The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  His hands were bleeding, his legs scraped and bruised. He struggled to his feet and loped to the stairwell door, saw from a painted number in the stairwell that he was on the sixth-floor landing, and took the steps down three and four at a time.

  The lobby was deserted, lit only by lamps from the street. His body heaving with pain and exhaustion. Stone ran toward the revolving door and out into the street.

  14

  Moscow

  When Stefan Kramer returned to the free world—if, he mused, Moscow could really be considered “free”—he found that the world had gotten even more terrible during the four months he had been in Lefortovo Prison.

  The food stores were even emptier, street crime was on the increase, people complained more bitterly than usual. He rented a room in a communal apartment with five people he barely knew, so that when he wanted a good meal he would visit his father’s apartment, where Sonya, his father’s lover—there was no other word for it; they weren’t married—would always prepare a fine dinner of chicken and potatoes and a good hot solyanka soup.

  Stefan didn’t quite know what to make of Sonya. She was in her early sixties, with a kind face that appeared to have once been beautiful. Stefan thought of her as his mother; his real mother had died when he was a child.

  There was something about Sonya—a dignity, a gravity, a gentleness—that set her apart from all the world-weary Russian women of her generation. She demanded nothing of life; she seemed to draw her oxygen only from helping others. Sometimes her timidity broke Stefan’s heart.

  Yet at times she seemed aloof, utterly private, impossibly remote. Then she would be distracted, her attention elsewhere, and she’d glance suddenly, sharply, at Stefan, as if she had no idea who he was, what she was doing here.

  At dinner one night, barely a week after Stefan’s release from

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  Lefortovo, Sonya set down a plate of soup and placed her hand over Stefan’s.

  “Your brother has been arrested,” she said, giving a sad glance at Yakov, who sat in pensive silence.

  “Avram? What for?” Stefan could hardly believe it. Avram, the quiet, diligent, law-abiding researcher at the Polio Institute did not have it in him to do anything that might get him arrested.

  For a moment, it looked as if his father’s ruined face would contort into a cry of anguish.

  “They say he wrote a letter to the Kremlin protesting their refusal to let us emigrate,” Yakov replied. “They say he wrote a viciously anti-Soviet letter.”

  “What? That’s insane. That makes no sense.”

  “I know,” his father said sadly.

  “It’s a lie,” Sonya put in quietly. “They must have set him up. It has to be a setup to keep you from emigrating.”

  “Where is he?” Stefan asked.

  Sonya looked at Yakov, who suddenly bowed his head and held a crumpled napkin to his eyes, which brimmed with tears. He was unable to speak.

  “He’s in a psikhushka,” Sonya said, putting her arms around Yakov’s shoulders. A psikhushka —a Soviet psychiatric hospital-prison, the terrible place from which few ever emerged with their minds intact. “They just put him in yesterday.”

  “I thought they weren’t putting political prisoners in those places,” Stefan said.

  “Well, they are,” his father said.

  “We’ve got to do something!” Stefan shouted suddenly.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Yakov said, looking up at his son.

  Sonya shook her head dolefully, wanting to say more, but keeping her silence.

  One day, a few weeks later, Stefan was shopping for food for his father and Sonya when, standing in an endless mineral-water line at Yeliseyevsky’s, the food shop on Tverskaya Street that since the Revolution has been known officially as Gastronom Number I, he spotted Fyodorov, looking ridiculously out of place.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 123

  “Hey, what the fuck are you doing here?” Stefan asked, clapping a hand on the mechanic’s shoulder.

  “Waiting for you, comrade,” Fyodorov responded. “Where else would a nice cultured member of the intelligentsia buy his sturgeon? Actually, I saw you going in here last week, and it wasn’t hard to figure out when you had your day off.” He looked around, subtly, as if deciding what to buy next, and then said very quietly, “I’ve been asking around about you, and I heard about your brother.”

  Everyone always knew when someone was thrown into a psi-khushka, and people never knew how to react. Should one be ashamed that a relative was a victim of the state’s oppression? Stefan was touched that his old cellmate still cared enough to keep up with his family’s misfortunes.

  “Yeah,” Stefan said simply.

  Fyodorov said more quietly still, “Those fuckers don’t stop, do they? I’m sorry to hear about it.”

  “Yeah, well …”

  “Listen, comrade: I owe you.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “You have a car?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Can you get one?”

  “I suppose so—my dad’s.”

  “Meet me tonight. I want to give you a token of my esteem.”

  The place Fyodorov had arranged to meet Stefan Yakovich Kramer was a deserted garage in the far south of Moscow that smelled of motor oil and gasoline. It was owned, Fyodorov explained, by a friend of his; Fyodorov used it to work on cars. Four months in jail hadn’t diminished Fyodorov’s enthusiasm for moonlighting.

  Fyodorov emerged from under a bashed-up Zhiguli that was up on a lift. He was covered with grease.

  “I didn’t think you’d show up. A nice cultured boy like you.”

  “Come on,” Stefan objected.

  “I told you I owe you. Well, I called in some favors. What I have for you is worth thousands and thousands of rubles on the black market,

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  but that would be only if you could get it on the black market, which you can’t. Since I don’t believe in hiding your light under a bushel, let me tell you: it cost me a lot of nights under this goddamned lift.”

  He went to the back of the garage and returned with a tattered cardboard box. At first glance, it appeared to Stefan to be filled with junk—bits of wire and metal. On closer examination, he saw what it was—all of those things he had learned about on the prison roof. Somehow he had imagined them looking different. The box was filled with blocks of plastic explosives, cartridges of dynamite, chemical pencils, a couple of remote transmitters, and blasting caps.

  ^‘Christr Stefan exclaimed into the stillness.

  “Enough for two car bombs and maybe three ordinary bombs. You’re not going to be able to level the Central Committee building or anything, but you’ll get an awful lot of attention, believe me. Now, go chop down some trees.” He was beaming with pride. “Use it in good health. Think of it as a repayment.”

  Stefan didn’t know how to reply. This was terrifying, unbelievable. The thought of his brother’s arrest enraged him. But now—faced with the hardware of terrorism, the blocks of plastique, the coils of wire— Stefan was rendered speechless, paralyzed by indecision.

  “I … I can’t,” he said.

  “A token of my appreciation,” Fyodorov said.

  “But I can’t. I mean it—I—”

  “You’re scared.”

  Stefan replied slowly: “Yes. I am.”

  “They won’t release your brother. They never do. And if by some freaky chance they do, you won’t recognize him, my friend.”

  Stefan nodded and looked around the greasy room. He was terrified someone might discover him here; he wanted to take off; yet he couldn’t bring himself to abandon such a valuable, and possibly useful, gift.

  “I’m here, friend. You know how to get in touch with me. And you will, my friend. You will.”

  15

  New York

  The pain exploded into a million shards, a million needles, a million stars. Stone pulled the alcohol-soaked gauze pad
away from the long gash on his right cheek, then switched off the medicine-cabinet light. It was garishly bright. He had been hurt more badly than he’d realized: his face and hands were cut in a dozen places, and there was a painful contusion at the back of his head.

  He would be all right, though. Even now the pain was beginning to subside. He walked slowly into his bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and examined the outside of the envelope Saul Ansbach had sent him.

  The envelope. It had been slid underneath his apartment door, waiting for him when he returned, a voice from the grave.

  A few minutes earlier, bleeding and out of breath, he had telephoned the New York Police Department and reported Saul’s murder, then hung up before the call could be traced. It made no sense to get involved at this point.

  Saul, his old friend. Murdered. Stone bit his lower lip.

  The man who had chosen the shadowy world of intelligence over the safe and bland and tranquil and orderly world of corporate law.

  Whoever murdered Saul must have … must have not wanted him investigating… . What were his words on the machine? This is serious fucking business, Charlie. And: / don’t trust the phones… . Who was he afraid of? It didn’t make sense for the CIA to kill their own, especially one so important in the organization. Did it?

  How long. Stone wondered, before I’m linked as well? How long before it’s not safe for me here?

  He slid a finger under the flap of the manila envelope and tore it open. He pulled out a black-and-white, eight-by-ten glossy photograph.

  Two people, a man and a woman, were sitting on a bench, conferring gravely. Around them people rushed by, blurred. Russians: Stone recognized the hats, the shoes, the clothing. The woman, too, was a Russian, a beautiful woman with delicate features, her glossy black hair in a loose chignon. Speaking to her, in earnest conversation, was someone Stone recognized well; it looked like a picture of himself. It was Alfred Stone, meeting with a Russian woman.

  Could this be Sonya Kunetskaya?

  Charlie turned the photo over and saw that it was stamped property FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION CENTRAL FILE 002-324.

  There was one more item in the envelope, a small note that bore the letterhead of Sheffield & Simpson. The scrawled, almost illegible handwriting was Saul’s, evidently dashed off in great haste. Words and phrases were underlined, sometimes double-underlined.

  Charlie—

  You still haven’t shown up, so I’m sending this by courier. Hope to God you get it.

  Enclosed photo = SK. From FBI.

  Bill Armitage at State and some other friends I trust say M-3 op was attempted CIA deep penetration ‘53 U.S.S.R. ! Thinks it’s rogue.

  M-3 still in place !

  Lenin’s secretary—A. Zinoyeva—lives in East Neck, N.J. Deep cover = Irene Potter. 784 Wainwright Road.

  Hold on to photo—info is power. You may need bargaining chip.

  Careful, mv friend.

  —S.

  His head thudding dully. Stone understood the message. The photo he held in his hand, the one the FBI had taken in Moscow and used as evidence against Alfred Stone, Saul had obtained from some friend at the FBI. Not from the CIA.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 127

  The old woman who had once been Lenin’s secretary was Hving under a deep-cover aHas, Irene Potter, provided for her by the U.S. government. Which meant she had once been useful for intelligence purposes of some kind. Otherwise, she wouldn’t need a cover.

  But the terrifying thing was the information Saul had got from his “friends”: a rogi/e operation in 1953, involving an American mole— but unknown to responsible elements of American intelligence? A mole who was still in place in Moscow—and who would therefore be undoubtedly very, very highly placed indeed.

  Was that the conspiracy at which the hedgehog report hinted?

  Nineteen fifty-three. The year was significant. It was the year of Joseph Stalin’s death, a time of great turbulence in the Kremlin.

  Had Alfred Stone been imprisoned to conceal an attempt to place an American agent deep into the Soviet government?

  And—four decades later—had Saul Ansbach been murdered to protect the same secret? Why?

  They kill their own.

  I’m one of their own.

  The thoughts were coming too swiftly now, their meaning too awful. Who else knew about this Lenin Testament, which—somehow, unexplainably—was connected with this rogue operation?

  / do, Stone thought.

  / and my father.

  The notion was inconceivable.

  I’m not safe here any longer. And I have to make sure my father is safe.

  Boston

  “What happened to you, Charlie?”

  Alfred Stone was sitting up in bed, looking considerably healthier. They had disconnected him from the cardiac monitor. It was early the next morning, and Stone—who had not contacted the Parnassus office—had done his best to bandage the cuts on his face and hands.

  “A foolish accident.”

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  “You didn’t go out climbing yesterday, did you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Right.”

  The large British nurse swept into the room, heedless of the conversation. “I’m just going to check your pump,” she said. “Good morning, Mr. Stone.”

  “A pleasure to see you,” Charlie said insincerely.

  She finished a minute later and departed without a word.

  “Did you know Rock Hudson was homosexual?” the elder Stone said. The tic had returned to his left eye; it winced as regularly as clockwork. He was nervous.

  “Of course. Where’d you get that startling piece of old news?” What was really on his mind? Did he know what had happened? Had he heard what had happened to Saul Ansbach?

  “People magazine. I had no idea.” He smiled wanly; Stone now was certain his father was deeply anxious. “In any case, I think they’re going to let me go home tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to be well enough?”

  “They seem to think so. I still feel weak, but I’m better. You didn’t have a climbing accident, did you, really?”

  “Really.” But he wasn’t fooling his father, he felt sure.

  “Would you mind terribly spending tomorrow night at the house? In case I need anything, you know.” Casual, too casual. What did he know?

  “I’d be glad to.”

  Stone was lost momentarily in thought. He remembered the rounded lines of the old Frigidaire that was still in his father’s kitchen. The memory was vague now, remote.

  I am a boy. Was it four? Five? Just a child, playing in the kitchen, already climbing everything. I’d been climbing on a dusty set of water pipes in the corner of the kitchen. Mothers not cleaning the house the way she used to. All she does now is sit at her typewriter pounding out letters. Later, when Im older, she explains that they were letters to congressmen, civic groups, editors of newspapers, arguing Fathers innocence.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 129

  Playing on the pipes, I reach up and hug a hot-water pipe — so unbelievably hot, 1 scream. My forearm is badly burned. Mother rushes in, terrified, hollering, a typing eraser parked behind her ear. She picks me up, crying and angry all at once. She finds the first-aid kit, bandages the bum.

  And then Father comes home and sees the bandages, and he erupts like a long-dormant volcano.

  I run, terrified, and cower in the crawl space under the stairs, listening. Father is beside himself with rage, pushing Mother against the Frigidaire, chanting, “What kind of mother are you? You’re the only mother he has! You’re the only mother he has!”

  And Mother, who knows better than 1 why he is so crazed with anger, says through her sobs, “I didn’t ask you to go to prison! I didn’t make you go to prison! Be angry at him, don’t be angry at me!”

  Be angry at him.

  He was never angry at Winthrop Lehman.

  Why not?

 
Alfred Stone was now poHshing his eyeglasses with a corner of the bedsheet. His eyes seemed luminous and penetrating. It was as if he could X-ray his son’s mind and discern the thoughts within.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” he said distractedly. “Oh, what time is it? It’s time for my show.”

  “Your show?”

  “Television,” Alfred Stone announced. He pushed a switch on the remote-control box beside his bed and seemed glad to have such a toy at his fingertips. “I’ve begun to watch the soap operas, God save us all.”

  Inscribed in granite on the exterior of the Boston Public Library is a slogan that takes up the length of a city block, the commonwealth

  REQUIRES THE EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE, it shoutS tO Coplcy Square, AS THE SAFEGUARD OF ORDER AND LIBERTY.

  A fat lot of good education did Saul Ansbach, Stone thought grimly as he walked into the periodical reading room and found a stack of Boston Globes going back two months. He began methodically to

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  go through the newspapers, looking particularly for the obituaries.

  A vagrant sat down in an easy chair a few feet away, emitting a foul odor. Stone skimmed the dog-eared newspapers all the more quickly for it.

  Bv now, surely, the Parnassus office would know that Saul was dead. The place would be in chaos—and since Stone had been spotted, it was obviously unsafe for him there. Whoever was behind Saul’s murder would be watching Stone carefully.

  Which meant he would not be able to move easily—if it came to that—under his own passport. He needed another, and it seemed somehow safer to obtain it outside of New York Cit'.

  After half an hour, he found what he was looking for: a death notice for a thirty-two-year-old man who had lived in Melrose, a town north of Boston. Anywhere from late twenties to early forties would have done well; thirty-two was perfect. The man’s name was Robert Gill; he had been a state worker who had been killed in an automobile accident six days earlier. Not, Stone was relieved to see, driving while intoxicated. That would have made things more difficult.

  Robert Gill’s address and phone number were listed in the library’s badly torn phone directory’ for the northern suburbs. Fortunately, there was only one Robert Gill in Melrose.