by David Duffy
I started to answer—I hope so—but he was asking a two-sided question. His lack of trust was given and warranted. We both understood that. He was also asking if I could overcome a lifetime of cynical calculation and trust anyone—him—based on things as ethereal as blood and love.
Beria put in an appearance behind the public phone, wearing his Cheka uniform, pince-nez balanced on his ski-jump nose. Eyes dark and humorless, but not without curiosity.
Not so simple, is it? he said.
Go away, I said.
That’s not so simple, either. I’m here. I’ve always been here. I’ve always been part of it. I’ve always been part of you.
“Hang on,” I said to Aleksei. I let the receiver dangle and walked around the phone stand. The vision vanished. I came back and put the receiver to my ear.
“Sorry, bag lady listening in. I can only say, I’m willing to work on it. I can’t think of much that’s more important.”
“I can tell you’re trying. I hear it now. Keep at it. That’s all I can say. It’s going to take a while.”
“I understand that.” I looked around. Beria was nowhere to be seen.
He said, “I’m still trying to work some things out. You and the Cheka. You and Polina. I can’t say how long it will take. Or make any promises.”
Aleksei used our given names, as he’d done since we’d become reacquainted. I was his father, she’d been his mother, but neither of us had been there much in those roles. I had the unrealistic goal of someday being called Nana—Dad—but I doubted it would ever happen. A price of fate, and my own decisions, which I also understood all too well. I caught another glimpse of Lavrenty Pavlovich, on a park bench, shaking his head. I shook mine. Beria grinned before he evaporated into the cold morning sun.
“I just want to stay in the game. I won’t try to tell you how to play your cards,” I said.
“You told me that once before, remember? Don’t fold, make the other guy go out first.”
“I remember. I didn’t know who I was talking to at the time.”
“Chekists aren’t usually so slow on the uptake. Sorry—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“No offense taken.”
A long pause. “Tell me this, if you can: This man Leitz, he seeing a woman named Alyona Lishina?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around. You know who she is?”
“Konychev’s sister, ex-wife of Alexander Lishin. Current wife of Taras Batkin. Also the mother of a girl Leitz’s son spends a lot of time with. Why?”
“You’re well informed. We’re interested. But every time we start to ask we run into roadblocks.”
“Cheka roadblocks?”
“What do you think?”
No response to that.
“This your case?”
“Uh-huh.” Another long pause. “We’ve been building a case against the BEC for years, under the Kremlin radar. The problem, as you can appreciate, is that it’s a totally online business. Everything is done in the ether—or what they call the cloud these days. You’re a phisher and you need a base for your phishing expeditions. You have some contacts in the biz, or you visit a few online sites frequented by like-minded crooks. You get checked out, if you pass muster, you get access to a passworded site that’s essentially a shopping mall. Everything you need—applications, storage, memory, processing, protection—all available for sale or rent. You put together your package and use a version of PayPal to pay. You’ve never met anyone, no one’s met you. After a few months, the Web site’s taken down and another set up somewhere else. You get access if you’re still a customer in good standing. Simple, really, and totally anonymous.”
“How did you get on to them?”
“Usual way—get a tip, get lucky, bust a warehouse full of servers. Follow the data, apply pressure, work it up the line. BEC is big enough to require organization, so there is a chain of command, and we followed that. We also tracked the money, which is harder to hide, as you know. It was an international effort, us, the Germans, French, Brits, U.S. DoJ. We followed a half-dozen trails. One of the most productive was a child porn operation over there, busted five or six years ago. That led to the company processing the payments, that led to a couple of European banks, that led to shell companies here.”
“And you think the BEC’s behind them?”
“You asked about Konychev. He runs the BEC, with two partners—Lishin and Batkin. He’s one of yours.”
I ignored the barb. “I read that on Ibansk. Ivanov got his facts right?”
“Yes. Not Konychev’s choice, even if he is his brother-in-law.”
“Ivanov says the partnership was Kremlin enforced.”
“Cheka wanted one of its own on the inside. Surprised?”
Ivanov confirmed. Putin himself reportedly boasted, not long after becoming president, that thousands of Cheka operatives had been dispatched to take control of every government, business and, no doubt, criminal institution. Except …
“Batkin’s based here now.”
“I know. Ambassador Batkin. Russian-American Trade Council. I’m told he sets great store by his title. We’re not allowed to go anywhere near RATC, as I call it. I assume it’s a front for Chekists making their second career in organized crime.” Definitely a bitter edge to his voice now.
“He one of your targets, along with Konychev?”
“Don’t ask. Not that it matters. Lid’s been slammed on. Right at the time when the BEC leadership’s in disarray.”
He made no attempt to hide the frustration.
“Who’s being protected?”
“Everyone and anyone, as usual. Watch your step. The tall guy who beat you up, he probably still works for Konychev.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
“I hope you do.… I mean that.”
“I mean it too.”
CHAPTER 10
I walked home, Beria by my side.
He doesn’t trust you.
What do you know?
I’m the Cheka. I know everything.
I let him keep me company. It was his ground we were covering. Nobody stopped to ask, Who’s he? Why are you talking to him? Nobody paid us any mind.
This morning’s conversation with Aleksei had been the longest since dinner in Moscow when he’d walked out. We’d met twice while I was there. I’d gone looking for, if not reconciliation, at least a start down that road. I was prepared to tell him the truth about my past—the Gulag, the Great Disintegration of my marriage to his mother—and was terrified of his reaction. I hoped he wouldn’t hold it all against me. I was most worried about the shame of the Gulag and how badly Polina had poisoned the well. I found I had bigger problems. I should have seen them coming—he’d been more than clear last summer—but one of the hardest prisons to break out of is your own point of view.
The first meeting took place two nights after I arrived, at a restaurant the hotel concierge recommended. I wouldn’t be seeking his advice again. A dark, close cave, carved out of the basement of an old building near the Kremlin walls, with atmosphere to match. The raucous laughter from an American tour group bounced around the subterranean room, growing in volume as the waiter brought more vodka. The food was a jumble of Russian standards and what’s called “continental”—a menu of generic dishes that could have been concocted anywhere. Aleksei was in a bad mood, for reasons he wouldn’t specify. I suggested we move venues, but he waved with indifference and said this place was fine. I could barely hear, he didn’t have much to say, and I failed to find a path to get a conversation moving.
Outside, afterward, in the cold winter air, he apologized. “My fault. Nothing to do with you. It’s … Just a bad few days. How about we try again Thursday? I’ll choose a place.”
I walked back to the Metropole, hopefulness over the next meeting tempered by the sense that one opportunity had been wasted and I wouldn’t get too many more. I also wondered how often the “bad few days” came around.
> The second meeting started well enough. His choice was a small neighborhood café, above ground and airy, even in the winter dark, with a limited, but appetizing menu and good draft beer. His mood seemed better, if still distant. That was to be expected, I supposed. I had suggested meeting at his apartment—I was curious to see where, and how, he lived—but he quickly parried that. I wondered if we were in his neighborhood. In New York, the Basilisk could have told me in an instant. As Foos is fond of pointing out to anyone who’ll listen, Europeans—including Russians—are more protective of their data.
Aleksei was at a table by the window when I arrived. He wore a dark jacket over a navy turtleneck and wool trousers. Two inches taller and thirty pounds lighter than I am, his thick black curly hair was close to needing a trim, but still kempt. He’d been described as resembling a young Mark Twain, and it fit. The black eye patch was in place—the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone gunned down Andrei Kozlov, first deputy chairman of the Russian Central Bank, in 2006. The someone, of course, was widely presumed to be working for the Cheka.
We’d given the waitress our orders—meat for him, fish for me—when he said, “Okay, tell the story.”
I was taken aback by the abruptness of the request—or command, hard to tell which.
“What story do you want to hear?”
“You and Polina. You and Iakov. You and the Cheka. Where you came from. Why you left. Why you live in New York. You decide. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
I listened for emotion—anger, bitterness, resentment, curiosity—but heard none. His voice was flat, almost professional in tone. He was a cop—to the extent he wanted to conduct an interrogation, he’d have a plan for how to go about it.
I didn’t have a plan. I’d thought about it, tried to develop one—before I left New York, on the plane, over the last few days. I still didn’t know where to start.
“What did your mother tell you?”
I assumed, perhaps unfairly, that Polina had imparted the worst. Maybe worse than that, although she wouldn’t necessarily have seen a need to exaggerate.
He shook his head. I thought at first he was refusing to answer. “She didn’t tell me much of anything. I asked, of course. All she said was, we were a family of the damned—doubly damned, was the way she put it.”
“She didn’t say why?”
He shook his head. “She believed it though.”
She would have, no doubt about that. “So you really don’t know anything about me?”
“Only what I learned in New York.”
I was looking at a mostly clean slate—with all the temptations such a vessel presents. I told myself to stick to the facts.
“Let’s start with the Cheka,” I said. “That’ll take us to matters closer to home.”
“It’s your story.”
The voice was still flat. I told the tale of my career, from the Foreign Language Institute through the Second Chief Directorate (counterintelligence) to the First Chief Directorate, whose attention in my time was focused almost entirely on the Main Adversary—the United States—and my five assignments abroad.
“Iakov Barsukov was my guide and mentor throughout,” I said.
“That explains one thing.” Something else crept into his voice—anger or bitterness or both.
“What’s that?”
“Why you didn’t shoot the bastard when you had the chance, that night at JFK.”
“I owed him everything. That’s a tough bond to overcome, whatever the provocation.”
“He was a mass murderer. He killed Polina. He tried to kill my sister. As it was, he left her shattered.”
“I can imagine how you feel.”
“Can you?”
The anger flared in his features, then left again, almost as quickly. I didn’t want to get further into that argument, at least, not yet. “I can try.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Pointless death gets under my skin. Who do you think I inherited that from?”
I sidestepped the temptation to give the answer he was expecting—Certainly not your mother. Instead, I said, “Since we’re onto Iakov, let me tell you what happened next.”
The waitress brought the food, and we both ordered another a beer.
While we ate, I took him through the events of the Great Disintegration. In 1988, I was posted in the New York rezidentura for the second time. The rezident—chief of station—Lachko Barsukov, Iakov’s eldest son, was fast climbing a ladder to the top of the Cheka. He’d always been greedy and he was running a side business, ordering everything from Champagne to truffles to designer dresses on the consulate’s tab, shipping it all home, where his brother sold it on the black market. One of my agents exposed him, I turned him in. Iakov leaned on me hard not to testify. I made the worst decision of my life—and I didn’t even know how bad it would turn out to be. Honor versus loyalty. I opted for loyalty. Dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But I was screwed no matter what.
Lachko got away with a slap on the wrist. He was tainted, though, and his ascent was over. He blamed me and sought revenge. He mounted a nasty campaign of innuendo. The whispers got around to Polina. I didn’t realize how much I underestimated the depth of her insecurity. Her alcoholic father had been run out of the GRU (military intelligence) and sent to the camps. She was horrified at the prospect of her life crumbling again—and being married to a zek, although I left that part out for the moment. She set out to ruin me by sleeping with my fellow officers, the kind of indiscretion she knew the Cheka could not ignore. I found out what she was up to before the organization did and made a deal with the devil to save all of us. Polina could raise Aleksei, with my support. I wouldn’t interfere, I wouldn’t even be a known factor. As if I never existed, a zek’s destiny. I didn’t reckon on her marrying Lachko, but I’m not omniscient. In retrospect, she was grasping for security and still trying to get even. He’d always had a thing for her and he wanted to get even too. Iakov pulled some strings and I was given an assignment in San Francisco. That was a time-buyer. I was back in Moscow in two years, behind a desk, which I hated. When the opportunity presented itself to call it quits, I did, and moved to New York. Start over.
“That’s quite a story,” Aleksei said as the waitress cleared our plates. His professional tone was back.
“It’s straight—or as straight as I can remember. A difficult time. Memory plays tricks, as you know. I made a big mistake, I tried to rectify it as best I could. You were one big casualty of that. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, in acknowledgment or acceptance, I wasn’t sure which. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes while we sipped our beer. I had a sense what the next question would be—like staring at a gallows, knowing what it’s to be used for, with nowhere to run. My pulse picked up speed as I waited. I didn’t know for sure how I’d answer.
“How about your childhood? Where’d you grow up?”
Paralysis grabbed my throat. My heart raced, my breath got short.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Aleksei, I…”
He had concern on his face, no doubt over the rising panic on mine.
“The … the reason your mother said we were damned,” I croaked. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. It was all but drowned out by the pounding in my chest.
He was waiting, uncertain what to say or do. I fought for control. I told myself to get on with it. It’s only a word. A word I couldn’t speak.
“G … Gulag,” I finally managed to whisper.
He looked at me quizzically.
“That’s … That’s where I was born. That’s where I grew up. Your mother never knew—until the end. That’s the reason everything fell apart.”
He didn’t jump up. He didn’t run. He didn’t shout NO! He didn’t even look that surprised. He just leaned back and nodded. My heart rate slowed a little.
“Why didn’t you tell her before?” he said after a minute.
“Shame. Fear. I was as
hamed of my past. Still am. I can barely tell you about it, today, five decades later. And I was scared about how she’d react. I wasn’t wrong about that.”
He nodded again and crossed his arms. “I have friends whose parents were in the camps. They don’t talk about it either. I kind of understand it, I guess. But, at the same time, there were millions of victims. All Russians share that history. It’s something we need to come to terms with if we’re ever able to confront our past. And we can’t do that without talking about it—openly.”
I could have cried, from tension and relief. My heart rate returned to normal. The shame that haunted me meant nothing to him. I’d spent the last twenty years terrified—for no reason. Maybe there was hope for Russia—if more people of his generation shared his view.
He was watching my reaction. “You were born there, you said. That means your mother…”
“That’s right. She was arrested with her parents during the Terror in 1938. Your great-grandparents were artists and died in the camps. Your grandmother was released in 1946 and rearrested in a roundup of ex-prisoners in 1948. She was sent to Dalstroi this time—Siberia. I was born there on March 15, 1953—the day Stalin and Prokofiev died. Bad timing for Sergei Sergeyevich. We were released in Beria’s amnesty, but she was too weak to make the journey home. She died on the train. I was brought up in an orphanage, got into trouble as a teenager, got sent back to the Gulag. You hate him, I understand that, but it was Iakov Barsukov who identified my language skills and gave me a chance. He got me out of the Gulag and started my career in the Cheka.”
He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear that about Iakov. “What about your father?”
“That’s less clear. The man I’m named after, Electrifikady Turbanevich…”
He was taking a sip of beer. He stopped and laughed out loud. “Say that again.”
“Electrifikady Turbanevich.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. You didn’t know?”
“She never told me. How did you get saddled with … If you don’t mind my asking.” He was still smiling.
“He was the man I believed to be my father. My mother broke with tradition and gave me the whole name. They didn’t have much time together. ’Forty-six to ’forty-eight, then a supposed reunion in Kolyma in ’fifty-two. She wanted a way to remember him, I guess.”
