A Shadow in Moscow, page 25
By hosting the first Summit in 1972, Moscow felt it had the upper hand and pulled out all the stops. Not only that, both countries signed the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty and the first Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty, SALT I, during those meetings. It was considered an unqualified success.
But it was the ball that lingered in Ingrid’s imagination, a ball as grand as the fairy tales of her childhood. A long, black ZiL limousine had taken Leo and her to the palace. Once there, they followed a line of attendees from the drive to the dinner via a long hallway, lacquered in red and framed by gold-topped jade pillars. The procession was over a hundred meters long.
“This site has been active since 500 BC,” Leo whispered with pride. “A fortress city right in the center of Moscow—a citadel, a church, a town, a palace. It has evolved with us. But the crowning glory is this, the Great Kremlin Palace.”
A single dining room table seated every person present. Over one hundred in all, seated on gold chairs with white silk brocade cushions. The chairs matched the curtains—huge swathes of white silk, puddling to the floor, with red silk edging. And the floor—a mosaic of wood colors and types, intricately cut and fashioned into a tapestry the length and width of the entire room.
Then came the ballroom. That was a sight she would never forget. Gold. Everywhere. Scenes and design work wrought in gold covered the massive doors entering the room. Gold ribbons and detailing lined the arches. Gold and brightly colored mosaic tiles and stone worked intricate patterns into the domed ceilings. Chandeliers as big as cars hung above and sent out a million points of light, burnishing the gold all around. It was like dancing among the stars and the sun, high above the mundane world and all its concerns.
How she had danced. Dressed in a beautiful crimson silk gown that floated around her, Ingrid almost forgot with whom and where she was dancing. She had danced with Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet Nikolai Podgorny and with General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev himself. Leo had been so impressed that night. She thought he’d never regarded her with such warmth. Of course, Podgorny wasn’t involved in this year’s talks in Washington—Brezhnev had deftly removed him from power months ago. But what a fine dancer he was.
And that night, she’d felt truly happy. For a moment she’d let herself believe the fairy tale—that all could be well, that she had made a difference, could make a difference, and that maybe even her husband loved her.
It wasn’t until they were in the car heading home that the golden bubble burst.
“We conceded too much. They think it’s a win, but the United States played us for fools. We have our work cut out for us now.” Leo said nothing more and all her illusions died.
“Ingrid?”
She shook her head but didn’t apologize for drifting away in thought. Reginald knew that a safe house, no matter which one they secured for any given meeting, was the one place Ingrid felt truly free, truly safe, and let her guard down. She let herself dream and she let herself mourn.
Reg reached across the table and held her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I am. I’m simply tired . . . I let myself believe we could end another war.”
“That’s the pain of the Cold War, Ingrid. Cold can burn low for a long, long time, never reaching the heat necessary to burn out . . . I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Ingrid stood, still clasping Reginald’s hand. She held it within both her own. “Thank you. I needed to hear this today. And you are right, it is good news. But now . . .” She dropped his hand. “It is time for me to return to reality.”
* * *
Ingrid unlocked the apartment’s front door and felt a cold creep up her spine.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
They had only lived in this new apartment for four months, and although she was still getting used to it, she knew when something felt terribly wrong.
She peered down the hall and into the living room, straight to the bookshelves. She focused on the one book that could get her killed.
While packing for the move, Leo had found her previous hiding spot. A cigarette box in the bathroom air vent. He carried it into their bedroom where she was folding shirts and waved it at her.
“I wonder what the previous tenants were up to,” had been his only comment. The box was empty. Just a few days before, Ingrid had handed Reginald not only five rolls of film but also her Minox camera, as it had jammed and no longer worked.
Now she hid her film and her new Minox AIII in plain sight—within a hollowed-out copy of Tolstoy’s War & Peace. It rested on the shelf undisturbed. Exactly one centimeter deeper than the copy of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich—a defiance Leo had yet to notice—sitting next to it.
“Dolores?” she called out without expecting any reply. Anya was away at Komsomol camp and Dolores usually hummed or sang while working.
Ingrid hung her coat in the closet, then walked down the short hall to the living room. She wanted a better look at her books. Her heels made firm strikes against the marble, then a deeper note, but no less firm, against the living room’s hardwood floor.
She stopped only a meter within the room, noting a still shadow in the corner. “Leo? Why are you home so early?” She gathered herself within a single step and crossed to where he sat at his desk in the room’s far corner. She bent to kiss his cheek. He didn’t move and his cheek felt cool to her lips. “Darling, what’s wrong?” She stepped back and surveyed the room. “Where is Dolores?”
“Gone.” Leo shifted his focus from the desk to her. “Tell me where.”
His tone sent chills across her arms. Rather than reach around her body and hug herself tight, she dropped into the velvet upholstered chair next to the desk and reached to its side table. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and held it out to Leo.
“With Anya away, she takes longer with the shopping these days. It’s a nuisance but hardly a concern.”
Leo waved away the packet. Ingrid pulled one out for herself, willing her hands and voice to stay steady. “I assume she’s still at the market.”
“I assume she fled, Inga.”
Ingrid swallowed. Years ago her husband had taken up the altered name in private as well as in public. It never failed to wound. Especially as she was certain even their own daughter didn’t know her true name.
Leo brought her attention back to the present, one fist slamming onto the desk. “This was open. I came home early and found my desk drawer unlocked and open, and when I approached her, she grabbed her coat and ran.”
Ingrid pointed her cigarette to the desk. “Is that unusual?”
Leo glared at her.
“I am not trying to be obtuse. I simply don’t bother with your desk. Perhaps you opened it last night?”
“No . . . I never would have opened it with Philby in the house.”
Ingrid caught the competitive note Leo always had when mentioning his longtime friend, but she hid her interest as she always did. She’d done her job well. Philby, initially intrigued by her, had given up showing her any interest or attention years ago—as she had shown none in him.
“I hardly think . . .” Ingrid’s mind raced, trying to find the delicate line between outrage and nonchalance regarding Leo’s desk. “You didn’t open it before you left this morning? You were running late.”
Ingrid took a pull on her cigarette. She had never liked them but found them incredibly useful when one needed a moment and a distraction.
With a slow exhale she continued. “The KGB interviews Dolores annually. You must have friends and colleagues there . . . If they had any concerns, surely they would reach out to you. Ask your friend Philby.”
She waited for Leo’s reaction on both counts. One, he’d never confirmed he worked for the KGB. Two, suggesting Philby might help would ensure Leo didn’t ask him. Whatever this was, Leo would now keep it close. He clearly admired his friend, but true to form, Leo didn’t trust him.
“Besides,” Ingrid continued. “What of importance do you keep in there? You never bring work home.”
“It was unlocked.” He dropped his head into his hands.
Ingrid’s eyes widened at the vulnerable gesture. It was unexpected and out of character. She said nothing. After a few moments, she stood and stepped to her husband. She lifted her hand and hesitated, unsure. She hadn’t touched her husband in a long time. He hadn’t touched her in longer. She closed her eyes for a single heartbeat, then dropped her hand into his hair.
It was still dark, though threaded with grey. It felt soft to her touch, and she wondered if he missed her, if she missed him. She wondered what they had become and what would become of them after this moment. She threaded her fingers through his hair and whispered, “What’s wrong? What’s really concerning you?”
Leo spoke without lifting his head. “There’s trouble at work. There was a leak about a new elevation within the Presidium, an appointment only a few of us knew about.”
“What can that have to do with Dolores?”
Leo lifted his head as Ingrid crouched to bring them eye to eye. His eyes rounded at the edges, his brow furrowed above his nose. “I keep racking my brain, wondering if it was me somehow. We talked about it here during dinner a few weeks ago. We shouldn’t have, but it’s generated excitement . . . I also had a letter in my desk.”
Ingrid let a little outrage creep into her voice. “Someone took it? It’s gone?”
“No.” Leo shook his head. “I filed it at the office days ago. But to come home and find the desk open. There are still confidential papers here . . . What if I’m the leak? What if Dolores has been watching us, watching me, all these years, and I’ve been played for a fool? Or worse, painted as a traitor?”
“Not possible,” Ingrid declared as she rocked back onto her heels and stood. “Dolores is loyal to us. You must have scared her . . . When she gets back, we’ll sort this out.”
“I didn’t— I asked her about it and she said she noticed it when clearing last night’s glasses. She said she occasionally found it that way but had never touched it.”
“There you go. You can talk to her again tomorrow. Maybe she had enough of today and went home.”
“Have you ever seen me leave that drawer unlocked?” Leo stood, feet shoulder-width apart. He was challenging her now.
Ingrid dropped into the chair, changing the power dynamic. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you. I never check your desk.”
“We need to find her.” Leo stepped behind his desk again and lifted the phone off its receiver. “This leak . . . I’ve been called in tomorrow.”
Every fiber within Ingrid stilled. Once again, she could feel the small hairs on the back of her neck and her arms rise with the tension, the electric crackle of the room.
“Are you in danger?” This time fear seeped out, as she had, in fact, photographed Leo’s papers early that morning, then delivered the film, along with twelve other rolls, to a foot-timed drop on Kaunin Prospekt before continuing on to the safe house. She and Reginald had determined years before never to carry film longer than necessary and never to bring it to a safe house personally.
Leo replaced the receiver and stepped around the desk again. He surprised Ingrid by pulling her up from the chair and into a hug. She sank into his embrace, her head fitting in the soft spot beneath his clavicle.
“No . . .” He sighed. “But questions must be asked, which is why I must to talk to Dolores. Today.” He stepped back. “I need to call my office for help. Maybe they can send someone to her apartment.”
Ingrid lowered her cigarette to the ashtray and stubbed it out. “I’ll let you do that and go see to dinner. Though if Dolores didn’t go to the market, I’ll need to go out.”
At Leo’s nod she headed to the kitchen. She hesitated at the phone in the front hallway. She could already hear Leo talking a room away.
She had to work fast.
Within a minute she had her light coat in hand and was back at the edge of the living room. Leo was on the phone. She whisper-called to him, “She didn’t go to the market. I’ll get us dinner and be back soon.”
He waved her gone.
Rather than wait for the building’s elevator, Ingrid raced down the back stairs and, upon exiting, walked immediately to the park. Dolores knew Ingrid walked the park three days a week. In fact, she was the only one who knew Ingrid’s routines. And while Ingrid suspected Dolores would carry her secrets to the grave, she did not want the KGB to put her theory to the test.
* * *
Ingrid spotted her immediately. But rather than walk to her, she crossed away from the park, circled the outer-ring path, and returned by another entrance. The day was bright and clear and pedestrians filled the green expanse, either cutting through it on their way home or lingering on benches to sit and talk.
Dolores remained fixed. She looked just like everyone else. A woman enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Only her purse, clutched tightly on her lap, signaled any tension.
Once Ingrid assessed no one was watching either Dolores or herself, she gestured for Dolores to join her on the sidewalk that bisected the park. Dolores rose from her bench and walked an adjoining path until the two met under a copse of trees.
“How are you?” Ingrid asked, not in German as they usually spoke but in Russian so as not to draw attention to themselves.
Dolores understood immediately. “I’m sorry. Did I mess up by leaving? I got scared.”
“Don’t apologize. This is my fault.” Ingrid resumed walking. Dolores fell into step beside her. “You can’t stay in Moscow.”
“If I run, he’ll think it’s me.”
“He already does . . . I can give him me, but . . .” Ingrid reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand.
“It won’t save me.” Dolores finished her sentence. She added with vehemence, “Think of Anya. Don’t you dare.”
Ingrid dropped her friend’s hand and continued walking. “Then you must run . . . I can get you out. I’ll get papers and money. Where can you go?”
“Home. My papers say Kraków because I was sent to work there first. I’ve kept Smolensk a secret, and I still have an aunt and two sisters there.”
“That’s not dangerous?”
“We are women. Who pays attention to us?” Dolores cut a quick glance to Ingrid. “In Poland it is not like here. We more frequently take our husbands’ surnames. My sisters and I don’t even share a name anymore. Besides, over forty years have passed. There is no one else to remember me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s still home.”
Facing forward, Ingrid nodded her agreement. “I’ll make sure you’re cleared, regardless.”
“How?” Dolores stopped, then had to double-step to catch up again. “Why? If I’m gone, let him think it was me. What does it matter?”
“It can’t be you. Because if you, then me.” Ingrid bit her lip. “It shouldn’t be too hard. The leak simply won’t stop . . . If you and your access disappear and it continues, it can’t be you.”
Dolores matched Ingrid’s earlier tone and question. “That’s not dangerous?”
Ingrid cast her closest friend a sideways smirk. Over the years she had learned that if she didn’t find humor in her work, it would destroy her. She had also learned that she needed places to be honest and true—places in which her soul was whole and could rest. Reginald was such a place. Dolores was such a place. Now she was leaving.
“No more so than any other day,” Ingrid replied sardonically. “And less than a few.” She turned to face Dolores. Part of her wanted to thank her, share with her all she’d meant to her, and cry over how much she’d miss her. But there was no time.
Ingrid shared her love the only way she could—she focused on the job of getting Dolores out of Moscow safely. “Don’t go home. Stay with a friend tonight. Not a good one. An acquaintance who won’t ask questions or check up on you in a few days. Say your apartment is being fumigated or something. Call no one. See no one.”
Ingrid surveyed the park. She had found it a good spot for dead drops and foot-timed drops and prayed it would remain so, if only for one more. “Tomorrow morning, tell your friend you’re coming to work and go to that bench.”
She pointed to a bench positioned directly in front of a large maple tree. “There is a divot in the tree trunk behind it. Inside you’ll find a black bag filled with cash and papers at seven o’clock. Be as close to that time as possible. Pick it up and drop the bag within one of your own and go—no looking back—straight to the train station. There, use one set of papers. When you change trains in Vilnius, destroy them and pull the other set out of the bag’s side lining. Do you understand?”
Tears ran down the older woman’s face. She nodded. “Yes, but . . . ,” she whispered. “You have been my family. I love you and I don’t want to leave you. Who will . . . Who will help you?”
Ingrid pulled Dolores into a tight hug, then pushed her away just as quickly. “I love you too. Thank you. Thank you for being beside me all these years.” She sensed no one was paying attention to them at present, but how long could that last? “Now go . . . and Godspeed.”
As Dolores walked one direction, Ingrid walked the opposite. She headed straight for the nearest pay phone, lifted the receiver, and listened for the delayed click. The line was clear.
She dialed her emergency number.
Within the half hour, after backtracking through a maze of streets, alleys, and shops, she stood inside an MI6 safe house facing Reginald and someone new.
“I didn’t expect to see you again today, but . . . here we are.” Reginald gestured to the young man and Ingrid’s heart sank. She thought she had more time—especially since Reg hadn’t mentioned this man earlier that afternoon.
