Sergei sat on the same chair he had occupied the previous night. Baba Krista was behind the stove, stirring potatoes in a skillet. She smiled at Katherine and went back to work. Sergei surveyed her appearance, and his eyes glowed with approval.
“Good day,” he said in Russian.
“Day? What time is it?”
“Two-thirty.”
Katherine pulled at the hem of her dress. “Thanks for the clothes.”
“They’re my wife’s.”
Katherine sat down beside Sergei and whispered, “We need to talk.”
“Later.”
Baba Krista served the food. Katherine devoured it so ravenously that afterward, she felt obliged to apologize.
Sergei shrugged and nodded at Baba. “She approves.”
Katherine sipped politely at a cup of Russian coffee, an espressolike drink with the grounds still muddy in the bottom. Sergei drank vodka — after splashing several drops on the snow. Katherine asked about that.
“First drop to the snow god,” he said.
They finished and put on coats and went outside. They strolled along a grass-and-mud tractor path that was, Katherine quickly realized, Ivanovka’s main street. Katherine listened as Sergei told her about the village.
Ivanovka was an ancient Russian settlement that Sergei assured her could be found on sixteenth-century maps. For centuries, the village’s population had hovered around two hundred. At present, it was eleven. Its trouble began with the formation of the collective farm, White Dacha, two miles away. That was 1937, the year the communists came to Ivanovka, twenty years after the Bolsheviks took power in Moscow.
“It took communism an extra twenty years to get to Ivanovka,” Sergei said.
It happened one sunny day in June. A so-called Revolutionary Worker’s Brigade of four men came into Ivanovka and rounded up the villagers. They shot the priest on the main street and sent the church elders off to Siberia. They left behind a revolutionary council that organized White Dacha. After that, Ivanovka’s old church was used to store manure. For years, young communists took target practice at the icons. It burned down in 1964. Meanwhile, everyone was expected to move to the new village, Bolshevichka. Gradually, they did. In 1974, Ivanovka was eliminated as a train stop. In 1978, the bus stop was torn down.
“Only the old people are left,” said Sergei.
His mother had lived in the cottage until the bus route disappeared. Then she moved to Moscow where she now shared Sergei’s one-room apartment with his wife and three daughters, an unusually large family for a Muscovite. After a long battle, Baba Krista agreed to move from Tallinn to Ivanovka, close enough that Sergei could drive up several times a week to look after her, an extravagance she considered preposterous even though every morsel of food in the cupboard was supplied by those trips.
All this information came to Katherine in the laborious process of communicating in Russian, which involved lots of hand signals and pleas to “use a different word.”
Sergei grew quiet now. They reached the edge of the field.
“You’re American, yes?” asked Sergei.
She nodded.
“I thought so,” he said.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” said Katherine. “And for bringing me here.”
Sergei nodded. After a pause, he asked, “Are you a spy?”
“No.”
Katherine waited for him to ask more, but he just stared out at the field. After a while, she realized he wasn’t going to ask.
“I need to call Moscow,” she said.
“Baba Krista doesn’t have long-distance service,” said Sergei. “There’s a private phone at the collective farm.”
They went back to the cottage, got in his taxi and drove five minutes into a small village, much like those Katherine had seen that day on the tour bus to Zagorsk. It was Bolshevichka. They stopped at a cottage. Sergei went inside. He came out a minute later waving a key.
“Do you know everybody?” Katherine asked.
“Better a hundred friends than a hundred rubles.”
They drove up a long gravel road to a single-story building, not much more than a flat-roofed barn. A sign over the door said “White Dacha Collective Farm, Headquarters.” Sergei used the key to open the door.
They were in a reception room. To Katherine’s left was a desk with an old typewriter. Across from it, pinned to the wall, was a map of White Dacha and the surrounding villages. The room was empty. Katherine shivered; it felt colder inside the building than outside. The floor creaked beneath her feet, and in the air hung the vague smell of manure.
Sergei pointed to a phone on the desk, and sat down in the corner. Katherine went around the desk. She took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Sergei gave her the long distance code for Moscow. She dialed the code, then the seven digits she had memorized back in Ithaca. The phone began to ring.
“The New York Times,” said a man on the other end in English. Katherine recognized the voice — it was Grayson Hines.
In Helsinki, Grayson had interviewed her for his story on Dr. Vladimir Ryzhkov’s suicide. A few weeks later, Katherine called Grayson from Ithaca. She had done some research on Anton in Afghanistan and was trying to find out what organizations could supply her with specific information on troop positions. She didn’t tell him why. She promised only to give him a story if anything came out of it. That was good enough for the reporter.
Hearing his voice now, she was overcome with the desire to cry: “Grayson! It’s Katherine! Help me!”
But what could he do? He would only lead the KGB to her; foreign correspondents were themselves arrested from time to time. Whatever she had to do now, she would have to do it without Hines’s help.
On the phone, Katherine deepened her voice. “Hello. I’m an American citizen and I need the phone number of the U.S. Embassy.”
“We’re not an information service.”
“I realize that.”
“One moment.”
He gave her the number. Katherine said good-bye and put her finger on the cradle. She dialed the new number. Sergei studied her from his chair, a small smile on his lips.
The new voice said, “American Embassy Moscow.”
“I’m trying to reach a man named Jack Sears, who is in Moscow,” said Katherine. “I believe he is searching for his American daughter, who has disappeared.”
“And who are you?”
“The daughter.”
“I’ll connect you with Consular.”
The phone rang to an internal extension.
“Hello.” A man’s voice.
Katherine identified herself.
“Call back on this number,” he said and gave her a new number.
She tried the new number.
A man, a different man, answered. “Is this Katherine Sears?”
“Yes.”
“Well, young lady,” he said jovially. “How nice of you to call. You have created quite a stir around here.”
“I have?”
“Oh yes. But before we get into all that, I have someone here who would like to speak with you.”
There was a pause. Then a new voice came over the line. “Kat, are you all right?”
The room got misty.
“Oh Dad! It’s so good to . . .”
Her throat tightened. The events of the last few days crashed down around her like a collapsing building. Tears streamed down her cheeks. It was the first time she had cried since her abduction. Sergei started toward her, but she held up her hand to say she was okay. After a minute, that’s what she told her father.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I . . . I can’t say. Somewhere safe.”
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought I saw you yesterday on the street.”
“I saw you, too.”
“And those men — ”
“I’m safe now,” said Katherine.
“Thank god. I came as soon as the Stat
e Department told me you were missing. We have to get you out of here.”
Katherine grinned and sniffled. “I agree. How?”
“There may be a problem with that,” he said. “I’ll let the Embassy man explain.”
The jovial voice that had answered the phone came back on. “Katherine? Yes. My name is Cameron Abbott. I’m a consular attaché. I’m very glad you called. Very glad. I’ve been to the Soviet Foreign Ministry three times already to speak directly with Deputy Foreign Minister Vsevolod Rulyov about your very case. I’m giving daily reports to the U.S. ambassador himself, by the way. The situation is very delicate, Miss Sears. Very delicate.”
“Situation?”
“Hmm. Well. The Embassy can bring you in, of course. We have ways.” He chuckled. “But, er, it may turn out that we would have to release you into Soviet custody. It seems you’re wanted by the police in connection with a murder that took place at the Moscow port on the night you disappeared.”
“Port? But I was never there.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that. Very pleased.”
Katherine suddenly remembered something: the cabin, the Tatar rushing out to intercept Sigmund.
“Is the port calledRechnoy Vokzal in Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Who was killed?”
“His name was Pavel Danilov. Apparently, he was linked to an organization — ”
“Soviet Psychiatry Watch.”
“Youare involved.”
“Yes,” Katherine sighed. “But not with the murder. The same people who killed this man tried to kill me. Twice.”
“Who tried to kill you?” asked Cameron. “You can tell me. This is a safe line.”
Katherine told him everything, leaving out only the details that could lead to Sergei and Soviet Psychiatry Watch. Her instinct now was to isolate herself. This was her folly, and she couldn’t bear the thought of others suffering for it.
“How long can you stay where you are?”
“I don’t know. I think my friend expects me to leave today.”
“That’s not a good idea,” said Cameron. “This is not a normal diplomatic matter. No. No. I wouldn’t want to risk your falling into Soviet hands right now. Not until we can straighten this thing out.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few days. Maybe a week.”
“A week! I don’t think I can do that.”
“I’m sorry. You’re in a bit of a predicament. But the gears of justice grind slowly. Very slowly. You have to give the embassy time.”
“I’ll try.”
“Maybe you should have stuck to astronomy, Dr. Sears.”
“Put my father back on,” Katherine snapped.
“Of course,” he said unfazed. “If I may say so, you’re very lucky to have your father here. I hope you’ll listen to him. He’s one of the best sovietologists in the world, you know.”
Katherine was speechless. Was the diplomat really exploiting her predicament to suck up to her father? He obviously didn’t know Jack Sears. There was nothing her father hated worse than an ass-kisser.
Cameron asked, “When will you call me back?”
Katherine put her hand over the receiver and asked Sergei when the phone was available.
“After nine o’clock every night,” he said in Russian.
Katherine relayed that to Cameron and promised to call the following evening.
Her father came back on the line.
“I don’t like this guy,” Katherine said. “Can we trust him?”
“Trustme ,” Jack said. “I know people — experts in Soviet law. We’ll get them involved. You have to understand, justice has little meaning here. But where foreigners are concerned, the Sovs like to keep up appearances. They can usually be compelled to behave according to their own laws. These Soviet legal experts — they’ll know what buttons to push. And if that doesn’t work, I can get Washington involved. The secretary of state owes me a favor.”
“Thank you, Dad,” said Katherine. “I feel so much better just hearing your voice.”
“We’ll get you back, Kat. I don’t know how this happened, but this isn’t the time to get into all that. Just hang in there. Remember, you’re Alice now, and you’ve gone down the rabbit hole to the Soviet wonderland. You remember my sermons?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Trust no one. Not Victor Perov, and certainly not this man who is helping you now. It’s easy to mistake Russians for human beings like us just because they have fair skin and seem to want the same things we want. Don’t be fooled. These people have been dehumanized over generations. They arehomosovieticus. They would inform on their own mother for a few rubles.”
Katherine had heard these speeches all her life, and she had no doubt her father believed every word of what he said. “I’m sorry to put you through all this, Dad.”
“Forget it,” he said. “It will all be over soon.”
Katherine was beginning to have her doubts about that.
17
Victor was at his desk readingForensic Psychology when Oleg came into his office that morning. Victor didn’t see him at first; he was reading the same sentence for the sixth time.
The notion of insanity is negative in relation to sanity.
“There you are.”
Victor looked up. Oleg stood in his doorway. He wore the expression of a father about to confront a son who has flunked out of school. It was the first time Victor had seen Oleg since last Friday, the day Victor shut the office door in his face. Victor had a pretty good idea what Oleg’s long face was about.
The intervening days had passed in a torrent of activity and self-examination for Victor. Oksana and Grisha had moved back to their tiny flat in the southern Moscow suburb of Domodedovo. When Victor came home to his empty flat for the first time, he felt lost. He wandered the rooms sniffing the air for the smell of Oksana’s perfume. As the long weekend wore on, he came to realize that as much as he cared for Oksana, there had been something self-destructive about taking her into his bed. He hadn’t worked it all out yet, but he was certain he was better off in the role of Uncle Victor than as a lover and stepfather.
And then there was Katherine Sears. Strangely, Victor had fallen in love with Katherine twice. The first time was in their letters. It had been slow and idealized, the way a fan falls for a movie actress. Victor put her on a mountaintop where he could admire her but never touch her. She was safe. They were both safe. Even when he gave her Baba Raya’s ring, it was the immature act of a distant admirer, not an adult declaration of love. He cringed to think of the shallowness of his emotion. But the bell tower in Zagorsk changed all that, for there he fell in love with Katherine Sears for the second time. This time was neither slow nor theoretical — it was sudden, real and overpowering, like nothing he had ever felt before. A connection to flesh and blood. She had come down from the mountaintop and stood before him. He could smell her sweat, feel her breath, sense her fear. Such courage she had shown in coming to Moscow! It shamed him — and invigorated him, for it was from the thought of Katherine’s courage that he now drew the strength to begin his own quest to find Anton. He would finish the journey Katherine had begun.
“Good morning, Oleg,” said Victor. “I’m rather busy. I’m expecting an important call.”
Oleg ignored him. He dropped a newspaper clipping on Victor’s desk. “You read English, I believe,” he said.
Victor picked up the paper.
Rift over Science Award Widens
By Grayson Hines
Special to The New York Times
MOSCOW — The son of a high-ranking Communist party official has brokenranks to say that a Soviet defector should posthumously receive a prestigious,international award for his work in astronomy.
Victor Perov, son of Agricultural Minister Yevgenia Perova, presented a reporterFriday with eleven technical notebooks that appear to support his contention thatVladimir Ryzhkov contributed significantly to the work that led to
the award.
Haggling over the prize drove Ryzhkov to commit suicide last December inHelsinki, according to Finnish police.
Ryzhkov, a former colleague of Perov’s, embarrassed the Soviet scientific establishment last year when he defected while at a conference in Oslo. Since then,Soviet officials have played down Ryzhkov’s significance, dismissing him as a“parasite.”
Perov’s break with his country’s scientific establishment is unusual in theSoviet Union where family members of high government officials are scrupulouslyuncritical of the government line.
In December, Perov turned down the highest honor of the Hubble Foundation,saying he would not share the prize with Ryzhkov. In his speech, made in Helsinkiwith Ryzhkov present, Perov called his former colleague “a bureaucrat and afraud.”
Perov gave no explanation for his change of heart.
Perov’s theories suggest that the universe may be repeatedly re-creating andthen destroying itself in an endless series of Big Bangs and Big Crunches. GuntherRoder, president of the Hubble Foundation, has called Perov’s theory “the mostinspired example of original thinking I have seen in a decade.”
Perov is currently involved in a joint Soviet-American project with CornellUniversity to test his theories.
“So?” said Victor.
“You betrayed your comrades to the bourgeois West!” said Oleg.
The phone rang and Victor picked up. He put his hand over the receiver and said, “Excuse me, Oleg. I need to take this call.”
Oleg’s eyes bulged. “You need to . . .” He couldn’t get the words out. “We . . . need to talk!”
“Yes. But not now.”
“I could have you thrown out of here today, comrade.”
“I don’t think so,” said Victor.
“Because of your mother, I suppose.”
“What has my mother got to do with it?” asked Victor. “I am a full member of this institute. I am a member of the Communist party of the Soviet Union. I have a seat on the Academy of Sciences of the U.S.S.R. These are the reasons you can’t throw me out. These are the reasons!”
The Forbidden Zone Page 17
