“Please, Olga Mixhailovna.” Mayakovsky touched his heart in feigned sincerity.
They sat a while longer in silence and then Mayakovsky checked his watch.
“I've got to get to the exhibit site,” he said, gathering up the tape recorder. “As a colonel, I have a chauffeur at my disposal. But as a mere office worker in a nondescript building near the American exhibition, all I have is the Metro and the buses.” He laughed. “It just wouldn't do to have one of the Americans see me climbing out of a limousine—it might arouse unnecessary suspicion.” Getting up, he added, “Today, though, I might cheat and take a cab from Kreshatik.” Mayakovsky rose and stretched; and, towering over Olga, he seemed more imposing than ever. Out of uniform and in lightweight civilian clothes, he appeared a bit too heavy and, his shirt not completely tucked in, slightly pedestrian. With military precision, he sucked in the morning air, admired the day, and, saying nothing further to Olga, departed. With long, casual steps, he made his way along a narrow dirt path cut between wild grass and overgrown bushes. Sure of himself and what needed to be done, he headed for the Metro station in the center of the island, the Hydropark's only major intrusion from the outside world.
Lost in thought and staring blankly at a trail of ants on the ground, Olga sat frozen until he was gone. When she could no longer hear his feet stomping the earth or his hands pulling aside the branches, she leaned forward on the bench and slipped off her Hungarian sandals. Rubbing the naked soles of her feet into the ground, loamy soil refreshingly squirmed up between her toes. She sighed with relief and, with her sandals dangling from one hand, began strolling through the woods toward the Dneiper River.
Besides the other night, Olga could not remember the last time she had cried. Even though she thought of her mother every day, she was as shocked by her outburst as Nick must have been. Repeatedly, too, she saw the face of her mother's assailant—sharp features, dark eyes, a mole on his left cheek—seared into her memory. As a child she had told no one about the man because she feared that he would kill her, too. Later she did not speak of it because, sadly, there was no one to share it with. That was why, she supposed, it had come gushing out the other night. Not only did she trust Nick, but he had asked the right questions, pushed the right buttons, and there was no holding back this thing within her. It scared her to have such an explosive memory ticking away deep inside her.
Though unvoiced, Olga had always prided herself on a clear-cut vision. For the first time that she could remember, however, things were not as plain as she preferred. When her mother had died, she mourned. When her father had turned to drink, she left. When she had finished school, she went to work. Work that she did not necessarily respect, but which held a future.
She followed a meandering sandy path down to the beach along the river's edge. Bright and sunny, it was quiet that morning, not a ripple on the water's surface. And there, across the broad Dneiper, perched in the forests of the high right bank, was the sprawling Monastery of the Catacombs. The sign of Kiev for almost a millennium—first as the religious soul, now as both an historical and, operating only as a museum, political statement—its white towers shot upward and over the green trees of the rolling hills. The gold onion domes of these towers seemed to catch and magnify the sun's rays.
Aunt Elizaveta. Nick Miller. Where did they fit in with her duties and commitments? Two individuals juxtaposed against an entire cause.
Confused, Olga kicked at the sand. Missing was the clarity she had always clung to for guidance.
XVI
Without a doubt, he could no longer trust her.
A true agent, thought Colonel Mayakovsky as he sat in his office that afternoon waiting for the call from Moscow, allowed his profession to permeate every pore. The inner personality core was replaced with duty, and one's character only served as the perfect mask. In this way, when confronted with an unexpected circumstance with no time for rational thinking, one's reflexive response was as an agent. Not as an individual. That was the true agent, and a true agent Olga was not.
It had become so obvious. Mayakovsky knew it the moment he had seen her walking toward him in the Hydropark. She didn't even have to speak, though her words only further confirmed it all. He had seen it before in other agents. That schism when personal belief and sense of duty have become disjointed. Perhaps it was only just beginning in Olga, that withdrawn look that signifies “What should I do?” and “What must I do?” are no longer wed. He was aware, too, that now the gap was opened, he could not risk being vulnerable to its widening.
It had been another busy day at the exhibit. How many visitors? Fifteen, twenty thousand? He didn't care. Just the usual, there had been no crises. The dozen or so provocateurs had filtered in and out of the exhibit, discrediting the American guides’ propaganda as well as keeping a damper on the atmosphere. And the plainclothesmen had reported the inappropriate activity on the part of the Soviet visitors. Three people had been brought in today for questioning; a man who had traveled three hundred kilometers from his village to ask one of the Americans for a Bible, a black marketeer, and a man who had too eagerly pointed out the shortfalls of the Soviet system.
In his temporary office on the grounds of the VDNX and only a short walk from FARMING U.S.A., Mayakovsky placed his elbows on his desk. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his temples and gingerly massaged his scalp in small, tight circles. His thinning hair, which had matured to a bland brown, seemed to creak under the pressure. A bit of his inherent tension dissipated. He hadn't sat still for quite some time, but waiting for the phone call from Moscow, which was already five minutes late, he was forced to do so.
It had been his policy never to depend on anyone. In the early years of his career Mayakovsky had learned not to rely on those who outranked or those who served him. It was a strategy that had served him well and benefited his career. He had broken this cardinal rule, however, by allowing too much—virtually the entire contact with Miller—to depend on Olga. A great deal was now jeopardized because of this, and he blamed himself as much as Olga.
The fact that she had not fully and accurately reported her evening with Miller was crucial. Never mind that she had probably slept with him, for that too could have served its purpose. What was detrimental was that she was withholding information, no matter how irrelevant. The incident at Saint Vladimir's Cathedral only confirmed what Mayakovsky had begun to surmise: Olga, for an unknown reason, had become personally involved. She could no longer be relied upon to act solely as an agent. A shame. At their meeting in the Hydropark, Mayakovsky had patiently waited, inwardly hoping that she would more precisely recount the evening. She did not, however, and had it not been for the overly ambitious actions of Lieutenant Yezhov, Mayakovsky would never have found out. Now he would have to use her in other ways, in some new strategy. There was too much at stake and Olga was in far too valuable a position. Besides, even if he did want to replace her there was not enough time. So… he'd take full advantage of her as he saw fit.
There was a quick rap on the door. He recognized the knock of Vishnyak, his aide, who had followed him up the ranks of the KGB.
“Da.”
Vishnyak stepped in with a respectful manner that would have pleased a tsar's general. “Your call from Moscow, Comrade Colonel.”
He picked up the receiver of the red plastic phone. “Da.”
“Kutofkin here.”
He recognized his elderly commander in Moscow.
“Mayakovsky.”
“Of course.” The line crackled. “Top concern at the Kremlin continues to be expressed for our two men being held in Connecticut. I merely wish to know, Colonel Mayakovsky, the present status of the operation under your direction. How may I report the progress there in Kiev?”
The static on the line hissed into Mayakovsky's ear; a better telephone line did not exist so far from Kiev's center. “Let me assure you that nothing has ever received my greater devotion. The situation…”—he caught himself wanting to hesitate�
�“is well under control. Everything is satisfactory. Our target, by the way, has been most cooperative.”
The old man, now on the periphery of the Moscow oligarchy, was one of the few original Bolsheviks to survive Stalin. He was pleased. “Good. Good.”
“And surveillance of the other Americans continues to turn up the most interesting information.”
“Really?” This type of affair was Kutofkin's favorite and he could not conceal his curiosity. “Such as…something for immediate use?” He looked forward to his conversations with Mayakovsky.
“Perhaps. You can expect an updated report soon,” said the Colonel with professional conciseness. “And may I inquire as to the status of things in the capital?”
“Everything's set here in Moscow. Nothing has changed in the least since you were here. In fact, there is even more impatience to see this affair successfully executed and Comrade Miller in prison. For a long stay. As you know, this whole business has been of great concern. You have full backing, though; you needn't worry about that. Therefore, if you should be in need, do not hesitate.”
“My thanks, but you have already seen to everything.”
“Well, then…” Kutofkin broke into a cough. “Naturally this means so much to so many people, not to mention the distraught families of the men the American government has—how shall I put it?—kidnapped. We have great confidence in you, however. All of us here in Moscow are most pleased with the typical authority and efficiency with which you are handling this matter. Indeed, your outstanding service to the Soviet state has been recently noted.”
Mayakovsky could not restrain his pleasure. “My gratitude, comrade.”
“I just wanted to check personally. I will report that all is in competent hands. Please contact me should you require anything further.” Again the elderly Kutoíkin coughed painfully. “I say…” He pulled the receiver away until the consuming fit had passed. “Excuse me. A cold of sorts. Now, as I was saying. This whole business. They want to put our men on trial. Cheap. Very cheap. The poor Americans… they change leaders so often and this new president is just a farm boy from the South. Rather naïve. He just doesn't know how these matters are handled. Why, just last spring we apprehended one of their CIA people right here in Moscow. I personally saw to it that she was on the first flight out of the country. But we shall teach them a new lesson, don't you agree? They've got two of ours, we have one of theirs, but soon…” The old man laughed.
“Let me assure you that we will deliver nothing short of a full and satisfying success.” Mayakovsky tensed, his hand wrapping tightly around the receiver.
“Very good, Colonel. Get on with it.” The line clicked dead. The dial tone blared into Mayakovsky’ s ear for several moments before he took the phone from his ear and then dropped it into its cradle.
Yes, he thought. They have two of ours and we have only one unimportant American businessman. For now, anyway. And with Olga's help, though he would not inform her of her new role, success was imminent.
XVII
The yellow Icarus bus was packed. Each and every seat was filled, and the passengers in the aisle were crammed chest against shoulder, shoulder against face, face against back. There was no space to even raise one's arm or, for that matter, to lower it; one staunch woman had dropped her purse, felt it sliding down her leg, but could not reach it. Those standing counted on the sheer pressure of the people around them to keep them from toppling over as the loaded bus zoomed along Kirov Street.
A man much shorter than Olga said, “Pass this up.” Olga took the four kopeks for the purchase of a ticket, inched her upright hand forward, repeated the phrase, and the person smashed against her similarly took the money. A few minutes later a soiled ticket of flimsy paper was passed back, followed by another, then another. The tickets went unclaimed, however, and continued circulating until an old man yelled that they were just passing the same two around and around.
The air aboard the bus was thick with the coarse odor of Russian papirosi cigarettes and the sweet, pungent smell of Red Moscow perfume. The windows were steamy and Olga struggled to see out. They were just passing the Dneipro Hotel, and she could barely make out a group of foreign tourists casually getting into their specially appointed tour bus. Although she had hoped to catch a glimpse of Nick, she did not spot any of the exhibit guides.
The bus barreled past Komsomol Square because it could take on no more passengers; the cries of those who missed their stop went unheeded. Suddenly the bus shot off the square and over the crest of a hill. An excited and unorchestrated clamor arose from the otherwise silent passengers as they felt their dinners heave in their stomachs. Some young people laughed. A few others charged the driver with hooliganism. Yet the driver failed to slow the vehicle and it sped down the steeply inclined road that led into the lower town, Podol, along the very banks of the Dneiper.
Olga squeezed off the bus at the first stop in Podol, Krasnaya Square, in front of the old Kontraktovy House. Hesitating, she dreaded where she was going, what she had to do. Filled with remorse, she could not think of anything else. If only she hadn't panicked when she had seen Miller. Then Aunt Elizaveta wouldn't have had to be involved.
Wearing her light gray sweater and cotton dress, Olga walked along, her head hung in sadness. Barely paying any attention to her surroundings, she crossed through Podol's decrepit and historical neighborhoods, which were among Kiev's oldest. Lost in thought, she passed two- and three-story eighteenth and nineteenth-century buildings with peeling yellow plaster and baroque detail in severe disrepair; there were remnants of cornices, decapitated cherubs, and walls permanently stained with grime. In a secluded corner of Podol she passed the walls of Kiev's last nunnery where the women in the heavy black habits, forbidden to teach or recruit, were one by one dying away.
She recalled his face—that angular face with the small mouth, green eyes, and light brown hair—so receptive and charming, so open and happy, when she had seen him at Saint Vladimir's. He had cried, “Olga!” not with malice, but with joy. And how had she responded? With fright.
It had all been in vain, too. In spite of her desperate efforts, the incident resulted in exactly what Olga was trying to prevent: Elizaveta's involvement. She had heard Nick call out her name, been paralyzed with stupor, and then, assuming that he had been followed, had run.
She feared the group assigned to follow Miller. Mayakovsky had called them off whenever she had met with Nick, but she was positive they had tailed him that night. Rotating and using radio-equipped taxis, they had surely followed him into the cathedral. The instant Olga had seen Nick, she knew that somewhere in the church at least one of them was watching and noting with whom the American was making contact.
No, Olga was not afraid for herself. She had no reason to be. It made no difference if they had seen her speaking with Nick. They were not aware of her part in the operation, but Mayakovsky would have taken care of that. In fact, he probably would have reprimanded them for potentially fouling the entire scheme.
Instead it was Olga who had placed everything in jeopardy. She had fled, fearing a link—even the slightest—that could be used to trace the documents from Nick to Olga and from Olga to Elizaveta, their source. When the papers were planted on Miller, Olga wanted absolutely no trace of their origin. She had to protect Elizaveta. She owed her no less.
Olga left the main road and paused at the base of the dirt path. Above, perched on the hillside separating Podol from the main part of Kiev, was Elizaveta's ancient two-room house. Unpainted and bearing traditional decorative woodwork along its eaves and around its windows, the house was, like Elizaveta, from a different century. Olga started up the path.
Mayakovsky was well acquainted with the documents. The plan to involve Miller was, after all, his idea. Recognizing their historical significance and potential impact when he had learned of the papers two years earlier, Mayakovsky had advised against action until the perfect time.
“They're not hurting anything down
there in your aunt's catacomb,” he had said in his typical authoritative manner. “We could bring them out now. But why? They're safe down there—that's where they survived the Nazi occupation. The old woman's not going to do anything with them, anyway. No. It is wiser to wait for that special moment when we can exploit them for their fullest effect. Those documents—those telegrams—are very significant and we could gain a great deal by exposing them… at the proper time.”
That time came after the two Soviet agents were imprisoned in Connecticut and after the American businessman was arrested in Moscow. When the Kremlin decided that their next target would be one of the American exhibit guides, Mayakovsky was convinced.
“Now!” he proclaimed, pacing back and forth with enthusiasm. “Now is the time.”
Olga consented, having come to the conclusion that it was safest for Elizaveta, once and for all, to be rid of the documents. Olga realized, too, that her own direct involvement would further assure that no harm would come to the old woman. Her only stipulation for obtaining the documents from her aunt and placing them on Miller had been that Elizaveta in no way be implicated.
“Olga Mixhailovna,” Mayakovsky had condescendingly said. “Just so long as you are able to get the telegrams from your aunt, I don't care what you tell her or what she knows. She'll be left in peace. Besides, what good would it do to involve an old woman in this? It would only complicate things. Another factor to deal with. No, I agree with you. Let's just carry on as if she never existed.”
Short of breath, Olga arrived at the house. The unpainted exterior walls were gray and splintered with age, while the intricate carving around the windows, looking like wooden lacework, was a faint, faded white. Olga knocked on the cracked door and worn wood tore into her knuckles.
The Cross and The Sickle Page 15
