The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  Disconcertingly, the chairs around the table have cushions upholstered not in, say, silk damask, but in green vinyl. They had been re-covered during the reign of Brezhnev, who was opposed to anything either too regal or—because he disliked long meetings—too comfortable. But no one wanted to return to the chaotic, arbitrary days of Khrushchev, when Politburo meetings might be called in the Kremlin dining room, or even around some vodka bottles at his dacha.

  Contrary to much that has been written, there exist no full transcripts of Politburo meetings. This is a custom that goes back to Lenin’s time—as is the day on which the Politburo invariably meets, Thursday, and the hour, almost always three o’clock in the afternoon. The minutes reflect only what has been decided, which resolutions made, and copies of these resolutions are sent to all Central Committee members in maroon envelopes. Of course, the top-secret resolutions do not circulate.

  Soon the Politburo would be entirely phased out, its chief governing duties transferred to a similar, non-Party body known as the Presidential Council. There were those in Moscow who wondered whether members of the present Politburo would sit idly by and watch their power ebb.

  The business on the agenda of this particular Politburo meeting was what is known among its members as “yellow-priority,” a designation just short of emergency.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 93

  The first to break the silence was one of Gorbachev’s alHes, An-atoly Lukyanov, chief of the Central Committee’s General Department. He was to Gorbachev what a White House chief of staff is to an American president.

  “If I may suggest something,” Lukyanov said, “I think the problem lies with security.” He did not have to elaborate; he turned to look at Andrei Dmitrovich Pavlichenko, the head of the KGB, who sat several places away. “It is almost unthinkable to me that a KGB chairman who’s doing his job properly wouldn’t know of an underground network of criminals with the resources to accomplish such a thing. For there must be a network.”

  Everyone present understood the import of Lukyanov’s charge. Such things had never happened under Yuri Andropov, the head of the KGB throughout the 1960s. Even Pavlichenko’s predecessor, Vladimir A. Kryuchkov, had been more vigilant. Terrorism was virtually unheard of in Moscow—and within the Kremlin walls? Unfathomable.

  Pavlichenko was, Gorbachev knew, probably the brightest man in the room—but he was far easier to control than his predecessors at KGB, largely because he owed his position and his allegiance entirely to Gorbachev. He was also known to have suffered recent heart trouble, which meant that he was even less of a threat to his colleagues. One could not ignore such human frailties; they had their uses.

  To everyone’s surprise, Pavlichenko’s reply was temperate, not at all defensive. “It is, indeed, unthinkable,” he said evenly. “This has been an embarrassment both to me and to my people.” He shrugged and spread his hands, seemingly casual, but tension creased his face. “Ultimately, it is my responsibility, as you all know.”

  “Perhaps you could use a medical leave.” The suggestion, put icily, came from Eduard A. Shevardnadze, the foreign minister, a vociferous Gorbachev supporter.

  Pavlichenko paused, visibly restraining a less temperate response. He gave a polite smile. Sometimes he thought that every Politburo meeting was like entering the lions’ den. “No,” he said. “The moment my health begins to interfere with the performance of my job, I’ll resign at once. You can be assured of that. We are digging very deep.

  94 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  questioning widely, making whatever arrests are appropriate.” Pavli-chenko was now addressing not only the President but the entire conference table. “And I shall not rest until we are all satisfied.”

  The KGB chairman knew, as did everyone else in the room, that in a very real sense Gorbachev owed his political survival to KGB. Wouldn’t, in fact, be here without KGB. A lot of people who didn’t think much of KGB called it Gorbachev’s Faustian bargain. But it was true: Gorbachev would have been long gone without either KGB or the army behind him, and the army boys felt queasy about the man, who made no secret of his intention to slash military spending. But the people at KGB, infinitely more cosmopolitan than their military comrades, saw the sense in Gorbachev’s plan, saw that he wasn’t weakening Russia but (in the long run, anyway) strengthening it, and so they stood behind him throughout the turmoil.

  Pavlichenko did not have to vocalize what was on everybody’s mind: the delicate negotiations that were about to bring the President of the United States to Moscow for a summit meeting might easily be wrecked by the bomb in the Kremlin Armory—the President could easily, and justifiably, cancel on the grounds of security.

  The American President was to arrive in early November to observe Revolution Day, the date of the Bolshevik Revolution. As a bit of propaganda the occasion was unmatched: it legitimated the Bolshevik Revolution, placing it, in the eyes of the West, in the same category as the French and American revolutions. No question the White House hadn’t taken the decision easily, and the President was as aware as anyone that this was an important gift to Gorbachev, more than just a simple reciprocation of Gorbachev’s previous visit to the United States.

  There was more.

  Two months earlier, the Politburo had voted to convey a private invitation to the American President: to observe, with his wife and the American secretary of state, the anniversary celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution. This was an honor the Politburo usually accorded to foreign Gommunist leaders of the highest rank. Some in the Politburo had opposed the invitation as a form of ideological pollution, but thev had nevertheless voted to extend the invitation.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 95

  And the President had accepted.

  Gorbachev now looked up. His theatrical timing was, as usual, impeccable.

  “Well, I received a communication from the President last night. He expressed his regret as well as his firm belief that we were as angered and disturbed at the death of the girl as he was. He also said he looked forward, once again, to meeting with me in Moscow on November 7. And standing with us together on Lenin’s tomb.”

  Several of Gorbachev’s supporters smiled at the cleverness with which he had played his hand. The opponents, though similarly impressed, were more reserved.

  “The question remains,” came the querulous voice of Yegor K. Ligachev, Gorbachev’s most outspoken opponent, almost shouting, “how was this incident allowed to happen? Who is behind this? Is it true— are we not fully in control? Are there elements that threaten not only the summit but our very existence?”

  “We will meet again in a few days—” Gorbachev began, but then he noticed Pavlichenko’s raised index finger. “Yes?”

  Pavlichenko spoke softly. “The President may not be fully in control of his own government.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The results of the forensic analysis of the bomb were brought to me this morning,” the KGB chairman continued gravely. “The bomb was no Molotov cocktail. It was not dynamite. It was a C-4 plastique explosive.” He paused for emphasis. “This particular type of plastique is manufactured only in the United States.”

  The faces of the men around the table were visibly shocked. There was a long, electric silence.

  The President finally raised his eyes from his legal pad. “This meeting is sealed, ” he said, meaning that not even closest aides were to be informed of what had just been discussed in the room. Yes, he thought, something is going on. He shook his head slowly; his instincts rarely failed him. Something ominous. He passed a handkerchief over his damp forehead, and rose to call the meeting to a close.

  10

  Boston

  The hall outside Alfred Stone’s hospital room in the coronary-care unit rang with the insistent, irregular beeps of a dozen cardiac monitors, all at different pitches: a discordant, jangled electronic chorus. His room was small and bare, furnished with an intravenous stand, a beige telephone, a television mounted high on the wall o
pposite his bed, and, directly above the bed, a monitor on which a jagged green line traced his heartbeat across the screen. The ledge beside the plate-glass window was bare as well; it was too soon for it to be cluttered with flowers. The customary hospital smells wafted through the corridors, the vague odors of tomato soup and rubbing alcohol.

  Alfred lay asleep on the bed, under a light-blue blanket. He seemed to have aged twent- years: his face was drawn and chalky-white. A clear plastic tube ran from a tank behind him to his nose and up around his ear, carrying humidified oxygen. Three wires, affixed to his chest, were connected to the monitor.

  “Your father awoke from a nap yesterday afternoon with heartburn and a crushing pain in his chest,” the nurse explained wearily. She was tall and mannish, somewhere in her fifties, her gray-flecked black hair pulled back into a bun so tight Stone wondered whether it hurt. “He wisely called an ambulance. In the emergency room they determined he’d had a mild heart attack.”

  “How soon will he be well enough to go home?” Stone asked. “Tomorrow?”

  “I should say not.” She tugged at some loose skin at her jawline. “A few davs here at the verv least. He’s been admitted for what we call a rule-out MI. That means we’ll be following his blood chemistries, seeing if there are any changes in his EKG, monitoring his blood pressure.”

  “Is he on any medications?”

  “A beta-blocker called Inderal,” she said brusquely, as if it were none of his business. “All right? Anything else?”

  “No, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  For a long time, Charlie stared at his father. In sleep he seemed to have shed the cares of the world, his mouth slightly open, his breathing regular.

  A few minutes later, Alfred Stone woke up, looked around dis-orientedly, and smiled when he saw Charlie. “Is that you, Charlie? How was the party?” he asked. He reached over to the night table and retrieved his glasses, then slowly eased them on. “There,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Feeling any better?” Stone asked gently.

  “A little. Mostly just weak now.”

  “It’s a scary thing to go through.” Stone looked at his father penetratingly, wondering what sort of terrible stress could bring on a heart attack all of a sudden.

  “The party … ?” Alfred Stone began.

  “Uneventful.”

  “Winthrop,” the elder Stone said, smiling wanly. “That old generous bastard.”

  Generous! Stone thought. If you knew … But he said only: “He sends his regards.” There was now no question in his mind that Alfred Stone knew far more about this Lenin document than he was saying.

  “Can you ask the Hovanians to take care of Peary? They’ve done it before. They like him.”

  “Everyone likes him. Anything I can get you—books, magazines, anything like that?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. One of the nurses, that big English one, gave me People magazine. Have you ever seen it? What a fascinating magazine.”

  “I read it every week in line at the supermarket.”

  “Listen, Charlie,” Alfred Stone said, and halted.

  “Yes?”

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  “Well, I hope you didn’t ask Winthrop about—about that matter you mentioned to me.”

  Stone didn’t know how to reply. He had rarely had to lie to his father. The most important thing now was not to upset him. “I didn’t ask him,” he said at last.

  “You know, you really took me by surprise. I suppose you could tell.”

  Stone nodded.

  “I had heard of it. You know, they asked me about it at the hearings.”

  Stone, reluctant to press him, nodded again.

  “That trip to Russia I took. The one that got me in all that trouble. I’ve always told you I was on official business, a fact-finding mission, a visit to our embassy in Moscow.”

  “There was another reason?”

  “A favor to Winthrop. Winthrop couldn’t get a visa to Russia.”

  “A favor?” Stone asked. The word sounded ominous as he spoke it.

  “He was so good to me, Winthrop. Out of hundreds of historians in the country, he selected me to serve in the White House. I could hardly refuse.”

  “What did he want you to do?”

  “He wanted me to meet with a woman. A real beauty.”

  “The woman you were photographed meeting with in the Moscow metro. And what did Lehman want you to do, exactly?”

  “Very little. Just meet with her, on the sly, and give her a document he had concealed in a framed photograph of himself. What I mean is, he said it was a photograph, but I’m sure there was something concealed in the frame—why else would he bother? I assumed he wanted to smuggle a message to this woman, and he was unwilling to use the diplomatic pouch, which would mean relying on an American intelligence agent as a conduit. I didn’t think I’d be followed to the rendezvous. “

  “Do ou think she was a Soviet agent of some sort?”

  His father frowned. “No, she wasn’t.”

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 99

  “How do you know?”

  Alfred Stone stared for a long time at the television screen, which was dark. “At first I thought she was a sweetheart of Lehman’s. I thought he was helping her to get out of the country.”

  “But now—?”

  He shrugged. “You know, Stalin died on March 5, 1953. Maybe a week before that, Winthrop asked me to go. Three days after Stalin’s death, I arrived in Moscow.”

  “You think the document was connected in some way with Stalin’s death?”

  “In some way, yes. I’m convinced of it,” Alfred Stone said, almost whispering. “But still—I didn’t want Winthrop to be linked to it.”

  “You took the Fifth to protect Lehman.”

  “He said he’d do what he could to get me the lightest possible sentence.”

  “But you took the fall for him.”

  Alfred Stone looked around the room helplessly. “I couldn’t betray his trust.” The beeps from the cardiac monitor were coming more quickly now.

  Stone felt as if he would burst, wanting to shout. Do you know how he betrayed you?

  “I often wish I’d married again,” Alfred Stone said. “Margaret died so young. When you were so young.”

  Charlie examined the beige-tiled floor for a few moments, not knowing how to reply, hearing the beeps slow down; and in several minutes, his father had fallen asleep.

  For ten minutes, he sat there, thinking, trying to understand why his father had accepted Lehman’s betrayal, wondering how much of the truth Alfred Stone knew.

  There was a noise at the door: a doctor examining the vital-signs sheet on the door. He was a pudgy, balding young man in a rumpled shirt and tie, carr'ing a clipboard.

  “Are you Mr. Stone’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Kass. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

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  “Sure.”

  “Do you have any history of heart disease in your family? Do you know how your father’s parents died?”

  “I think his father died after a stroke.”

  “Is he taking any medications?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Has he been under any stress lately?”

  He’s been under stress for fort' years, Stone wanted to reply. “Yes, I think he has.”

  The phsician strode briskly over to the bed, touched Alfred Stone’s shoulder, and said, “Sorr' to wake you. Professor. How are you feeling?”

  “Sleepy, if you really want to know,” Alfred Stone said.

  “Let me just take a listen to the old ticker,” Dr. Kass said, drawing back the blanket and placing a stethoscope on Alfred Stone’s chest. After a minute, he said, “Sounds okay. Sounds okay.”

  “Probably sounds better than it feels,” Alfred Stone said. He looked oer to where Charlie was sitting and gave a wr- smile. “As soon as ou go to sleep, they wake you up. They hae an instin
ct for it.”

  A few minutes later, he was fast asleep again. Charlie watched the traffic go by silently, twelve flights below. Quietly, he put his arms into the sleeves of his coat, preparing to leave, but changed his mind. He sat for a long while.

  His father’s eyes fluttered open. “You’re still here, Charlie?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “I am.”

  11

  Moscow. Lefortovo Prison

  All of the lurid and sexy passages had been torn out of the library’s books by the inmates, even the stodgiest nineteenth-century love scenes. The prisoners were starved for sex; it was all they thought or talked about, and sometimes at night they would have what they called “seances,” when one inmate would read these passages aloud to his cellmates. Or else one of them would recall, embellishing the details as he went along, a racy sexual encounter he had once had. Once, in one cell, they had even put up a photograph of Angela Davis to masturbate by.

  In the KGB’s Lefortovo Prison, where the porridge reminded you of burnt mucus, you thought about sex a good deal. Yet, if one were particularly inclined to read—and the conditions gave one a lot of time to do so—the library was excellent, and an inmate could get as many as five books a week, everything from Faulkner to Dickens to Lermontov to Gogol.

  Stefan Yakovich Kramer, a twenty-six-year-old ambulance worker, had been in Lefortovo Prison, in central Moscow, for almost four months. He had not been tried yet, but he had been charged with violation of Article 70 of the Criminal Gode—anti-Soviet agitation. That meant he had assembled with a crowd of other Jews in front of the OVIR office, which controlled emigration, to protest that they and their relatives and friends weren’t being allowed out of the country.