The Kremlin Letter

by Behn, Noel;

  “Your shoes are on.”

  “Then kiss my shoes.”

  Rone put his lips to her shoes. As he did she kicked her foot forward, catching him in the neck with the pointed toe. Rone gagged and dropped on all fours, his head hanging down between his arms. He remained in that position until he recovered. When he looked up Erika was sitting clutching her elbows.

  “Now it’s your turn to hurt me,” she said. “We will reenact that old, old game called woman and man—victim and tormentor—only we will play it honestly. Let me explain. There is no beauty but destruction. There is no feeling in love—only in pain and suffering. If you hit me I might feel something. That sole surviving nerve may feel a twinge, ever so slight, but I will know that I’m alive—that I can be loved. Help to destroy me—and I will love you for it. Go ahead. Hit, hit hard.” Erika looked into his eyes with supplication.

  Rone’s open hand landed across her face and toppled her out of the chair. Blood trickled from her mouth. She nodded her approval. “You are beginning to learn. Hit me again.”

  Rone hesitated, then he slapped her again. She asked to be kicked, but Rone refused.

  “But you’re the whore—the slave,” Erika pointed out. “You must do as I command.”

  “Find someone else.”

  “Oh, my little priest doesn’t like the game of life. We will find something else to do. Stand in the middle of the room. Ah, that’s a good little whore. Now take off your jacket—slowly—take it off very slowly. Now your shirt. Slowly, now. Very, very slowly.”

  Rone stood stripped to the waist as Erika rose and walked around him. “Now the trousers,” she commanded. “And now the underwear.”

  Rone stood naked in the center of the room as she inspected him. She ran her hands over his body, ordering him not to move. She stepped away, unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor. Slowly she loosened her skirt and let it fall. Next came her slip. “Don’t move. Don’t move at all,” she commanded as she unhooked her bra and let it fall from her shoulder. She moved to within an inch of Rone and faced him as she slowly rolled her panties over her thighs and down her legs. “You mustn’t move. No matter what I do, you mustn’t move.” Erika snapped off all but one light in the room. She moved up behind Rone and pressed her body into his back. She reached around and ran her fingers along his chest and down his thighs. She began to scratch him lightly, then harder. Suddenly she dug her long nails into his shoulder and drew blood. Rone flinched for a moment, but then remained still.

  “Poor lover, poor little whore and priest and husband—look what I’ve done to you. Now repeat after me: I.”

  “I.”

  “Am your.”

  “Am your.”

  “Executioner.”

  Rone hesitated, then he spoke. “Executioner.”

  Erika stepped in front of him. She held a knife by the blade. “Kill me,” she said gently.

  Rone stood watching her. She jabbed the handle of the knife into his stomach. “Kill me or I will kill you. So help me God I will.”

  When Rone did not move she suddenly flipped the knife over in her hand and swung the blade at him. He caught her arm and twisted it back. It fell from her hand. Then she was upon him, clawing, scratching, kicking, beating. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Rone spun her around, lifted her up and threw her on the bed. She tried to kick at him but he brushed her legs aside and pinned her to the mattress. She was breathing heavily, tears flowing freely. Her body throbbed with sobs and laughter. Rone pressed down on her. He pushed his lips against hers. She shook her head violently away, but he caught her hair with one hand and held it in place. He gently kissed her and moved back. Erika lay motionless. Her eyes shut tight, her teeth clenched. He kissed her again.

  “No one will hurt you any more.”

  She opened her eyes and stared up at him. He smiled down at her. “Oh no, no, no,” she said almost inaudibly. “Dear Christ no.” Then she clutched him to her.…

  Rone remembered reaching over and twisting the cigarette out in the ash tray. He turned back to the sleeping Erika and shook her. “Time to get up,” he said and moved off the bed.

  “It isn’t,” Erika said sleepily. Her eyes were closed. She shook her head. “It isn’t. It isn’t.”

  “It’s ten after one,” he said flatly. “The girl who lent us this apartment will be getting home from the factory soon.”

  Erika held out her arms but Rone ignored them. She watched him dress without looking at her. Finally Erika got out of bed and put on her clothes.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked, standing at the door. “If you like,” Rone answered.

  “You know I’d like to.” Erika paused. She looked up at her Yorgi. “But we must be careful.”

  “A husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll never find us here,” Rone said indifferently.

  “If he knew about us he would find us no matter where we went.”

  Yorgi laughed assuredly. “Don’t worry about him. He is just another husband. None of them are any danger.”

  Erika reached down and took Yorgi’s hand. “Please listen to me. We must be careful.”

  “We will be. Don’t worry about things that don’t exist.”

  Erika paused and looked away. “My husband is with the government,” she finally said.

  “Many husbands are with the government.”

  “Yorgi, Yorgi,” she said turning back to him. “He is an intelligence officer.”

  “Many husbands are intelligence officers. There is still no need to worry.”

  “My husband is Colonel Kosnov.”

  Rone looked away with practiced unconcern. He walked over to the table and picked up a pack of cigarettes.

  “Do you still want to see me?” Erika asked nervously.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you say.”

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow at two?”

  “Tomorrow at two.”

  “Yorgi,” Erika had asked on their second afternoon, “Yorgi, if I gave you money, I mean enough money, would you stop seeing other women?”

  “I make a great deal,” Rone said.

  “I could get you almost seventy-five rubles a week.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Yorgi, I want to speak the truth to you,” she told him the following day. “So far I believe I have. Will you promise always to speak the truth to me? No matter what it is, will you always speak the truth?”

  “Yes,” answered Rone.

  For another eight days Erika came to her Yorgi every afternoon. Her dependence increased, but she never spoke of Polakov. It was on the ninth day, as she clutched her lover tight to her, that she asked, “Are you afraid of my husband?”

  “No,” Rone answered bluntly.

  Erika moved back and looked at him. “And do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love me enough to do something very dangerous? Something that would let us be together for the rest of our lives?”

  “What is it?”

  “Yorgi, take me out of Russia?” she asked hesitantly. “I know it will be very difficult and very dangerous. You don’t have to answer me now. You should think about it. If you don’t want to do it I will understand. We can still go on seeing each other.”

  Rone rolled away and reached for a cigarette. He lit it and lay on his back taking long, deliberate puffs. “I’ll take you out,” he told her.

  Erika showered him with kisses. “Oh, Yorgi, Yorgi, we will lead the most wonderful life two people have ever had.” Then she hugged him fiercely.

  “When do you want to go?” he asked.

  “As soon as we can.”

  “It will take time. Arrangements will be costly. People are afraid of your husband.”

  “I have twelve hundred rubles saved.”

  “That still isn’t enough.”

  “I get a hundred rubles a week from the colonel. I think I could get by on fifteen. That
would give us another eighty-five a week.”

  “That would still take us over a year,” Rone said pensively. “I could get more customers, I suppose.”

  “No, no, no,” shouted Erika. “I don’t want anyone to be with you but me.”

  “We need money not only to get out, but so I can take care of you once we’re in the West.”

  “Once we are out I know where there is money. Enough money to last us the rest of our lives.”

  “Even so, leaving Russia will be very expensive.”

  “I don’t want you to be with other women.”

  “I’ll look around,” he told her, “and see what else I can find.”

  B.A. lay on the rooftop next to Janis and watched Erika slip into the alley and start for the street.

  “Down there—watch,” she told Janis.

  As Erika crossed the street a man stepped from a doorway and casually followed behind her.

  “You’re right,” said Janis. “How long has it been happening?”

  “For the last two days.”

  28

  The Man in the Car

  Yorgi met Erika the next three afternoons. Each time she would ask him if he had found another way to make the money they needed to leave Russia. Each time he would answer no. Yorgi finally promised her not to be with other women. He would not see Erika for two days. He would spend the time looking for new methods of earning the rubles. When they met again he had some news.

  “How well do you like the colonel?” he asked.

  “Before I met you I hated him. Now he doesn’t matter. I can live with him. He loves me. He’s pleasant. I almost like him at times.”

  “And Polakov? You told me you loved Polakov?”

  Erika was puzzled. “Yes. Did I tell you that?”

  “Have you forgiven the colonel for what he did to Polakov?”

  “Yorgi, dearest Yorgi, when you have lived the way I have, you learn to forget quickly. If you didn’t you would die of agony. The colonel did what he had to do. Polakov knew that. I know it now. When you have no place to give your love it often comes out as hate, but once you can love again it takes all your strength. You have nothing left to hate with. You can’t be bothered.”

  “I see,” said Rone with obvious disappointment.

  “Why? Does this have something to do with getting the money?”

  “It wouldn’t work, not if you feel the way you do. I’ll continue with the women. We’ll have the money in no time.”

  “Yorgi, tell me what it is.”

  “I don’t think you would do it.”

  “Do what? Darling, how can I help if I don’t know what it is you want?”

  “I talked to a man yesterday who was a friend of Polakov’s.” Rone saw Erika stiffen. “He is willing to make all the arrangements for our trip and give us money.”

  “If?” The hardness Rone had first seen in Erika returned.

  “If we give him information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “This friend of Polakov’s thinks that the colonel is conducting an investigation on certain Kremlin officials—anyway, that’s what he told me. He would like to know more about it.”

  Erika closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh God, not this again. Why couldn’t we be two people from a faraway land where none of this happens? What is it about me? Yorgi,” she said, reaching out for him, “you don’t know what these people are like. You don’t know what goes on. I lived through it with Polakov because he was the first man I ever really loved. But I was a child then. I didn’t know the difference between true love and gratefulness. I asked to help in his work. I’m sorry I did. It is a world where no one can win. I’m afraid of it. Believe me, darling, it is better to stay away from all of it.”

  “It was only a suggestion. A fast way to get the money.” Rone smiled. “We won’t do it. In another two months I’ll have everything we need doing what I’m doing.”

  Erika shuddered slightly and shook her head.

  “Come on,” said Rone gently. “It’s time to get you home. Shall I meet you here tomorrow at the same time?”

  “Yes,” Erika said automatically. She did not move. She continued looking down.

  “Come, darling,” Rone urged.

  “Yorgi, if I did this you wouldn’t have to see any women but me?”

  “Erika, it’s too dangerous. You’ve convinced me. I can’t risk you being harmed.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. If I get the information, will you not see other women?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then tell the man,” Erika said without raising her eyes, “he can have it.”

  “But you’re frightened. Why should you risk it?”

  “To give him a sample of what we have to offer, assure him that Colonel Kosnov is indeed conducting a secret investigation. He does most of it at home so his aide, Grodin, won’t know about it. Grodin is the son-in-law of Aleksei I. Bresnavitch. Bresnavitch and other high officials don’t want the investigation. They’re afraid one of their own men will be implicated.”

  “Implicated in what?”

  “Polakov had a contact in the Kremlin.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Erika began slowly. “Polakov once made reference to somebody called the Bellman. I think that’s who the colonel is after.”

  “Do you know who the Bellman is?”

  “That’s all the information we’ll give until we see the first money.” Erika stood up and began dressing. She said nothing and refused to look at her Yorgi.

  “Tomorrow?” asked Rone as he opened the door.

  “Tomorrow,” she nodded as she left.

  At ten the next morning the Warlock arrived at Potkin’s apartment to give his report. Rone watched at the peephole while he entered, locked the door behind him and went to the gun cabinet. The code for that day was thirty plus three. Rone sat motionless as he entered the dark room and shone the flashlight in his face. He drew up a chair directly behind Rone and placed the Luger at his temple. He snapped his fingers five times, Rone snapped twice. The Warlock added three more snaps and Rone countered with ten. The Warlock snapped twice more, Rone snapped eight times. The Warlock unloaded the pistol and laid it at Rone’s feet with the flashlight. He moved his chair away and began talking.

  “Rudolf says he is in love with me. He wants me to leave the instructor and move in with him. I told him it was not wise to break off so abruptly. I told him I would find a way to do it soon. He claims I am the first one he has been in love with since Polakov. He cried to me about it. Polakov apparently played with him, treated him badly. They had an affair, then Polakov became a tease. He would fight with Rudolf on any pretext. He would only have physical contact with him every now and then. Rudolf was sure there was another man. He thinks the man was Bresnavitch.

  “When Rudolf first met Polakov he was working for a department that was in charge of the restoration of art treasures and museums. Bresnavitch was in charge of the entire operation. Part of Rudolf’s job was to see that masterpieces taken from Germany and other countries were catalogued and stored in safe places. Most of the German treasures had been stolen from France and Italy by the Nazis. The Russians did not want them returned. Right after the war nobody really knew what country had found what, so Bresnavitch devised a scheme whereby several truckloads of paintings were supposedly destroyed during an attack on a German convoy. Everything was reported lost.

  “It seems that the loss went further than even the Russians had expected. A good many of the treasures disappeared from storage. Bresnavitch supposedly caught the culprit, got a confession that he stole them from the warehouse and sold them to an Italian. He had the man shot before anyone else could talk to him.

  “Rudolf saw Bresnavitch and Polakov together on at least two occasions. Once in a restaurant and once walking down a street. Rudolf was apparently driven half mad by the Bresnavitch-Polakov affair. He thought of confronting both of them, of getting Bresnavitc
h out of the way—of doing anything he could to get Polakov back. In the end he did nothing and said nothing to anyone. This was in 1959, shortly after Polakov disappeared.

  “Rudolf did not see him again for three years, but he couldn’t forget him. Eight months ago he was passing a small restaurant he had been to with Polakov. Polakov was sitting at a far table by himself. Rudolf approached him. Polakov was furious.

  “‘Get out of here, you fool, or you’ll get yourself killed,’ he whispered to Rudolf.

  “Rudolf went across the street and hid. He tried to watch the restaurant. A car drove by slowly, pulled down a side street and parked almost directly opposite where he-was standing. A few minutes later Polakov came out of the restaurant and started for the car. Rudolf ran off in the other direction, but not before taking a quick look in the car. He couldn’t see the man very clearly—not well enough to describe anyway—but he was sure of one thing: It wasn’t Bresnavitch.

  “Four months later he received a note from Polakov saying it was urgent that they talk. He said Polakov was nervous and frightened. He had never seen him like this. He told Rudolf he was in trouble and asked if he could stay with him if things got worse. Rudolf asked why he didn’t go to Bresnavitch? Polakov said it wasn’t possible. Rudolf pressed the point. Polakov finally admitted that he had had an affair with Bresnavitch, but swore it was finished. The split up had caused bad blood. Polakov confessed to fearing Bresnavitch’s hostility. Rudolf agreed that Polakov could stay with him. That was the last Rudolf was to see of him—alive.

  “He learned of Polakov’s death when the Third Department picked him up. He was interrogated by Grodin. They had searched his apartment. Rudolf was afraid they might have found the five or six books be had loaned to Polakov. Each had his name in them. Grodin never brought the subject up. The questions were quite routine. He was asked when and where and how he had met Polakov, what he knew of his background and activities. He told them as little as possible and never mentioned the Bresnavitch or car incident. He was released. A week later he was asked to return for more questioning. It was much as before and then they released him. He hasn’t been bothered since.”