curl onto the couch, one leg tucked beneath me as he settles into his favorite armchair.
My parents’ home is about ten times larger than mine, along with being on the most prominent street in Moscow. It’s a beautiful apartment, and it’s funny how only in coming back from America do I realize the stark inequalities within my own country. Their home has high ceilings, carved crown moldings, a walk-in kitchen, two bathrooms, and two bedrooms. It’s extravagant by any and all standards. And while I concede these are the privileges and gifts for years of hard work and dedicated service, and my father deserves them, I still can’t reconcile their existence with the ideology that decries them.
