This chapter finds Olivia under extended interrogation in Moscow’s infamous Lubyanka Prison. Three years prior, the day before leaving Vienna for Moscow, Olivia had contacted the US Embassy and offered her services as a possible “bridge” between America and Russia. The CIA man she talked with, blew her off, then promised to write a memo about her offer. The Russians have acquired the memo through a CIA mole. Neither the Russians nor the Americans really believe she’s a spy. But the Russians don’t want this incident to get out of hand and intend to settle it quickly, one way or another. Now three Americans try to help. Maxwell Fajans, the CIA station chief at the Moscow embassy. Rebecca Taylor, a diplomat turned Washington Post reporter who knows about the memo. And CC Cooper, a retired US Army colonel spending a year as a guest lecturer at the Voroshilov General Staff Academy–the man who gets the CIA, the FSb and the Washington Post to agree.
All bureaucracies have rules. The larger they are, the more rules they tend to have. Amongst the most important of bureaucratic rules: no surprises.
By late Tuesday afternoon, Raduyev had a sense that there weren’t going to be any surprises. It would take time to go through her lab, but initial interviews indicated nothing untoward in Olivia’s behavior or relationships with her employees. A preliminary search of her flat showed that her personal computer was very clean of work-related material, even unclassified material, or of anything suspicious. She may have worked long hours, but when she was home, she was home. There were no unaccounted-for withdrawals or deposits of money in her personal accounts, and her spending was wise and reasonable. Her prescription drug usage was minimal: a small dose of valium a few times a week, mostly before she exercised; codeine afterwards a few times a month; morphine a few times a year. She drank in moderation, enjoyed a small circle of close friends and a larger circle of acquaintances, and was a highly skilled knitter. She wasn’t religious in any conventional sense. She didn’t socialize with dissidents, human rights agitators, or bohemian types, although she did have a few artistic friends. She had one, no, two, foreign contacts, both American. Her love affair with Major General Suslov was cause for substantial gossip, no matter how correctly they behaved in public, but there was no evidence of any infidelity on her part. The most exciting thing at her flat, Colonel Raduyev thought dourly, were the Japanese knitting magazines she subscribed to, since Japanese was not listed amongst her language skills. A copy of a Japanese pattern was tucked into her valise, along with the work itself. He had to admit that it was very beautiful. He would ask about that.
The next phase of her interrogation began in mid-afternoon. Matrons escorted her from her cell back to the interrogation booth. She sat down in the chair across from the opaque, one-way window, placed her hands on the table, and waited. After a few minutes, two very muscular young men entered. She knew that interrogators sometimes identified themselves truthfully. Other times, to gain advantage, they went in with false names or ranks or affiliations. There was, however, a limit to the play-acting. A sergeant could no more convincingly claim to be a colonel than someone like Raduyev could pretend to be a conscript. She guessed their rank as senior lieutenants, perhaps junior captains. Politely, she half-rose and inclined her head. One took the seat, the other stood besides him, arms folded, the window unimpeded.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Tolchinskaya.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I know your names?”
“It is not necessary for you to know our names,” said one.
“We will ask the questions. You will answer them,” said the other.
She scanned the two young men, decided she was not intimidated, then startled them by saying, “Let us begin.”
“If you don’t mind, we decide when we start and stop. This phase of your interrogation will concentrate on your activities and contacts since coming to Russia. Since you have been here for nearly three years, there is much to review.”
They began with her foreign contacts in Moscow. She knew precisely two: Rebecca Taylor of the Washington Post, and CC Cooper, a retired US Army colonel teaching at Voroshilov. When had she met them? Where? What had they done together? Had she reported them?
The questioning, dull and dreary and repetitious, went on the rest of the day and into the early evening. Sometimes the two men stayed in the booth, one pacing beside the table or standing behind her. Olivia was not permitted to turn toward him, even when he asked a question. Sometimes only one stayed with her. She knew the technique from her American experience and a few vaguely remembered television shows from her youth. Mutt and Jeff. Good cop, bad cop. But this version of Mutt and Jeff behaved precisely the same and were in many ways indistinguishable.
They finally took a break. In the corner of the booth, Olivia rose and began stretching, her back and legs making hideous popping noises. The guards took her to the latrine. Upon her return, she found Colonel Raduyev in the room, along with a guard who’d brought dinner for two on a tray, paper cups and plates, no utensils. Although she had no watch and there were no clocks in the room or anywhere else, her stomach told her that it was past dinner and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten that day, or the evening before. They were deliberately distorting her sense of time, and that she knew it did not mean it was any less disorienting. She remembered reading somewhere that, bereft of outside stimulation and left to its own devices, the human body recycles to a thirty to thirty-six hour cycle. She could not remember how long the recycling took, so the information was of no immediate use.
“I will join you for dinner, Doctor Tolchinskaya.”
“In the hope that I eat more?”
“Yes, in fact. It is one of the most important points to be made when armies train their people how to behave as prisoners. Eat everything they give you. You do not know when you’ll eat again. It is important to keep one’s strength up.”
“I will try.” She examined the contents of the tray they guard had placed before her. Included were two pills, valium and codeine. “We assume you need these.”
“Thank you. Prolonged sitting used to be almost unendurable. Now it is merely extremely unpleasant.”
“How do you cope at your lab?”
“I pace a great deal and I often work at a standing desk. My office is not big on horizontal tables, but an entire wall is white board. I hope my drawings weren’t erased.”
“They have not been. What are you working on?”
“I am thinking about being able to activate sensors and other circuitry through signals sent over a commercial cell phone. I don’t think that’s quite possible now, and I know I made a mistake in those schematics. But I was not able to find it when I left the lab on Monday.”
“We found some magazines in your flat. They’re in Japanese. You have not noted that as one of your languages.”
“It isn’t. You need not know Japanese to be able to read a Japanese knitting pattern, although I know a few kanji, or characters. I recognize for example, the kana for silk. But if you look at the pattern in my valise, you’ll see it’s almost entirely graphical and that the graphics correspond to the texture and shape of the fabric. If I taught you how to read the graphic, you could knit the pattern.”
“But you said you don’t know Japanese.”
“I don’t. Knowing the kana for wool does not mean I can read Mishima Yukio’s novels. Or even ask where the toilet is.”
“But you said, you don’t know Japanese.”
“I do not. I recognize a few kanji, that’s all. If you like, I will write you a list of the kanji I recognize, in Russian, because I cannot write the characters themselves. I can show you how to read and work the pattern I am knitting so you can see for yourself that you do not in fact need to know Japanese to knit a Japanese pattern.”
Raduyev’s sense of the absurdity of the case was growing stronger. “How do I know that these patterns do not contain coded instructions?”
She looked at him oddly. “The patterns would be very wrong, and the magazine’s subscribers would let them know. Loudly and angrily.”
“No, I mean, what if certain patterns were prearranged signals and…we’ll pursue that later,” he heard himself say hastily. “Have you had any contacts with any Japanese nationals while in Russia?”
“No. I order off the Internet. It’s all done by credit cards.”
“But those are Japanese sites. Therefore, you have had contact with Japanese nationals.”
“No, the sites are hosted in Japan, but I deal with a graphical user interface.”
“A what?”
“A computer screen. I have had no human contact. The companies have fulfilled my orders promptly and completely and unlike, say, computers, I never have to call customer service.”
“How did you come to knit Japanese patterns?”
“I was introduced to them by Madame Getmanova. As beautiful as Russian and Shetland lace styles are, Japanese lace is from some other universe.”
Raduyev thought and then chose to say nothing although he would ask the general’s wife about that. Between question and answers, Olivia was picking at her food again, not really eating. “Will you please eat?”
“Yes.” She chewed and swallowed politely.
“What else do you correspond with Madame Getmanova about?” Olivia looked at him. “Yes?” Raduyev prodded her.
“Russian marriage and family traditions and customs.”
“I see. Did you save this correspondence?”
“Was I supposed to?”
Slightly frustrated, Raduyev glared at her. “Do you often answer questions with questions?”
“It’s a Jewish thing.”
“You would do well not to remind us that you are Jewish.”
“Shall I also not remind you that I am an American and a woman?”
“If you answer a question with a question one more time…” He caught himself. “You do know that all our sessions are being video-taped, don’t you?”
“Yes, you told me so. What is the problem?”
“The problem is that you’re making me look unprofessional!”
“I am?”
“You are. You seem to have a tendency to take things over.”
“I do?”
“Stop that this minute!”
“I don’t know if it’s the same here in Russia, but in America, children have the tendency to drive their parents crazy by asking why.” She thought for a second. “Also how. Forgive me, but you sound like an American father who has been asked one too many questions.”
“In Russia, our children know better than to push things beyond their limits.” He needed to terminate the conversation. It was too human. “I’m going out for a cigarette.”
“You do know those are bad for you, don’t you?”
Raduyev stalked out. Mutt and Jeff returned, except that this time it was two new Mutt and Jeffs—or was it Mutts and Jeffs, she wondered—making a total of four. Like the first two, they were young, strong, and indistinguishable. This time they carried paper, pens, and what looked like a thick dossier. It was certainly thick. The repetitive questioning, the always probing for inconsistencies or changes, began again. Olivia began to become aware of a strange awarenesss of the world behind the window. During the afternoon, she had sensed Raduyev, then sensed an absence, as though the recorder might be unattended. Now she sensed the afternoon team behind the screen, watching her. Nothing telepathic, only the survival skills of a new prisoner who is learning fast.
After several more hours, everyone was becoming a bit dazed and lost. Olivia could read Russian upside down but she didn’t need to look at their question lists even right side up to know the sequence. One young man, looking down at the sheet and rubbing his eyes, paused a moment.
“‘Have you used any illicit or unauthorized drugs?’” she prompted.
“No,” both young men replied automatically, and then, realizing what they had done, began to stammer an admonition.
“I know. I know,” she said, gentle and weary, “I’m supposed to answer the questions, not ask them. Isn’t that right?”
Raduyev and the first team, watching from behind the mirror, shook their collective heads. This had the makings of an extremely unfunny personal and professional joke. He dismissed the two young men, then walked into the interrogation booth. “I think we’re all done for the night, gentlemen. Doctor, a guard will escort you to your cell.”
At the Wednesday noon meeting, after another four-hour shift, this time with Olivia one-on-one with each of his interrogators, Raduyev had the beginnings of a quiet, low-grade mutiny on his hands.
“Have we found anything on the good Doctor?” one of the young men who had answered the question about illicit drugs, asked.
Raduyev shook his head. “And we’re starting to run out of places to look.”
“Comrade Colonel, sir, with all respect, we have a list of people in this building who need our attention,” the second young man who had answered the same question, replied.
“Are any of them more important than this?”
“No, sir, but they’re scum,” another young man, the one who had told Olivia she was there to answer questions, said.
And there was the crux of it, thought Raduyev. The good Doctor, as even his interrogators were starting to call her, was clearly not scum. An idiot from time to time, but not scum. He’d heard of more than a few interrogators responding this way to the dissidents of the former regime.
Another interrogator working a different case spoke up. “Look, you need answers from this woman that she’s not giving, you can let me and Nikolai here spend some time with her.”
Raduyev’s pale brown eyes showed no emotion. “We can make her say anything we want her to but we are interested in her telling the truth.” And you are dead in my organization because I am not passing false information to my superiors. “All right, gentlemen. Those of you on Doctor Tolchinskaya, keep it up. I’ll take her for lunch. After that, two shifts of two, three hours each, and I’ll take her again in the evening. I know it’s boring and disheartening to keep going over the lists. So let’s just start talking with her. Maybe she’ll let something slip. But please…don’t let her take over the interrogation. Again.”
The process plodded on through Wednesday and into Thursday. After they worked through the standard list of questions several times, from her sex life to her drug use, her comings and goings in Chechnya, her acquaintances and her personal habits, her interrogators began to feel more and more abashed. They’d come to admire her poise and calm dignity; they were more than a little in awe of her intelligence and strength. And of her record in Chechnya.
“Doctor, we see here that you were awarded the Order of Valor.”
“Yes.”
“Would you tell us about that?”
She paused. “I suppose I could say that a gentlewoman does not discuss her personal kills, but I don’t think that would be appropriate in this setting. Tell me, have you ever served in the military?”
“Yes. Both of us wanted careers in the security services and military service is a good way to come to the attention of the proper people. Along with university. As you may know, it is not possible to apply to the security services in the manner of applying for an ordinary job.”
“I did not know that. In America, you can apply for the CIA the way you would apply for…”
“Yes?”
“I was about to say, a job at McDonald’s. However, given my present circumstances, I would have to say that I have more respect for the people at McDonald’s.”
“Doctor, do not change the subject.”
“Very well. Have you been in combat situations?”
“No. Our service was cut short when we were selected for this.”
“I see. In combat, most people have two major emotions. One is fear. The other is excitement. You try to balance them because if you let them get out of balance, you are in trouble. You want the adrenaline, you want the excitement, but you also want the fear. At least enough fear to keep you cautious. Then there is training. The better your training, the more things you can do automatically, so your brain is free to concentrate on the moment. Fighting a battle is in many ways a very mechanical process.”
“We understand. But what did you do?”
For a moment, Olivia could not speak and she needed to wipe her eyes. “In Chechnya, I had a personal security detail, led by a Warrant Officer Simonov. A wonderful young man, perhaps a little younger than you. He loved the Army and he loved life and he and his men were very kind to me. I always felt safe with them. He was killed when we went into a building that we had been told was secure. When someone close to you is killed like that, the normal fear and excitement fall away. You enter a state of mind where you do things that you never thought you could. Revenge does not begin to describe it. You become something of an avenging god, destroying utter evil with no sense of anything but the fullness of what you’re doing. Prisoners were taken out of that engagement, but I didn’t contribute to that. I didn’t give anyone I encountered a chance to surrender. I was enraged and I was in pain, including the pain of being shot. The Chechens set the building on fire, but I wasn’t going to leave my friend’s body to burn. I wanted his widow and their child to have his body. So I brought it out. If there were living Chechens in that building when I left, they didn’t live long. I hope their deaths were painful.”
“You were very close to him.”
“To all of them. We knew what we were thinking before we said it, as all good partners in war do.” She watched their faces and decided to make things a little easier for them. “Was this sexual? No. We were too close for that. We were brothers and sister. When we were apart, we barely thought of each other. But when we were in the field together, especially out with the units, it was a closeness where sex had no place.”
“How did you pick the units you worked with?”
“Outside the brigade? Word of mouth. Good people know good people and good people have good people for friends. I worked with regular motorized rifle, armor, and Airborne units, It was very simple to determine which were the right units that would provide proper testing for my equipment, then use it properly later. Is this a disciplined military unit, or is this a rabble with uniforms and weapons? I wouldn’t send my employees to a unit in which I wasn’t confident. If the Chechens killed them, that was one thing. If they got killed or hurt in an accidental discharge because someone was careless or drunk or vicious or criminal, that would have been something else.”
Then Olivia held up her hand. “Please, a favor, if we are going to be talking like this.” The two young men stared at her, startled. She had never asked for anything. Not food, not water, not a bathroom break, nothing. In normal interrogations, it was a significant advance if the source asked for things. It meant he was accepting his dependence on the interrogator. But this was different.
“If we can.”
“I know that you wish me only to answer questions. Machine to machine, almost. But it is very hard to talk to you as human beings if I don’t know your names. I do know Colonel Raduyev’s name.”
They looked at each other. She had now taken them so completely off-script they couldn’t go back. “Doctor, we can’t tell you for security reasons. Proper procedures require us not to tell you our names, unless there is some compelling reason to do so. Colonel Raduyev introduced himself to emphasize that this is an interrogation that is of interest at senior levels. We do not have that option.”
“But if we’re going to be spending all this time together, courtesy requires that I call you something. Would you make up names?”
“We’re sorry. That is something that can be done at the beginning of an interrogation when it would seem honest. It is too late for that now.”
“Then may I choose?”
They both shrugged. “If you like.”
“Boris.” The name popped out automatically and she wondered where it had come from. At first, she thought of Borisovich, Suslov’s patronymic. Then she realized, no, that’s not where it came from. She suppressed a giggle.
The first young man smiled his acceptance. His partner asked, “What is my name?”
“Boris,” she said again.
“But he’s Boris.”
“You’re now Boris, too.”
They stared at her, baffled. “And Arkady and…the other team. Who are they?”
“Boris. And Boris.”
They looked at each other and began laughing helplessly, bringing the guard in from his post outside the door. He just stared at them, shook his head, and left. Laughter was not something you heard very often in the Lubyanka, and when you did, you often wished you had not. This was different. Everything about this case was really very different. Not that they’d ask his opinion, but he thought they should either shoot her or let her go back to work. This was a waste of time. He’d started out thinking they should shoot her, and he was OK with doing that himself. Now, he was thinking that they should let her go, and that idea made him happier.
One of the Borises asked, “Very well. As long as we’re playing this game, what may we call you? Would you prefer something other than Doctor Tolchinskaya?”
“Natasha,” she managed to gasp out between giggles, afraid that if she was not careful, her giggles would turn to tears.
“Why Natasha?”
She re-imposed control over herself and her emotions. “It’s an American thing.”
“An American thing?”
“Indeed, an American thing.”
General Schwartz required twice-daily reports from Raduyev, who delivered them personally. He read that one and shook his head. “Why Boris? Why Natasha? And what is this ‘It’s an American thing?’”
“Shall I pursue the matter?” he asked dourly. “It could be our first big break in this case.”
Schwartz looked at him, chin in one hand, and drummed the fingers of the other on the table. “I think not, Colonel. She’s clean.” It was extremely hard to prove a negative, of course, and the FSB, like any intelligence service, did not operate according to the principle of innocent until proven guilty. But chances were extremely good that if it had four hooves, a mane, a tail, and neighed, walked, trotted, cantered and galloped, it was not a duck.
“Yes, she’s clean. We resolved that in the first fifteen minutes.”
“I will ask General Getmanov about this Boris and Natasha. Of course, he will probably have to ask his wife. In the meantime, let the men continue the questions and conversations, some occasional pressure, not much, unless she changes and becomes difficult.”
“She’s difficult now.”
“Yes, but…how can a woman be so intimidating and so charming at the same time?”
“I’d call it interesting, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Interesting. It is hard to keep pressing for something that you know isn’t there. But I want you all to continue.”
“Each and every Boris?”
“All the Borises. For now.”
“You know we have scum here who need our attention. You might let us attend to them before every Boris in the building falls in love with her.”
“How many Borises have we?”
“In the whole building? The entire complex? Do you wish me to check the rosters?”
“It might make more sense than what we’re doing. No. Just continue. I may decide to send in a new interrogator for a final attempt.”
“May I ask who, sir?”
“Major Kristinich.”
Raduyev felt himself turn dead white. “General…” Kristinich was a possible witness against her, although his debriefing had turned up nothing more than baseless innuendo. To allow a witness to participate in an interrogation was something well outside the bounds of acceptable practice. It virtually guaranteed tainted information. And then there were Kristinch’s methods.
“Don’t worry, Colonel. His interrogation will be, shall we say, well-supervised,” Schwartz said blandly. “Many outcomes are possible. Or so I’m beginning to think. And oh, by the way, have you read that Washington Post story?”
“Yes, the minute you sent it down. Doctor Tolchinskaya has not been made aware of it, per your orders. May I inquire if the reporter has been arrested or deported yet?”
“Not yet. I have learned that the reporter has some sort of acquaintance with one of our best people. I’ve asked Colonel Suslova to contact her and learn what she can.”
“I hope this works. May I say, the General is taking the latest events very calmly.”
“Only on the outside, Colonel. However, there may be some chance that we can turn this to our advantage.”
“In what manner?”
“Perhaps by demonstrating how stupid our relations with the Americans have become. As General Getmanov put it: smart countries, foolish choices. For another, it may help us not to make quite so many foolish choices in the near future. We shall see.”
All bureaucracies have rules. The larger they are, the more rules they have. One rule, however, is universal. No surprises.
Maxwell Fajans, CIA Chief of Station, US Embassy, Moscow, was not expecting any surprises. He was actually having a very good Thursday morning and he planned on mentioning it to God the following Sunday. Raised strict Lutheran by a family whose idea of exploring the world was an occasional weekend venture from Queens to Manhattan, he’d abandoned his faith while still a child. A few years and some nasty scrapes in places like Vietnam, Laos and the inter-German border later, he and God reached an agreement. Every Sunday morning, he would think about going to church. After being reassured that it was not necessary, he would report the events of the preceding week, ask for praise or censure as he felt he deserved (usually praise), receive it, then close out his dedicated circuit to the divine for another week.
Divine approval on such an extended basis had other benefits. He and his wife, Kate, a very successful Washington, DC realtor, had been married for coming up on thirty years and raised three daughters, all of whom were launched into careers they loved, good marriages, and children of their own. Over the past several months, he and Kate, who’d cheerfully (and wisely) refused to give up her thriving business for one last stint in Moscow, had begun to discuss divorce. Their conversations were benign. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other or enjoy each other any more. But they’d spent so much time apart that they’d grown apart. They no longer considered themselves husband and wife in any volitional sense, only members of the same family and that would never change. Still, each was wondering what it might be like to be married again to someone of choice.
They had broached the issue in a joint email to their daughters, and they had received an email back from Emily, the eldest, a Foreign Service Officer back in DC between gigs in Yemen, which she’d unaccountably loved, and Saudi Arabia, which she was unaccountably prepared to tolerate.
Dear Mom and Dad:
The Fajans Daughters in Family Meeting have considered your situation, protestations and malfeasances regarding the continuation of your status as bound together in the bonds of Holy Macaroni. After considerable debate, some sober, some not, we have reached a unanimous conclusion. Should you be unaware of the meaning of the word unanimous, your attention is invited to any English dictionary currently available to either of you, either in book form or on the Internet.
Our Decision:
There will be no divorce. Mom, you’re too old to start over. Dad, you’re too ugly to start over. And none of us has any interest in stepparents, stepbrothers, stepsisters, step-aunts, step-uncles, step-cousins or step-pets. Not to mention half-parents, half-brothers, half-sisters, half-aunts, half-uncles, half-cousins or half-pets.
You may if you wish appeal this decision but frankly, we don’t know where the fuck you would go to do so, so please accept our wisdom as final.
[Signed] Your Loving and Legitimate Children.
Life is good together, dear Kate, he thought. I think our children like us. Let’s see if we can make it to the finish line together.
Maxwell Fajans had joined the CIA as a poli sci grad straight out of Dartmouth in 1962. He’d chosen the CIA because he’d been genuinely moved by John Kennedy’s challenge to ask himself what he could do for his country, a choice made easier because Dartmouth had the standard Ivy League connections with the Agency and a few discreet faculty inquires sufficed. The events of October of that year, when the United States and Russia nearly agreed to blow up the world, and the events of November 1963—he still wept at the memory—only deepened his resolve. He’d spent three years in Vietnam and Laos because that was where the action was. In 1973, he was doing an obligatory Langley tour, pondering what next as America lost interest in Southeast Asia. For weeks, he found himself in no good mood regarding his country, his employer, or himself. Then he heard it said that Henry Kissinger was going around proclaiming that his job was to negotiate with the Soviets for the best second-place deal available to America. Fuck that, pal. And fuck you, too, while you’re at it. He’d then taken his boss to lunch and poured a few more gin and tonics into him than usual, prior to informing him that he was transferring to the East Europe/USSR division.
“Max,” his boss had sloshed out a protest, “you don’t even speak Russian.”
“I will after I finish a year at DLI.”
“And how do you expect to get to Monterey?”
“You will arrange it as your departing gift to me after all my loyal service in your section. Quickly, boss. The Defense Language Institute awaits.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“First, Southeast Asia’s now a career dead end. Second, I’ve never been comfortable with Asian languages and I’d rather learn Russkie than Chink. And third,” he repeated Kissinger’s comment, “whenever you get an asshole like that as national security adviser to the president, this country needs me. Bad.”
He was on his way to Monterey within the month.
Fajans was not surprised to find he enjoyed learning the Russian language. And as his career progressed, he discovered that he liked the Russians he dealt with. Not all the Brezhnev-era people were corrupt, cynical apparatchiki, faking their Communist beliefs. There were plenty of those and in general, they’d done very well for themselves. But there were any number of good people struggling to help their country move beyond what so many Russians had inflicted upon other Russians. Not all of them were dissidents; some showed up in surprising places. And a few months of Russian experience led him to reject, utterly and forever, the notion that there was, as so many American academics loved to claim, a permanent social contract between the Communists and the people. The people would submit and accept in exchange for things getting a little better, each generation. Just a little. But things were not getting better, even a little, as anyone knew who spent time there. Fuck the theories. Go look at the lines outside the stores, waiting for hours to purchase whatever the Kremlin had decided they would have for dinner that night. Try making a phone call. He marveled at the CIA’s estimates of the USSR’s steadily advancing prosperity and was one of the first to realize that whatever prosperity they’d achieved was crumbling under the weight of their lunatic military expenditures and their utter refusal to enter the computer age.
He recalled, always vividly, the day he realized that the Soviets also knew what was going on. It was the Gorbachev years and the two countries were ramping up what became known as MBFR, the conference on Mutual and Balanced Force Reductions. Conventional forces, tanks and planes and artillery and the manpower: starting to scrap the forces that had stared at each other in Central Europe since 1945. He’d been assigned to the US delegation. He’d been drinking with an intriguing new acquaintance, an ethnic Russian colonel, a GRU type whose interests seemed to go far beyond counting things. The Soviet Army, he explained, was having great difficulty coming up with decent figures on what it had, since it had no idea what it had. Fajans had countered that, if the USSR didn’t know something as simple as how many tanks and planes it had, how could it know what shape its economy was in?
“No problem,” Colonel Yuri Mikhailovich Getmanov had replied. “We use CIA statistics and reports and adjust our plans accordingly.”
“But that garbage is based on your official figures and you know they’re worthless.”
“I know.”
“But you can’t run a modern economy that way.”
“I know.”
“The whole thing’s going to collapse on your head.”
“I know.”
And so it had, much to the delight of Maxwell Fajans: a delight that included the chance to stop being a Soviet expert, which he’d always hated, and become a Russian expert, which he’d always loved. And so he did. Now he was at the end of his career, the Moscow job a final special posting for a man who’d served well, and he had a chance to maybe do some good. And he had, quietly, taking whatever unexpected opportunities came his way, working mostly with the men and women his age who were determined to leave their country better than they found it. From time to time, Major General Getmanov had provided such opportunities.
Count me happy, he thought. I have left the world better than I found it. I have served my country well. And my family still loves me.
There wasn’t a lot going on in Moscow at the moment. Perhaps he’d go home to his wife for a few days. He had his pretext: helping out with some delicate Russo-American negotiations regarding future aid and IMF loans that were in the works. Checking in with Langley regarding a few other items, from missing warheads in Kazakhstan and possible nuclear proliferation to the all-too-real proliferation in Moscow of American business people with questionable ethics and connections. Some of these guys had been deported after brief arrest. One or two had vanished. Good fucking riddance, he thought. Russia has enough problems without that kind of crap, especially from thugs who regarded the US Embassy as there to serve them, no questions asked. He considered the possibility of surprising Kate. Neither of them had ever cheated and weren’t about to start sleeping around now, so walking in on something untoward wasn’t a concern. What was of concern was… he’d once seen a movie wherein a widower said to the soul of his wife, Thirty years did not cool our bed sheets, Madame. He liked the concept and wondered if Kate might, too. It had been a while. To judge by the reaction the thought had produced on its journey from his upper to his lower brain, he still had juice sufficient for the deed.
“Better read this, chief.”
“What is it?”
“Just off the fax. Washington Post.”
“What is it?”
“Just read it.”
Max Fajans stared at the copy a moment, then reached into a desk drawer and withdrew an item he kept available for just such moments. It was a dinosaur fossil, a genuine, certified, four-inch long bit of dinosaur bone that he’d been given as a memento by a Polish paleontologist after a rather bizarre encounter involving the return of some World War II items seized by the Germans: art, jewelry, rare books, dinosaur bones, a samurai sword (probably given to the Germans by the Japanese, but who could be sure?), a gown allegedly worn by Our Lady of Swoboda at her consecration as a prioress, a set of priceless wooden spoons without handles, a…
Max Fajans took out the dinosaur bone, stuck it between his teeth, started chewing, then started reading. His young assistant left his office quietly, closing the glass door behind him.
“How’s he taking it so far?” asked his secretary.
“Mad enough to chew dinosaur fossils.”
“Oh, Jesus. Here we go again.”
AMERICAN WOMAN HELD IN MOSCOW ON ESPIONAGE CHARGES.
By Rebecca Taylor, Washington Post Moscow Bureau.
MOSCOW, Thursday, January 9th, 1997.
During the Cold War, Americans in Moscow were occasionally arrested on charges of espionage or subversion and imprisoned in the dreaded Lubyanka. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, a few Americans have been detained. These have generally been fraudulent or otherwise offensive businessmen, criminals, tourists and students who brought their bad habits with them, or activists run afoul of the authorities. With the fall of the USSR, everyone assumed that the espionage era was over. But now an American national, a woman, is once again being held as a spy. Neither government has yet issued any official statement. However, from what is known, this incident has the makings, not just of a spy thriller, but of an international love story with a war and some high-tech military miracle gear thrown in.
According to Russian and American sources in Moscow, on, Tuesday, January 7th, Dr. Olivia Tolchin, an American electronics engineer who once did top-secret work at Los Alamos National Laboratory, was arrested by the FSB at the dacha of her lover, a highly decorated Russian Major General named Dmitri Borisovich Suslov. According to a Russian source, in 1993 Tolchin accepted an offer to come to Russia to design tactical ground combat sensors for the Russian Army. According to the Russian source, she established a special laboratory in Moscow, developed these sensors, and personally supervised their testing and use during the bloody and still-simmering war in Chechnya. Apparently, she also participated in combat and was decorated for courage by the Russian Army. In recent months, Tolchin, a tall, attractive blonde whom the Russians call “Tolchinskaya,” has been seen around Moscow, often in the company of General Suslov. She has not been seen since last Monday and, according to the Russian source, both her laboratory and her apartment have been sealed. General Suslov’s whereabouts are unknown.
Tolchin apparently came under suspicion when Russian state security organs obtained a copy of a CIA memo about her. How they obtained it is unknown, as are the exact contents. The Russian source believes the memo, written in 1994 before Tolchin arrived in Russia, indicates that she had, at the last minute, offered her services to the CIA, but not as a spy. “It seems preposterous,” says a Russian source familiar with her activities here. “Tolchinskaya has done excellent work as a contractor. We are in her debt. However, one cannot be too careful, even today. The Cold War may be over but many tensions remain. It is unfortunate.”
An American source, also familiar with the situation, says: “I don’t know if she’s a spy or not. If she isn’t a spy, if she really came here on her own, she certainly violated a lot of regulations from the conditions of her previous employment and probably a couple laws. If she was actively fighting in the army of a foreign nation without prior consent by the US government, that breaks some other laws. Whatever she is, she doesn’t seem to be a traitor or defector in the usual sense of the word. But if I was her, and the Russians let me out, I’d have to think long and hard before I returned to America.”
At the moment, if in fact Tolchin is under arrest and held in the Lubyanka, she has more immediate problems to consider. Perhaps the greatest of these problems is that, unless she really is a spy, none of the standard categories apply to her. Neither do the standard protections that countries sometimes accord each other’s operatives. This is what makes the case, if there is a case, deserving of attention. A strange new situation in a strange new world.
Statements by both governments are expected soon. Sources indicate that both governments wish to resolve this situation as quickly as possible.
Max Fajans took the dinosaur bone out of his mouth, inspected it for new teeth marks, noticed several, then wiped it clean with his handkerchief. He knew his phone was about to begin ringing with some very senior people back in America asking some very direct questions. He took a deep breath and screamed for his assistant. The glass vibrated. The assistant tumbled in. Fajans got out his strongest New York accent and screamed in native dialect: “Why the fuck don’t we know anything about this?”
“Easy, chief. We’re looking into it.”
“What have you learned?”
“Not much so far. We’ve had reports of a woman who fits the description here in Moscow. We’ve heard stories for a year or more about a tall blonde out with the Spetznaz in Chechnya. But we’ve never followed them up because…”
“Because what?”
“Because it seemed too ridiculous.”
“Doofus, this is Russia. It exists to be fucking ridiculous. What do you know about this memo?”
“Hey, chief. That’s Langley. Not us.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t tell that to Langley. In about a minute, that phone’s going to starting ringing and…”
“Sorry, chief,” his secretary called from her desk. “No minute. You’ve got a call.”
“Langley?”
“Uh…not exactly.”
“Can it wait?”
“Better not.”
“OK,” said Fajans, popping the fossil back between his teeth. He took a deep breath, rotated his fossil and got his voice under control. He picked up the receiver. “Fajans.”
“Getmanov. Are we holding one of your people?”
“I don’t know. Are you holding one of our people?”
“No games, Max. It was a long flight and I’m still tired. We need to get to work on this very quickly. Before it explodes in all our faces.”
“If you say so. Good to hear your voice again, by the way. How long has it been since our last personal encounter?”
“A regime or two ago. I still have fond memories of the MBFR talks, arguing over how many of our fifty thousand tanks actually worked. You said twenty thousand. I said five hundred and forty-six. I was closer to the truth.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I got it right on all those movies about how your tanks were able to snorkel across river bottoms so you didn’t have to build bridges. You people fucking paved the river beds before you made the films.”
“In America, you would call it special effects.”
“Look, Yuri, at the moment I can’t speak for anybody but myself and that’s hard enough.”
“If would be easier if you took that fossil out of your mouth.”
“How do you know?”
“I am sensitive to dialect.”
“Look, if she’s what this article says she is, you’re welcome to her.”
“She’s much more than that.”
“In my book, she’s nothing but a traitor and one thing I know about you is that you hate traitors.”
“True. But we’re beyond that with this woman. She has betrayed you not at all and has given us some incredible technology that she offered your Defense Department and they turned down over and over. And over. We’re five years ahead of you in ground sensors. Maybe ten. You’re an intelligence officer, show some curiosity and see what you can learn about her. You might also get hold of this Taylor, assuming she has the total lack of sense to still be in Russia.”
“She’s probably that dumb.”
“Yes. The more I learn about smart American women, the more I wonder.”
“The more I don’t. What will you be doing at your end?”
“Calming down my superiors. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Thank you.”
“And Max…”
“What now?”
“That memo is genuine. It was written by one of your people in Vienna. A certain Mr. Jay Lyons. Tolchinskaya did not offer to spy. She offered herself in some undefined capacity so that our two nations might work together a little better. He dismissed her, and I am quoting from memory, as alcoholic, drug-addicted, probably promiscuous, certainly delusional. He then wrote a memorandum for the record and filed it and there it sat until…”
“Until what?”
“Until we obtained it. You said that I never liked traitors. I don’t. I like even less traitors who hurt good people. You might ask your Langley to consider how this memo came into our possession.”
“I’m sure they already are.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“If you have any more alcoholic, drug-addicted, probably promiscuous, certainly delusional women like Dr. Tolchin, please send them to us.”
“Not my department. But if what you say about this Lyons jerk is true, I may recommend that we lock him up and beat him until he’s better.”
“We used to do that in my country. It did not work. Please emulate only our good qualities. As for how we obtained the memo…Seek and ye shall find, my friend. Seek within and ye shall find.”
“Fuck you, Yuri,” Fajans snapped happily.
“Yes,” Getmanov answered. “They say it’s better here. My wife agrees. Let’s get together before I return to Washington.”
“If you return.”
“Life is full of ifs, my friend. Goodbye.”
Fajans hung up the receiver. It felt good to have the blood going again. He opened his mouth to bellow for his assistant. The fossil fell onto his lap. He wanted to tell his assistant to call the Washington Post Moscow bureau and start asking questions. Then he realized that the number was in his Rolodex.
“Hell, I’ll do it myself,” he growled, his eyes twinkling. “Should be fun.”
Dmitri Borisovich Suslov no longer knew what he felt, or if he felt, or if he would ever feel again. His world had gone silent. He could break that silence any time he wanted, by turning on a radio that reported nothing about Olivia, or by his own voice, that had nothing to say. So he chose silence, the silence of the grove beyond the house, the silence of a telephone that did not ring.
For a day and a night, he’d alternated between fury and fear. Then the two had melded together and slowly burned out. Then there was nothing to do but live. General Trimenko’s aide had provisioned him well. There was easily food for two weeks, maybe a month, and enough vodka, brandy and wine to host a small party, or perhaps not so small a party. He was thankful that this had come when he was only a student, not a commander. He wondered if he would ever command anything again. Or would want to.
More than once, he’d asked Olivia what it was like to feel oneself a stranger in one’s own country. He had not fully understood her answers. Russia to him, whatever else it might have been or might become, was Russia. Always his. He could no more imagine leaving his country than he could imagine crawling out of his skin. But now, he wondered if the country that might imprison, torture, or kill Olivia could really be his anymore, or if he could ever serve it again.
Suslov stared out his window at the birch grove, wondering how many millions of Russians, dying at the hands of other Russians, could even then be certain, This is mine. Then he remembered what he had told Olivia at the end of one of those talks. A Russian, he’d said, would never believe that those who were destroying the country somehow had more right to be there than those who worked to save it. To be a stranger in one’s own home meant that one had surrendered that home to evil, and while Russians might submit, they never surrendered. Now he was not so sure, and as the hours passed and the telephone did not ring, the silence of his world began to speak to him. It had little to say. One question, only.
When are we going to stop doing this to each other?
“Taylor.”
“Ms. Taylor,” said a strong voice with a gravelly New York accent. “I’m surprised you’re still in Russia. My name is Maxwell Fajans. I’m with the embassy. Interesting little article you wrote. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I’m a reporter. This is my beat. I’m very busy.”
“I’m sure you are. You did some good work in Chechnya. But you’re a long way from home and the Russians haven’t quite figured out freedom of the press yet.”
“Who are you?”
“Maxwell Fajans.”
“I worked at the Moscow embassy when I was Foreign Service and I haven’t heard of you.”
“You were before my present posting. Which is also my third tour here. I assure you that the embassy staff knows who I am. I can also assure you that if you don’t come voluntarily, I have the authority and the resources to bring you in. Please be here within the next two hours.” He hung up and laughed, put his dinosaur bone away and decided, hell, why wait for his doubtless apoplectic superiors to call when he could further complicate their lives. He picked up the phone again and asked for Langley.
Five minutes later, Rebecca Taylor’s phone rang again. “Taylor,” she said cautiously.
“Rebecca, this is Irina Borisovna, your occasional running partner.” Her voice was utterly uninflected, the Russian accent very strong, the message clearly, Don’t make me be Colonel Suslova. “I should like to speak with you about your article. I recommend that you accept my invitation. If you don’t, you may find yourself talking to someone less courteous. You have an hour to let me know your response. You have my number.” She hung up.
Her bureau chief had seen her on the phone, noticed her shaking. It was something he’d expected. He went to her cubicle. “Problem, Rebecca?”
“Umm, no, not quite, boss.”
“You can tell me.”
“No problem, Howie.”
“You damn well better tell me. Or just let me guess. Representatives of two governments are suddenly interested in talking with you now and are giving you to understand that this won’t be a social chat. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Probably too late to get out of Dodge. Also correct?”
“Correct.”
“OK,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You think it over and tell me what you want to do.”
“I will.”
She thought it over, then made another call. The voice at the other end was calm, with a trace of good-natured amusement. “Howdy, Miss Rebecca. Been wonderin’ when you was gonna call. What took ya so long?”
“I was being intimidated by representatives of two governments.”
“Ours and theirs.”
“You got it, Colonel.”
“Please, CC. Or better yet, Zakuska.”
“CC, would you please be serious!”
“If I get any seriouser, all joy will go out of my life. I’m an old, old widower and I know you wouldn’t want that to happen. OK, hon. Who was it?”
“One call was from an FSB officer who wants a response from me within the hour.”
“This person already known to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how they usually start off. Who is he?”
“She. Lieutenant Colonel Irina Borisovna Suslova.”
“Any relation?”
“The General’s sister.”
“My oh my, ain’t this gettin’ cozy? How do you know her?”
“Olivia introduced us. We run together from time to time.”
“I guess that relationship is on hold for a while. Anything else?”
“We go to McDonald’s.”
“A Washington Post reporter and an FSB colonel go to McDonald’s together?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you order, Happy Meals?”
“No. Big Macs and fries. Hash browns when they have them. Olivia says they’re to die for.”
“Sorry I asked. You got a good number for Suslova?”
“Yes.”
“Lemme have it.”
She read it off. “CC, do you know anyone at the embassy named Maxwell Fajans?”
“Can’t say as I do. He’s your other caller?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was…”
“Neither would I, hon. Tell ya what. You just hang where you are and I’m gonna do me some fancy expeditin’. I’ll be back to you in a few minutes.”
From his flat at Voroshilov, Cooper dialed the embassy and asked them to place a call for him to a number that rang on the desk of another old Army colonel, an Army intelligence officer who’d retired on a Friday and gone to work for his new employer in another branch of the government the following Monday.
“Hey, Clem, how you been?”
“Fine, Coop. How the Russkies treating you?”
“I’ve acquired a new appreciation for appetizers.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a Russian thing. Hey, Clem…”
“You want something, don’t you, Coop?”
“Just a little something. Hey, remember that time at Long Binh when them B-30s was comin’ in on us like hailstones flyin’ flatways and I…”
“Coop, you started working that one before the rockets stopped falling. Just tell me what you want.”
“Well, Clem, it’s like this. I’m thinkin’ about taking this embassy guy out for some drinks. Name’s Fajans and I wanna know if he’s who I think he is.”
“Dunno, Coop. Who do you think he is?”
“I think he’s who I think he is.”
“Then I guess I think he’s who you think he is. Anything else, buddy?”
“Yeah, I’ll give him your regards.”
“Please don’t.”
“OK. I won’t. Take care, Clem.”
That’s my boy, Clem thought, ringing off and looking once again at the front page of his Washington Post. Dunno how he got himself involved in this one but I got a feeling that he’s having fun.
Cooper poured himself another bourbon, then called the embassy back. “Colonel Cooper for Mister Fajans. Priority call. Matter of fact, I’d make that operational immediate.”
“Fajans.”
“Max, you don’t know me. Name’s CC Cooper, Army colonel, retired. I’m a visiting professor from the War College at Carlisle Barracks, teachin’ out at the Voroshilov General Staff Academy. General Suslov is one of my students. Ain’t seen him in a day or three, though.”
Max Fajans lit up within. “And what can I do for you, Colonel?”
“Well, first of all, Max, I can’t have you scarin’ my little zakuska when the FSB’s already got her wonderin’ if she’ll see the sun come up tomorrow.”
“Your zakuska?”
“That’s right.”
“A zakuska’s an appetizer.”
“Affirm on that. You sure got your Russian shit down.”
“Look, pal, just get to your point.”
“My point is, poor Miss Rebecca’s pretty distraught and I’d sorta kinda like to ease her pain, if you know what I mean. So why don’t you and me and Miss Rebecca and that nice Colonel Suslova from the FSB all get together and have us some drinks. My treat, since I’m the one what’s issuin’ the invites and since I’m sure all three of you got all kindsa rules on who can accept what from who, drink-wise. I’m bettin’ that if I got y’all together, we might be able to get a thing or two straightened out. I know this little restaurant, Mama Zoya’s, in the Arbat.”
“I know it. I’ll be there.”
“See ya in two hours. Now I gotta issue some more invites.”
“And what if only you show?”
“We’ll still have each other.”
Next, Cooper dialed Suslova’s number. She greeted him in a stream of Russian that ended with one word he understood, “Privet.” I am listening.
“Colonel Suslova, you don’t know me. My name is Colonel CC Cooper, US Army, retired. I’m a visiting professor at Voroshilov. General Suslov is one of my students. I also know Dr. Tolchin and Rebecca Taylor.”
“Continue.” A cold, quiet voice.
“I’m arranging a little cocktail hour this afternoon with the three of us and a fourth you may know by reputation, if not personally.”
“Continue.” The voice was still very quiet, still very hard, but not quite so cold.
“Max Fajans.”
“I am aware of Mister Fajans. Do you have a place and time in mind, Colonel?”
“I do. Food’s pretty good.” He gave her the information. “About two hours?”
“Two hours, Colonel.”
Taylor’s phone rang again. “Taylor.”
“CC. OK, we got us a meetin’ in two hours with Max and Irina and you and me. Here’s the address. Be there.” He hung up. Rebecca’s bureau chief, who’d been jumping every time she picked up the phone, came over. “What now?”
“Zakuska’s somehow lined up a meeting with everybody in two hours.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go, of course. You were wondering if my Pulitzer might be posthumous.”
“I still am. Are you?”
“Me? Hell, Howie, I may be the first reporter to be killed by a joint CIA/FSB hit team.”
“Now, that would betoken an improved relationship. Not to worry. I’ll write you a splendid obit. Anything else you’d want me to mention?”
“Yes. ‘Rebecca was also one of the original members of the Moscow Chapter of the Russian-American Women’s Hash Brown Running Society. Not that it did her much good.’”
Georgii Genrikovich Schwartz had never been a big-picture man, the kind who fretted endlessly over the cosmic implications of his next report up the chain. He’d learned early on, such concerns led to two kinds of distortion. One kind involved giving his superiors the information he thought they wanted to have, regardless of truth. The other kind involved giving his superiors the information he wanted them to have, regardless of truth. Both kinds led to withholding, manipulation, and worse. Instead, he’d chosen to keep it honest and play it straight. No matter what was going on around him, he could be trusted to be truthful: an honesty that included admitting his errors immediately. And that had kept him alive, his service on track, and his conscience clean in that regard.
This was about to change. Never before had he staged anything for the purpose of reporting it. Never before had he attempted to manipulate those above him. But now he had no choice. As a junior intelligence officer, his superiors had been other intelligence officers; his work got folded into the efforts of others and he had no way of knowing how much of it reached policy circles, or in what condition. But his immediate superiors were no longer intelligence officers; now he reported directly to policy people. That made things different. He was no longer merely an analyst, an operative, a manager of the efforts of others. He had access.
Schwartz sat at his desk, a surface now covered with material regarding Doctor Olivia Lathrop Tolchinskaya. A television on a cart sat before him. He hit the “play” button on his remote. A video of an interrogation came on. He watched and listened for a minute, then turned it off.
Very well. He would do it. For the first time ever, he would deliberately manipulate those above him to achieve a result he desired but they might not. Schwartz buzzed his secretary, had her summon Colonel Raduyev and, a few minutes later, told him his plan. Raduyev protested, as expected. But Schwartz reassured him as he had earlier. “Don’t worry. The interrogation will be well-supervised. And many outcomes are possible.”
From the very moment the four sat down together at a small table in a quiet corner of Mama Zoya’s, it was clear that someone had to be in charge. The only question was, who.
“I thank you all for comin’ on such short notice,” said CC Cooper genially. “I know you all got bosses and other duties and I’m just the outsider here, but I’ve been doin’ some outsider thinkin’ and I reckon if we all just get down to business, we can get this thing squared away in no time.”
“Colonel Cooper,” Suslova said calmly, “You are certainly right about being an outsider here.”
“You may also be violating the Logan Act,” Fajans added.
“Logan Act?” Suslova inquired.
“It forbids private citizens from negotiating on behalf of the US government.”
“Oh, pshaw, Max. I ain’t negotiatin’ nothin’. I’m just hostin’ a leetle get-together.”
Suslova’s face betrayed no flicker of amusement. “Before we go any further, I need to know certain things.”
“Shoot, Colonel. But don’t ask me about my relationship with Miss Rebecca here.”
“Very well.” She turned. “Ms. Taylor, what is your relationship with Colonel Cooper?”
“He’s my zakuska.”
“Yeeeee…hah!”
Everyone turned to Cooper. “Sorry,” he said. “But I just died and went to Heaven.”
“Coming back any time soon?” Fajans asked, disgusted.
Suslova turned to Fajans. “It appears that we are the professionals here,” she said, still very calm. “Perhaps we should proceed accordingly.”
“I’m a professional, too,” Rebecca Taylor added helpfully.
Suslova stared hard at her. “We know.”
“Colonel Suslova, ma’am,” Cooper interjected. “Y’know. I’m kinda fond of your brother, specially after that tour of Borodino that he gave me. What’s he up to these days?”
“Trying to stay warm, I imagine. Nothing else.”
“Have ya talked at him since all this started?”
“No,” she said, her voice still cold and quiet and hard, her face still impassive, but for an instant her eyes could not hide her pain.
Cooper saw, and with his own eyes let her know he had. “Colonel, ma’am, this must be awful hard on you personally. Tell me, how do you feel about all this?”
Irina Suslova looked at him from a great distance. “I am not given to revealing my emotions to strangers. In any event, my English is inadequate.”
“No problem. Miss Rebecca will help. Miss Rebecca, would you please confer with the colonel and make sure she’s got the proper vocabulary.”
Taylor and Suslova whispered to each other for a moment. There was the sound of a soft laugh. Then they broke apart and Suslova said in perfect English, “In the beginning, I was conflicted. Now I’m just fucking pissed.”
Cooper beamed. “That’s better. Good to get it out, ain’t it?”
“Is this a serious meeting or group therapy?” Fajans fumed.
“Little a both,” Cooper answered. “Little a this, little a that, it’ll all work out…”
“Colonel Cooper,” Fajans went on, “don’t you know anything about procedures?”
“Surely do. That’s why I ignore them. Used to work with you guys in Vee-et-Nam. Taught me ever-thing I needed to know. Ever been to Vee-et-Nam, Max?”
“Three years.”
“Yeah? Me too. Remember that little place on Tu Do Street…”
“God damn it!” Fajans roared.
“Enough!” growled Suslova, low in her chest.
You leave my zakuska alone! thought Taylor, then said, “CC, you’re getting on everybody’s nerves.”
“Exactly my intention,” said Cooper, shifting from dialect to forthright. “Now that you’re all mad at me, maybe you won’t be quite so mad at each other.”
Why,” Fajans asked himself aloud, “do I get a sense that Colonel Cooper may have a point?”
“Cause you’re smarter than the average spook. Shall we get down to work?”
They looked at each and at last nodded.
“OK,” said Cooper. “This is what we do. Basic rule is, anything anybody says here, anybody else is free to use in any way they want. I’m going to control this meeting because I’m the one with the least to lose. I’m going to lay my cards on the table and then ask a few questions. OK by everybody?”
It was.
“Tuesday morning, General Suslov was called out of my class. When he returned, it was clear that he wanted to talk with me. After class was over, we were walking down the hall and he told me that Olivia had been taken to the Lubyanka and he was headed for house arrest at his dacha. He asked me to get in touch with Rebecca, said she’d know what this was about and would know what to do. That’s what I did and that’s how that newspaper story came about. It was based entirely on what Olivia had told Rebecca some time ago about what had happened when she tried to contact the CIA in Vienna. Rebecca and I assumed that the memo had in fact been written and that somehow it had made its way to Russia.”
“Made its way…” Fajans growled aloud.
“For the moment, Max, all we need to know is that it did. Now. First question. Does anybody have reason to dispute what I’ve said so far?” No one answered. “OK,” Cooper went on, “then we’ll go on the assumption that the story is pretty much correct as written, even though we were shooting in the dark on much of it. Now we get to the next question.” His eyes went around the table. “Mr. Fajans, to the best of your knowledge, is Tolchin a spy?”
“To the best of my knowledge…no.”
“Rebecca, do you have any reason to believe that she is a spy?”
“No.”
“Colonel Suslova, you met Doctor Tolchin through your brother?”
“No. I was one of her intake interrogators when she first came here. The personal relationship came later, as did her affair with my brother.”
“I see. So you know her better than any of us here. Much better. What is your thought?’
Suslova paused, then nodded. “Nothing that I have learned of her, nothing in my professional experience, nothing…nothing human…tells me that she is anything other than the woman we know. She is not a spy.”
Cooper leaned back in his chair. “Then it’s unanimous. Whatever else we may think of her and what she’s done, she is not a spy. That brings us to the next question. What do we do about it?”
“Cooper,” Fajans said darkly, “it’s one thing to host a discussion. When you start moving into policy and actions, you have no authority to…”
“Well, Max,” Cooper replied. “Sociology tells us that there’s all different kinds of authority. There’s traditional authority, legal authority, rational authority, charismatic authority. Traditional authority I ain’t got. Legal, neither. Rational? Who, me? So I guess we’re just gonna have to make do with charisma. Now, we ain’t none of us got no power here, except the power to make recommendations and, in the case of Miss Rebecca, the power of the press. We are in agreement that Olivia is innocent. What do we do? Let’s start with Max.”
Fajans shook his head, then laughed. “Cooper, you sure know how to run a meeting.”
“Deedy do. That’s why I’m going to ask you again. What are your intentions?”
“My intention,” said Fajans, “is to report this meeting to my superiors, along with my conclusion that Tolchin is not a spy. Nor can I see that she’s done anything wrong, much as I don’t like it. My recommendation will be that we ask the Russian government to release her, but not necessarily into our custody. We’ve got too many people, here and in the States, who would be happy to fry her for what she’s done and that would just keep the case open. If she wants to come home, that’s a different kettle of worms. We can deal with that when and if, not before.”
“Anything else, Max?”
“Yes. There are some delicate negotiations going on right now regarding aid to Russia, loans, whatever. This case is an irritant that nobody needs. I’ll recommend that if we don’t make a fuss about her being an American, neither does Russia.”
“Well said, Max. Well said and wise.” Cooper turned to Suslova. “Colonel?”
“I will report this conversation to my superiors and report that I am in total agreement with Mr. Fajans, with one exception. There are domestic considerations here. Our economic situation grows worse with each passing month. Our secessionists and terrorists may be quiet for the moment, but they are far from defeated. Our society is in turmoil; our politics are often unable to address our needs. There are many people in the FSB, many people in Russia, who want a return to the former ways. They will be happy to use this case to further their desires. We all know how it works. They start by investigating those who have known Olivia. That means many senior Army officers. That means FSB people. It means GRU people. They may find nothing on her, but things start turning up on other matters and other people in the course of the investigations. People are accused. Then they start to investigate who knows the accused and in a while, Olivia is forgotten and things are out of control.” She looked around the table. “This would be tragic for Russia and the world. So my recommendation will be that we terminate this matter as quickly as possible.”
“What do you mean by terminate?” Cooper asked quietly. “By any means necessary?”
“Yes,” Suslova answered. “In this case, Tolchinskaya’s innocence would be a more effective termination than other measures, since the imputation of guilt would remain for those who wish to use it. Either way, it may become desirable for Tolchinskaya to leave Russia. I would ask Mr. Fajans to reconsider the option of our turning her over directly to you.”
“Even if it means locking her away in an American prison?”
“Yes.”
Cooper folded his hands. “Will you recommend that to your superiors?”
“I will remind them that as long as Tolchinskaya remains in Russia, some people will remain interested in exploiting her alleged misdeeds. Innocence may be asserted, even proven. But the events of the past few days will remain.”
“Very well. Rebecca?”
Taylor exhaled deeply. “I…I’m going to proceed as planned, CC. An op-ed on all this for tomorrow’s Post. It may not make the print edition until Sunday. But it will be on the website as fast as they can get it up.”
“No names,” Fajans cautioned.
“No names. Not even the usual anonymous sources, if I can avoid it. Just me this time. Just me.”
“Not exactly,” Cooper answered.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, honey, I’m gonna help. Just like last time. You and me.”
“Why don’t I just quit and you take my job, CC?”
“Cause I’m gettin’ too old to start any more new careers this week. OK, folks. Anybody got anything else?”
“Yes,” Fajans asked, “what the fuck is this zakuska thing?”
“You married, Max?”
“Yes.”
“Happily?”
“Very.”
“Then you don’t need to know.”
Irina Borisovna Suslova completed her report. Schwartz thanked her. The chain of events was now clear. So were the necessary actions.
“What will you recommend, Comrade General?”
“I will recommend that we accept the recommendations your little collective agreed upon.”
“Including Tolchinskaya’s possible deportation to the United States?”
“If it becomes necessary. What will your brother do if that happens?”
“Remain in Russia. Probably suicide.”
“Then maybe it would be best if Tolchinskaya remained in Russia.”
“It is always better not to punish the innocent for…”
“Were you about to say, the sins of the guilty?”
“No, Comrade General. I was about to say, because of what the evil might do.”
“I tend to agree with you. Good night, Irina Borisovna.”
“Good night, Comrade General.”
Three hours later, CC Cooper watched with satisfaction as Rebecca Taylor hit the Send button and her op-ed made its instant journey back to DC, copies to Maxwell Fajans and Irina Suslova.
“Nice job, Miss Rebecca.”
“Thanks, CC. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I know.”
“Conceited bastard, aren’t you?”
“Nope. Just respectful of my own abilities. You going home?”
“No. I’ll be here all night, in case the editors need me. Won’t be the first time I’ve slept here.”
“Should I stay?”
“No reason. You’ve got classes tomorrow. Also, Voroshilov’s a good place to be for keeping your ear to the ground purposes.”
“I know. I’m outa here. Say, Rebecca, honey…”
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
“What?”
“Did I mean it when I said you were my zakuska?”
“You see through me like a piece of glass.”
“I’ll answer, but first you have to explain what you mean.”
Cooper explained. Rebecca Taylor looked down, then up, then smiled wryly. “Sure, I’ll be your zakuska.”
“You will? Honest?”
“Absolutely. But you’ll have to get the rest of your dinner somewhere else.”