The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  She herself had even served as leader of her school's Komsomol, Communist Youth Union, in a secret military city hidden in plain sight in the vastness of Siberia. And finally, with a degree in international cultural relations from MGIMO, Natalya Orlova should have been the perfect candidate for a life of privilege that was the lot of the new FSBeshniky.

  But she'd been idealistic when she'd graduated, flush with enthusiasm for the perestroika and promises of the New Russia. More important, she'd felt the need to atone for the crimes of her family during their long history with those secret services; a history she'd known as a child only through family gossip and the sinisterly suggestive gaps in her relatives' recounted biographies.

  And then there had been her father's own deep disillusionment with the "worker's paradise"; a disillusionment hardened on an almost daily basis as the samizdat press published one heretofore repressed history after another, and the truths that had always been denied, but which in revelation seemed all too blatant and indisputable, made swearing allegiance to the Security Services, however "modernized," unthinkable.

  Through those years of revelations, Natalya had watched as her father's eyes became sad, quiet, angry. Distant.

  And there'd been something else to his silence-some secret more sinister, it seemed, than all the terrible revelations about her grandfathers and the regime they served. A secret that created a small, dark space between them which even to this day had never been breached, and which she had since decided he would take to his grave.

  So she'd chosen instead to become a simple cultural attache, a job she thought would perhaps actually serve the fledgling state and help it atone for all the buried transgressions of its history-and hers. But every time she found an excuse to shadow Yuri or one of the other "special attaches," she took it. Perhaps it was in her genes.

  So she split her time between her official duties at the Russian Cultural Center-ironically housed in a grand edifice on Phelps Place that had once belonged to the archcapitalist Evalyn Walsh McLean, one-time owner of the Hope Diamond-and a small, nondescript desk here at the embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. Even though the embassy's squat, gray architecture was far more reminiscent of the Soviet-era government buildings back home, she instinctively felt this was where the real identity of the New Russia was being formed-or at least where it was created for its American audience. And she wished to be an insider in that seductive drama.

  But then Natalya had always been an outsider. Her looks reflected her mother's lineage-Finnish, not Slavic-with her high cheekbones, brilliant, almost white-blond hair, and blue-green eyes, she was unique among all the brown-haired, wide-faced, flat-nosed children in the military town's state school. "Rusalka," mermaid, the teachers had called her: something exotic, foreign. Suspect.

  Even the way she had dressed marked her as an exception. "It's the nail that sticks up that gets hammered down," her mother's father had warned her. Exhibiting a taste for Western styles back then was considered almost tantamount to treason: the short skirts, the bright colors, the high-heeled shoes. Not the tastes of a true sovok, a loyal Soviet citizen. She still remembered vividly the old babushkas on the street, shouting after her when she walked by in such clothes. Zapadnaya, they called her: Western girl. And much worse.

  Now of course everything had changed. Down was up. What had been foreign and bad was now stylish and good.

  And Natalya used it to her advantage. Her looks, her Western manner, her command of colloquial English-all had gotten her a posting in the Washington embassy of the Russian Federation in Washington, D.C., at a time in her life when she should still have been stamping visa applications in a gray basement office somewhere in Moscow. And there were perks.

  For instance, before she'd stopped in to "advise" Yuri in his monitoring of "interviews," she'd been headed to make final arrangements for the coming reception for the Bolshoi Ballet. The social event would certainly be a break in her routine-but she didn't relish the thought of being patronized by Madame Zenova, the aging ballet prima, complete with purple-feathered boa.

  Zenova had already visited the RCC that day, whisking around with her trailing entourage, looking at everyone through lowered eyelids, playing the part of fickle diva to perfection. And Natalya knew she would be just one of many nameless functionaries at the reception, invited more because of her looks than her importance; all part of the show for the American Washington insiders, all a demonstration of just how thoroughly over the bad old gray days of the Soviet era were.

  But to keep the perks she had to occasionally do her actual job, regardless how tedious.

  Muttering a curt greeting of "Privet" to a few colleagues-it was four thirty and most of the staff had left for the day-she wound her way to a small desk set in a corner.

  Before her was a stack of mail she'd brought with her from the RCC; somehow going through it at the embassy made it seem more important. It was work that demanded little of her training and provided few opportunities for her powers of "creative interpretation"-the kind she'd demonstrated for Yuri.

  Working her way through the stack of mail and messages on her desk, she found them to be for the most part the usual sort of communiques: a request for access to archives of the Organization of Security and Cooperation in Europe by a student at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government writing a dissertation, "Cultural Schisms and the Deformation of International Law by National Codes of Justice"-it made her head ache just to read the title; a letter from a museum in Philadelphia asking for slides of the new exhibit in the RCC's "Russian-American Room"-a stultifying display of joint agricultural projects she thought better suited to the 1950s; a letter addressed to Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Vasily I. Schastny-she had no idea how that one had found its way into her pile; it should have gone to the ambassador's secretarial pool.

  Then she came across an envelope that immediately struck her as strange. It was an ordinary enough eight-by-eleven white envelope, but it bore no institutional return label-just a P.O. box number somewhere in Massachusetts-and held a U.S. postal stamp rather than the usual machine mark of bulk mail. And it was hand-addressed to her personally: Ms. Natalya N. Orlova, Cultural Attache, Russian Cultural Centre. She noticed the British spelling of the word "centre."

  Using one of her stylishly long red fingernails-she was forever misplacing the silver Imperial Russia reproduction letter opener Yuri had given her after he watched her opening her mail this way-she slit open the envelope.

  The letter inside was strange, too.

  It was handwritten in Russian. Not particularly good Russian, but at least the writer was making an effort; nearly all American correspondents just assumed a cultural attache would read and write English. The writer (it said) was looking for any information regarding a book, published sometime between 1960 and 1970, titled Stzenariy 55, or perhaps Borba s tenyu. But he wasn't certain of that title, he wrote; it could be some other version of those words.

  Script fifty-five? she thought. That could mean almost anything. And the second is… very strange indeed.

  Borba had many possible meanings: fighting, struggle, conflict. And tenyu wasn't any more specific, referring to twilight or shade, or simply dim light.

  Fighting with Shade? Fighting in the Twilight?

  But those translations were literal, and Natalya knew that literal translations almost never caught the real meaning of a phrase, especially a literary phrase.

  In fact, she couldn't think of any English phrase that captured the real sense of the Russian: a weaker combatant struggling against a stronger and invisible force.

  Now Natalya was intrigued… But it was late on a Friday evening, and she had a hectic, crowded subway trip ahead of her to her apartment near Dupont Circle. As curious as the request was, it would have to wait until Monday.

  But before she put the letter away, she glanced at the bottom of the page, to the signature.

  Iskrenne vash, the letter concluded. And it was signed in steep, angled writing d
ifficult to read; but she finally made out the signature.

  Jeremy Fletcher.

  CHAPTER 3

  Benjamin reentered the main building, passed through the darkened foyer and up the spiral staircase. The details of the gigantic mural were now even murkier, and vaguely threatening. When he reached the second floor, he saw a light coming from an open doorway down the hallway to the left. He went to the room, found Wolfe standing inside.

  "This should do," Wolfe said, motioning him to enter. "All the perks of a private estate, none of the expenses. To say nothing of the first-class security."

  "Yes," Benjamin said, "I noticed the fence and cameras on the way in."

  "I wasn't talking about the fence," Wolfe replied. "But, here, we need provisions. I'll go scour the kitchen."

  As Wolfe started to leave, Benjamin extracted his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open.

  Wolfe stopped. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked.

  "I thought I'd better call a friend who's watching my cat, tell them I might be back tomorrow."

  "Not on that, you won't," Wolfe said. "Cell phones don't work here. The whole campus is blanketed by a filter. You can only make a call through the landline," he pointed at the phone next to Benjamin's bed, "and if it's off campus, even that has to be scheduled."

  "Oh," said Benjamin. "I didn't know."

  "As I said," Wolfe smiled, "very secure." Then he turned to go. But as Wolfe reached the doorway, Benjamin said, "Before you go, may I ask, what happened to… to Jeremy?"

  "Heart attack," Wolfe answered bluntly.

  "Heart attack?" echoed Benjamin. "My god… But then, why-" Benjamin waved vaguely at Wolfe.

  "Why a security analyst instead of the county medical examiner?" He smiled. "You know how submariners can be sure there are no leaks?" Benjamin shook his head. "They can't," Wolfe said, patting his shoulder. "So they're always checking. Always."

  And then he went off in search of food.

  Benjamin put his few things away-the room was very well apportioned with armoire, bookcase, several chairs, a small table he imagined could serve as a desk, everything in the dark, polished wood and satin of the Federalist style-and then looked about the room, wondering how long before Wolfe returned with food, as he hadn't eaten since the morning and was in fact starving.

  It was then he noticed three books placed on one of the nightstands.

  The first two were The European amp; the Indian and 1676: The End of American Independence. Both were books he recognized from his own work in Colonial history. Perhaps these were the "bit of a snag" Jeremy had referred to?

  But the third was a slim volume, roughly eight by eleven inches, clearly very old, bound in thick red water-stained pasteboard. The title- A Brief History of the Reverend Harlan Phlegon Bainbridge: His Vision and His Tragedy -was stamped onto the cover.

  Benjamin went suddenly white.

  He recognized the name-how could he not? His father's book-his uncompleted book, and all those years of research-had partially been about the Reverend Hessiah Philadephia Bainbridge. And Harlan, he knew, was Hessiah's son. But while Hessiah had been the subject of several books on Colonial Puritan history, almost nothing was known of his son, Harlan. And in all his studies, in all his father's studies, Benjamin had never heard of this book.

  How on earth had Jeremy come across it?

  At that moment Wolfe returned. He was carrying a tray with small plates of sliced turkey and ham, some yellow cheese, and a bowl of black olives. He'd also brought a pot of coffee, as well as a full bottle of Glenlivet scotch.

  As Wolfe set the tray down on a little round side table near Benjamin's bed, he saw Benjamin eyeing the coffee and whiskey. Wolfe poured himself a tumbler of the scotch.

  "Nightcap?" Wolfe asked.

  "Uh, no, no thanks," said Benjamin. "I just wake up later and-"

  "Capital," said Wolfe. He poured another tumbler and handed it to Benjamin. "I hate to nightcap alone."

  He tapped Benjamin's glass with his own, then downed half of his at a single gulp. Benjamin sighed, lifted his glass to his lips, and sipped. It was very strong scotch, and Benjamin had always preferred gin. But then as the aftertaste faded it left a warm glow going down. He took another sip.

  "Attaboy, Benny," said Wolfe. He sat down in a chair beside the bed, crossed his legs, again in a move of almost antique elegance.

  "Uh, Mr. Wolfe, could we get one thing straight?" Benjamin sat down on the bed, the slim red book still in one hand, and began picking at the meat and cheese from the plate.

  "What's that?"

  "Could you stop calling me Benny?"

  Wolfe smiled broadly. "Do you have a middle name?"

  Benjamin sighed. "Franklin."

  Wolfe's eyes went wide. " Mein Gott! Benjamin Franklin Wainwright?" Benjamin nodded. Wolfe raised his glass. "Here's to Ben Franklin, Colonial scholar." This time Benjamin joined him in drinking. "How on earth did that happen?" Wolfe asked.

  "My father was an historian, too, and a fan of the Founding Fathers. He always said it that way, capitalized. When he spoke of Thomas Jefferson, sometimes I could swear there were tears in his eyes." He took another sip of the scotch. Winced.

  "But then why aren't you Thomas Jefferson Wainwright?"

  Benjamin laughed. "My father admired Jefferson tremendously, but he thought Franklin a little more… human."

  "Human?" asked Wolfe.

  "Maybe colorful is a better word. There was this letter my father showed me when he thought I was of the… proper age; a letter Franklin had written to a friend who'd asked his advice about the best way to conduct 'discreet affairs.' The letter wasn't published until the 1920s, for fear it would damage the reputation of so respected a Founding Father." Benjamin took another sip of the scotch. "In the letter, Franklin lists eight reasons it is best to have such affairs with older women, the last one being 'because they are so grateful!' "

  Wolfe laughed sharply. "Very strategic thinking."

  Wolfe was exhibiting his ingratiating smile, and Benjamin couldn't help feeling a growing affection for the man. He thought of what Terrill had told him downstairs. He decided the circumstances were ripe for a little prying.

  "Strategic thinking… that's what got you into the security business?"

  Wolfe looked at him and the smile disappeared.

  "Vietnam," he said. "I was too eager for the Canadian option, too bright to sling an M-16. So they put me into military intelligence. God," Wolfe laughed, drinking again. "There's the mother of all oxymorons."

  "But how does that lead…"

  "Here?" Wolfe indicated the room, the grounds, the situation with a whirl of his empty tumbler.

  Which brought his attention to his glass. He leaned over to pour another drink-then put the cork back into the bottle.

  "Another time, Benjamin. It's getting late, and you have some homework to do." He pointed to the book in Benjamin's hand and the two on the table. "I found those in Fletcher's room. They seemed distinctly different from the bulk of his reading material, all that nuclear apocalypse gloom and doom. I thought you could take a look at them, give us a head start in the morning." Then Wolfe stood up to leave.

  "But how do you know Arthur will keep me around now that Jeremy…" Again he couldn't bring himself to say it.

  "He was a good friend?"

  Wolfe's sympathy sounded sincere, so he gave a sincere answer. "Not for years now. But once, yes."

  "Don't worry about Arthur. I think I managed to… divert him from a precipitous decision. And tomorrow is another day." He smiled broadly.

  Again Wolfe made ready to leave, and again Benjamin stopped him.

  "Divert?" he asked. "You mean that spilled drink, that was…"

  Wolfe smirked. "Distraction. All the best illusionists use it."

  "Uh-huh," replied Benjamin. "But even if I stay, what exactly is it we're supposed to do tomorrow morning?"

  Wolfe smiled at him. "Like I said, look for leaks," he said. "Beginning, l
ike all good detective novels, at the scene of the… crime?" Then Wolfe gave him a curt salute, said good night, and pulled the door shut.

  Benjamin sat for a moment, wondering what Wolfe had meant by "leaks." Or, for that matter, "crime." Terrill had introduced Wolfe as a security analyst… Was there some suspicion Jeremy had been leaking information? That seemed unthinkable.

  He shook his head. He was accustomed to the hard reality of print, not this conjecturing out of thin air. Perhaps a little of that black-and-white certainty of print would set him right.

  He moved the food tray off the bed, scooted back so he could lean against the headboard as he looked through Fletcher's books.

  He picked up the slim volume about Bainbridge, the book he'd never heard of before. He turned it back and forth. The ornate binding, the thick pages… it seemed like the sort of book custom-produced for rich bibliophiles. On the first page, below the title, was the author's name: Warren Ginsburg. And under that was typed, Fellow of the Heritage Institute for Good Government.

  Heritage Institute? Some earlier incarnation of the Foundation? If so, he hadn't realized the Foundation had been around that long, all the way back to-he checked the date on the title page-1929.

  Then he noticed beneath that a stamp, the sort of seal placed in valuable books by people who collect such things. With some difficulty, he read the embossed letters printed in a circle. The Library of Seymour H. Morris.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He turned the page. Here, Ginsburg had quoted from Hobbes: By art is created that great Leviathan, called a Commonwealth or State-(in Latin, Civitas) which is but an artificial man. And beneath this, written in purple ink now faded with age, was written To Cecil, our modern Bainbridge, with concern amp; hope on this Brave New Century's longest day-Warren, 10/29/1929.