Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  Is it a routine question? Or does her unnerving tone mean she already knows the answer? If she does, if it’s a setup and I’m caught giving false information, new government or no, it might forever disqualify me. If she doesn’t, I’d be a fool to admit I’m between apartments and don’t have an address. Along with my ethnic background, it’s the sort of technicality the KGB would’ve used in the past to turn my life into a nightmare; and I’ve no doubt it’s the sort of thing this brain-dead apparatchik would use now to turn me down. I steel myself, and, as offhandedly as possible, reply, “Of course it’s current.”

  She thinks it over for a moment, making me squirm, then nods matter-of-factly and begins typing. After filling in the blanks, she affixes my photograph, and embosses it with the government seal. Each step is done with painstaking deliberation intended to make the process take as long as possible. Finally, she folds the booklet in half and hands it to me with an insipid smirk.

  I can’t believe my eyes. Instead of the Russian tricolor, the ruby-red cover is imprinted in gold with the Hammer and Sickle. The letters CCCP parade above it, and Union of Soviet Socialist Republics below. “Hey, haven’t you people heard? We’re neither Soviet nor socialist anymore.”

  “That’s nothing to be proud of,” the passport officer snaps, making me glad I lied. “We’re issuing these until the new government decides on a new coat of arms. If they wait much longer, they might not have to change it.” She snorts at her own joke and holds out a hand. “I’d be happy to take it back.”

  I force a smile and resist the temptation to say “Eat your heart out, comrade,” then head for the United States Embassy. It’s only a few stops on the Metro. To my relief, the immigration officer has the letter Scotto sent him and agrees to expedite my visa. I pick it up at the end of the day along with my passport and a copy of the letter. The next evening Yuri drives me, my briefcase, typewriter, and several pieces of luggage to Sheremetyevo Airport twenty-five miles northwest of downtown Moscow. I suspect his generosity has much to do with finally getting me out of that tiny apartment as saying bon voyage.

  Just after midnight, Aeroflot SU-317 takes off in a raging snowstorm and soars high above the clouds, taking my spirits with it. I’ve left the thugs in trench coats and Ray-Bans behind. I’m no longer lonely, homeless, and unemployed. I’m unleashed, unencumbered. For the first time in my life, I feel free.

  The jetliner heads due west, crossing the Baltics, the southern tip of Sweden, and the North Sea to Great Britain and a brief stopover in Shannon, Ireland; then it continues on over the stormy North Atlantic to the United States. Eighty-four-hundred miles and fifteen hours after takeoff, the wide-bodied IL-62 descends over the Virginia countryside, where the graceful sweep of plowed roads slices through fresh snow.

  Snow? I press my face to the window in disbelief. Yes. Snow, as far as I can see. Not only doesn’t winter wait, but regardless of the season it seems to follow wherever I go. So much for the cherry blossoms I’ve heard so much about. A short time later, the intercom crackles and the pilot explains that a freak cold front pushed down from Canada over the weekend, turning April showers into wet snow.

  Cool morning light streams into the cabin as the plane banks, and the intersecting runways of Dulles International appear off the left wing. My guidebook says it was named for John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State during the 1950s. It fails to note that his policies fueled the Cold War and led to America’s disastrous involvement in Vietnam. I recall how his Soviet counterpart, equally responsible for instigating those decades of tension and distrust, and our disastrous involvement in Afghanistan, was held in similar esteem.

  Snowflakes stick to the windows as the Ilyushin touches down and taxis to the terminal. I’m coming off the boarding ramp, numbed by the long flight, when the public address system comes to life. “Will arriving passenger Nikolai Katkov please proceed to inspection station number six?” a soothing female voice requests in Russian. “Arriving passenger Katkov to station six, please?”

  I enter the brightly illuminated terminal, where a sign proclaims UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF IMMIGRATION AND NATURALIZATION. Another prohibits smoking. Long lines of weary passengers snake from stations one through five; but not from six. No, six is roped off and unused. A uniformed officer stands behind the counter. Is he waiting for me? Is it possible I’m getting VIP treatment? I can’t believe it, but it sure looks like Scotto has pulled out all the stops.

  “Mr. Katkov?” the stocky fellow prompts with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Untied States.”

  “Thank you. It’s my first visit.”

  “Yes, we know. We just have a few questions.” He examines my passport and visa, then raises his eyes. “You’re a free-lance journalist?”

  “Yes,” I reply jauntily, getting my second wind. “I’m working on a story.”

  “I see; but you don’t have a job, per se?”

  Something in his tone makes me uneasy. “I don’t work for one newspaper, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What about your address in Moscow? Can you tell me about that?”

  My gut tightens. I’ve good reason to be uneasy now. “Precisely what do you want to know?”

  “Our embassy did a routine check. It seems the address in your passport isn’t current. As a matter of fact, they were informed the building was recently vacated and is being demolished. Is that accurate?”

  “Yes, well, you see, that address was copied from my identity card. I can’t get a new one until I have a new address; but I won’t have a new address until I return to Moscow and find a new apartment. I believe it’s what you Americans call a catch-something-or-other.”

  “Twenty-two,” he says, unmoved. He lifts the phone and dials an extension. “Mac? Cosgrove here. . . . On this Katkov thing? You were right. We’re going to need a secondary . . . no, actually he sounds a little like an Englishman. . . . Uh-huh. On our way.”

  Cosgrove directs me down a corridor and into an office where a stern-looking fellow in trifocals sits behind a desk. A nameplate identifies him as W. T. MACALISTER. A gold badge is pinned to his white military-style shirt. Impressive insignia perch on the epaulets. He takes my passport and visa from his colleague, who leaves the office with the ticket stubs for my bags.

  “So,” MacAlister says. “You’re a journalist?”

  “Yes. The immigration officer at your embassy said there shouldn’t be any problem as long as I had this.” I slip Agent Scotto’s letter from my briefcase.

  “Treasury Department.” His lips purse thoughtfully as he reads. “You realize this letter isn’t on official stationary, Mr. Katkov?”

  “Of course, it’s a copy. Your embassy retained the original. Agent Scotto’s meeting me here. She’ll authenticate it for you.”

  He nods, then lifts the phone, and asks that Scotto be paged. “You see, Mr. Katkov,” he says in a patronizing tone, “the average person thinks a visa gives them permission to enter the country. It doesn’t. It merely entitles them to request it on arrival.”

  “Is there some reason why it shouldn’t be granted in my case?”

  “Possibly.” He folds the letter and returns it. “Your profile suggests you might be here to find work—illegal work—and it’s my job to make that determination.”

  “Illegal work? I don’t understand. I told you I’m already working on a story.”

  The phone rings. “MacAlister.” He listens, grunts, hangs up, and, as if rendering a guilty verdict, announces, “Agent Scotto didn’t respond to the page.”

  “Well, you saw her letter, you—”

  “A copy of her letter,” he corrects sharply. “Put yourself in our shoes. You’re single; you have no family in Moscow; no residence—in other words, little incentive to return. How do we know that you—”

  “I have a round-trip ticket!” I interrupt, losing my patience.

  “You’ll be using it sooner than you think, with that attitude. How do we know that you won’t work for American publication
s?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Mr. Katkov, if I had a dollar for every person who swore they weren’t going to work illegally and did, I’d be in Florida working on my short game.”

  “Your what?”

  “Golf. Nicklaus? Trevino? Forget it. The point is, before we can allow you to enter the United States, we need assurances you won’t become a burden to the American taxpayer.”

  “I’ve never been a burden to anyone, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “Good, I’ll keep that in mind. By the way, I meant to compliment you on your English. Unfortunately, it’s another thing that’s working against you.”

  “Against me?”

  “Exactly. You’d have no trouble making contacts; no fear of being suspected of doing business illegally. I venture to say the Post would welcome you with open arms, regardless.”

  I’m about to lose my temper when Cosgrove returns and takes his boss aside. After several tight-lipped nods, MacAlister says, “Good news, Mr. Katkov, your luggage is clean. Now, would you empty your briefcase, please?”

  I stare at him sullenly, then decide the better of challenging him and do as he asks.

  MacAlister sorts through the items methodically, pausing at Vorontsov’s documents. His brows rise with suspicion. “What are these, Mr. Katkov?”

  “Material for my story. Why?”

  “Well, they look like originals to me. Stamped ‘received’—by your Interior Ministry, I believe.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Care to tell us how you happened to get your hands on them?”

  “I have sources like any journalist.”

  “Sources?” he echoes suspiciously. His eyes shift to Cosgrove’s. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Time to get the FBI into this.”

  MacAlister nods ominously.

  The FBI? The fucking FBI?! The nightmare is happening, but the monsters aren’t mean-spirited clerks at the Foreign Ministry, or KGB interrogators. No, they’re from the U.S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization. “You’re making this into something it’s not,” I protest vehemently. “Call Agent Scotto’s office. I’m sure they’ll be able to—”

  The phone rings. MacAlister is scooping it up when someone knocks on the door. “Thanks for the warning. She’s already here.”

  Girdled in a leather sash and gun belt, from which a sidearm hangs, festooned with decorations, hair tucked up into an officer’s cap, a zaftig woman in a navy blue uniform that’s frighteningly akin to KGB issue blows into the office.

  “Scotto, Treasury,” she says, showing her official ID to the two officers. “Sorry I’m late, Katkov. We got a break in a case. I’ve been going round the clock the last couple of days.” She shifts her look back to the officers. “I’m real tired and way behind schedule. Can we get this cleared up?”

  “Well, that depends on—”

  “Good. I knew you guys’d understand.”

  Minutes later Scotto and I are marching across an airport parking lot with a baggage handler who’s pushing a cart loaded with my things.

  “Well, you really got off on the right foot, didn’t you, Katkov?”

  “I’m afraid they’re the ones out of step.”

  “Sure. This sort of thing’d never happen back in the good ol’ USSR.”

  “There’s no such place.”

  “Come on Katkov, don’t be naive. You know what they say about roses and leopards.”

  “You don’t really believe that?”

  She grins, leads the way to a salt-spattered sedan with two antennas, and opens the trunk. It’s loaded with cardboard boxes. One contains food: cookies, popcorn, potato chips, canned goods, a bottle of vodka, cartons of cigarettes. Another overflows with clothes: jeans, sweat shirts, socks, running shoes, a dark blue windbreaker with TREASURY AGENT printed across the back, and what look like wigs. A third holds equipment: a flashlight, binoculars, tools, softball and glove, Frisbee, a small TV set. Stuffed between the boxes are a sleeping bag, pillow, blankets, an umbrella, a shovel, a bag of rock salt, and skid chains. Scotto shoves the boxes around to make room, then gives up and slams the trunk closed. We load my things into the backseat and drive off, wipers chattering across the icy windshield.

  “You do a lot of camping?”

  “Camping? I’m from Brooklyn. I hate camping.”

  “Then what? Your husband threw you out when you separated?”

  “No. As a matter of fact he generously offered to bunk with a buddy for a while.”

  “Ah, you’re one of those eccentrics who live out of their cars.”

  “Sometimes,” she replies enigmatically. “We go way back. Eighty-one Buick Skylark. The good old days when cars had trunks. You bring the documents?”

  “Was Stalin a butcher?” I indicate my briefcase.

  “Good. I want to go through them as soon as we get back to my office, but I’ve got some business to take care of first. You’ll have to tag along.”

  “That’s why I’m here. What kind of business? You wouldn’t be making—what do you call them—a bust, would you?”

  “A bust?” she repeats derisively. “What the hell would make you think that?”

  “Well, you said you had a break in a case; and that’s not exactly a cocktail dress you’re wearing.”

  She groans. “First, we call them takedowns, not busts. Second, FinCEN doesn’t make them per se. We support other law enforcement agencies with data and analysis. Third, I haven’t worn this zoot suit in years, and I hope I never wear it again. Fourth, it’s the last thing I’d ever wear to a takedown.”

  “You have special combat gear for that?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, if you don’t wear that zoot suit to busts, what do you wear it for?”

  “Funerals,” she replies glumly. “The break in that case had a high price tag.”

  21

  Special Agent Scotto drives like a Moscow cab driver. Despite snow and rush-hour traffic, she speeds, tailgates, and cuts off other vehicles with abandon.

  “Hey, hey, easy does it,” I finally protest, losing my bravado to one near-miss too many. “They’ll be burying us too.”

  “Not a chance,” she says, turning off the highway into a tree-lined approach road. “You have to serve in the military to be buried at Arlington.”

  “Arlington—your President Kennedy is there, isn’t he?”

  She nods solemnly. “One of your heroes, huh?”

  “Well, not quite in the same league as Lincoln or Peter the Great, but his speeches were rather inspiring.”

  “Yeah, to every woman he met. Ask not what your president can do for you, ask what you can do for your president.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Those are some of my favorite lines—I mean as originally written.”

  “Mine too, actually. My family hated his guts—the Hoffa thing, I guess—but you’re right, he had something special. I’m sorry to say he’s about to be joined by Agent Edwin Woodruff—lovely wife, three great kids, one of the most decent people and dedicated cops I’ve ever known.” She smiles, reflecting, then adds, “Played a hell of a second base too.”

  Iron gates hung from massive stone pillars flank the entrance to the cemetery. A marine sentry in dress blues glances at Scotto’s ID and waves us on. The road winds through groves of bare trees that reach skyward in prayer. Beneath them, thousands of headstones march with military precision over white-blanketed hillsides.

  Scotto parks behind a line of cars. She gets out without a word and walks swiftly to a hearse, joining a group of uniformed pallbearers. On a signal from the minister, they remove the coffin and carry it at a solemn pace toward the gravesite where mourners wait.

  Agent Woodruffs family emerges from a limousine and follows. They’re African-American. The possibility never occurred to me. There are few blacks in Russia. Mostly students and diplomats. Certainly none on Moscow’s militia. They stand with heads bowed as the
honor guard sets the coffin on a platform adjacent to the grave.

  I remain in the car. Snow soon covers the windshield. I can’t write about what I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel. There’s a hallowed silence here, and the click of the door latch carries like a gunshot. I make my way past a TV reporter whispering grimly into his microphone, until I’m close enough to see the widow’s saddened eyes and hear the minister’s words.

  I’ve been in America for barely an hour, and I’m attending a funeral. It’s strangely disorienting. Indeed, my body is here, but my mind still isn’t. It’s drifting to the past, to another wintry day, to another cemetery and a weathered tombstone that proclaims KATKOV. The wail of a bugle pulls me out of my reverie.

  Woodruff’s widow is holding her head high with defiance and pride now. When the service ends, she and Scotto hug like grieving sisters. Their pain seems nearly equal in intensity. The mourners quickly take their leave, sent to their cars by the numbing cold. Scotto drives in silence, eyes welling with tears that I can’t ignore.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No. It’s not fair.”

  I let it go for a moment and light a cigarette. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Sometimes it helps.”

  “It won’t bring him back.” She takes a hand from the wheel and pulls it across her eyes. “I still can’t believe it. Two tours in Vietnam, he gets blown away by a fourteen-year-old in a junkyard in St. Louis.”

  “A fourteen-year-old,” I echo incredulously.

  “With an assault rifle. They’re putting metal detectors in grade schools, for God’s sake. Witnesses said Woody had his gun drawn, but held his fire, just for an instant, just long enough . . . damn . . .”

  “Rather hard to kill a child.”

  “It’s rather hard to kill anybody, Katkov,” Scotto snaps, braking hard for a traffic light. The car skids slightly. She bounces a fist off the steering wheel, then sighs remorsefully. “I’m sorry. You’re right; and I probably would’ve done the same thing.”