Lucky Bastard

by Charles McCarry

  4 Another large black car came for Jack at his hotel and drove him through Moscow streets to Peter’s house. He expected to find a party attended by the usual crowd, but he and Peter were alone. The table was already laid with a spartan meal of black bread and a sour red soup that Jack took to be borscht. No alcohol was offered, nor any dessert. They ate in silence.

  When they were finished, Peter spoke.

  “When we met last night,” he said, “I said I thought we were of the same nationality.”

  “I remember.”

  Peter said, “Good. Let me explain what I meant. In every country, there are people like us—a supernumerary nationality to whom patriotism is a shoddy product, to whom ideology means nothing, to whom the people and only the people mean everything. There are others like us everywhere. Even in Russia. Even in China. Even in America. Do you consider such a thing possible?”

  Jack doubted quite strongly the possibility of such a high-minded, world-embracing fraternity; in his experience, most people who hated the United States automatically loved Russia and China and all others who did likewise. But he gave the answer that was expected of him. “Sure. Why not?”

  “All right,” Peter said. “Though we are few, we represent great power. We have been given a great historic opportunity. If we recognize each other for what we are, if we join together now, if we work together in the future, we can defeat the bastards who now run the world. They do not know we exist, we will never tell them we exist, but we can bring them down. We can take it all away from them, we can make a new world. Do you believe in that possibility?”

  Wondering where all this was leading, but eager as always to please someone who might be able to do something for him, Jack replied, “Yes. Certainly. With work, with luck, in the right circumstances.” His gift of gab clicked into gear. “For example—”

  “Good,” said Peter, cutting him off. “Now I must ask you one question. Depending on your answer, we will either say good night and goodbye or our conversation will continue—I mean exactly what I say—for the rest of our lives. This is the question: Do you love your country?”

  Jack thought, What? But he composed his features into a look of deep thoughtfulness, as though he had been taken by surprise by Peter’s question and was struggling to come up with a completely honest answer. His antennae were up and quivering. Something was going on here. He sensed that this was a vital moment in his life, that this was a chance that might never come again.

  Once again the right answer was obvious. He said, “No. I don’t. I never have.”

  And then something very odd happened. Jack realized that for once in his life he was speaking the truth. In fact, he did not love America. He did not love anything that America expected her native sons to love—not his grandparents, not his town, not his school, not Columbia, not any of the dozens of American girls he had fucked, not anyone he had ever known. Not even Danny Miller. Not even his dead mother, who had taken the secret of his identity to the grave with her, denying him his right to be a Kennedy, a member of the most godlike family in American history.

  For the first time in years, Jack thought of his mother in her coffin. Images of Greta, dying by mutilation just like his mother, flashed on the screen of his memory. He remembered what he felt for her at the moment of her death. It was the same thing he felt for her at the moments of her innumerable orgasms: nothing. In both cases he had been concentrating on himself, the only thing that mattered. What he felt for everything in life except the only important thing in life, himself, was … nothing.

  He said, “The truth is, Peter, I have absolutely no feeling for my country. I mean, none. Not one iota. No connection. I was born an alien.”

  Peter was watching him closely. Jack met his eyes with all the frankness at his command. He said, “That’s how I feel, really—like an alien in my own country, as if I came from another planet. I always have. And I don’t see that changing, ever.”

  He meant it. Peter saw this. He said, “Good,” answering Jack’s candor—rewarding it—with deep approval.

  Jack, who was so much like Peter, was on the same wavelength as Peter now, and he understood that Peter was approving nothing but the answer to his question, which was exactly what he had expected to hear.

  Now Peter smiled. He said, “Your alien days are over, Jack. From now on, for the rest of your life, you will always be among friends. Friends who will work for your success, who will never let you want for anything. Who will protect you. Who will never forget you. Do you like that idea?”

  Friends? Jack thought. What was that a code word for? Was it possible that this discussion was not really about politics and the long, long thoughts of youth? Was it conceivable that he was alone with well-spoken, well-dressed Peter for another reason? No. Impossible. Not in Moscow.

  “Yes, I like that idea,” Jack replied. “Who wouldn’t? But—”

  Peter held up a hand. “Will you accept friendship? Remember, this is a lifetime commitment. It is irrevocable. Once in, never out.”

  “You mean friendship with other members of this supernumerary nationality you were talking about? In order to change the world by political means?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I understand the concept,” Jack said. “How will this friendship work in practice?”

  Impatience kindled in Peter’s eyes. “I have already explained that,” he said. “Your friends will always be with you even though you may not be able to see them, even though you may not even guess who they are. They are with you already, and have been for a long time, or we wouldn’t be talking as we are now. This is the final moment, the turning point. Come with us. Or go your own way. There will be no second chance.”

  Jack’s face was a study in high seriousness. Still, he made a show of hesitation. He said, “I’m a little puzzled, frankly. Why exactly do all these people want to be my friends?”

  “You have been noticed,” Peter replied. “You have been studied. You have won favorable opinions. You have a talent, a political talent. With the right help and advice, we think you can rise to extraordinary heights.”

  “Like what?”

  “I see no limits.”

  As if embarrassed by his own skepticism, Jack looked aside for a moment. Then he said, “Where I come from, rising to extraordinary heights takes money. Lots of it.”

  Peter smiled; he waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about money. You will have all you need. Much, much more than you can make by robbing banks.”

  Robbing banks? What does this man know?

  Somehow, even though he felt that a fist had just smashed into it, Jack kept control of his face. Peter was watching him very carefully; Jack could see that. He kept his composure, but in the panic that washed over him he could scarcely breathe. Jack said, voice steady despite his pounding blood, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Peter placed an attaché case on the table and opened it with a snapping of locks; he pulled out a flat cardboard box and placed it on the table between them. Jack stared at it, but left it where it lay.

  Softly, Peter said, “Open it.”

  Still Jack did not move.

  Peter said, “Please open the box, Jack.”

  Jack did as he was told. The box was filled with photographs of Jack and Greta engaged in sexual acts. Every one of their meetings, even the first, was depicted, in sequence, time and date in the lower right-hand corner of every print. Jack turned over about half the pictures, then raised his eyes to meet Peter’s.

  “A veritable kaleidoscope of young love,” Peter said.

  Jack shoved the box across the table. Peter turned it over, squared the stack of photographs, and then dealt them out like playing cards. This sequence showed Jack in the Daimler outside the bank, naked alone, naked with Greta, naked in handcuffs watching as bullets macerated Greta. With a fingertip, perfectly manicured, Peter separated one picture from the rest. It was a shot of Greta on Jack’s lap. Her mouth was open in the scream he remembered
. Apart from the open mouth, there was absolutely no expression on her face. Now, as at the moment of Greta’s death, Jack felt nothing for her, terror for himself.

  Peter said, “Enough?”

  Jack nodded.

  Peter said, “As I was saying, Jack, we know a great deal about you. As you can see, some of it is quite embarrassing, potentially. But we never betray our friends, as long as they remain our friends. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Jack, mute and frightened to the marrow, truly did not understand. How could he? A tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek. He shook his head no.

  “Then I will explain,” Peter said. “If you say yes to the friendship I am offering you, we will be friends for life. No ifs, ands, or buts. No going back. No limits. You can never change your mind. Neither can we. And if your answer is yes, we will never do anything to harm you. Now, do you understand?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Then what is your answer? Speak the word out loud.”

  In a strong unquavering voice that surprised Jack himself but merely confirmed Peter’s good opinion of his essential character, Jack said, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Peter said. “Now pick up the pictures and put them back in the box.”

  Jack did as he was told. He realized he was carrying out his first order under discipline.

  Peter held out a peremptory hand. Jack placed the box in it. It was quite heavy. Peter put it back into his attaché case.

  He said, “For safekeeping. While our friendship lasts, you need never worry that anyone but the two of us will ever see these items. Or even know of their existence.” He then removed an envelope from his attaché case and shoved it across the table. “Please open it.”

  Jack did as he was told automatically. The envelope was full of money—crisp fifty-dollar bills smelling of ink. Peter handed Jack a pen and a blank sheet of paper.

  “Sign, please,” Peter said. “At the bottom. It’s just a receipt.”

  Without hesitation—what would have been the point?—Jack signed his name at the bottom of the blank page.

  That did not end the ritual. Peter produced an ink pad and directed Jack to add his thumbprint to his signature. Jack complied, asking for no explanation. He understood the situation perfectly.

  “One last thing,” Peter said, in the same pleasant tone in which he had uttered every word he had so far spoken to Jack. “The Canadian passport. I will keep that for you, too.”

  Jack handed it over.

  “Thank you,” Peter said, unsmiling now. “That’s enough for tonight. You will sleep here. In the morning we will talk again.”

  A door opened. Igor came through it, wearing a sweatsuit, a costume that made him look more than ever like a middleweight contender.

  “Igor will see to your needs,” Peter said. “Sleep well.”

  5 Igor, tremendously strong, shook Jack awake at six in the morning and told him to hurry; he was wanted. It was like being shaken by a machine. In the next room, Peter awaited, still as a reptile, in a massive leather wingback chair. He was reading that day’s Paris Herald-Tribune, half-moon glasses perched on his nose, silk-socked ankle crossed over pinstriped knee. Peter folded the newspaper and gestured Jack into a matching chair. They sat knee to knee, gray worsted to faded denim.

  “We won’t be seeing each other again for a long time,” Peter said. “So pay close attention to the instructions I’m about to give you. They’re very important. You must take every step exactly as instructed. This is vital. Do you understand?”

  Jack said, “Can I take notes?”

  “Absolutely not. You must never commit anything having to do with me or your other friends to writing. Never. This is a confidential relationship and it is permanently binding. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Peter’s every question seemed to cast doubt on Jack’s intelligence. Jack did not mind; in fact, he provided opportunities for Peter to condescend to him. If Peter wanted to feel that he was smarter than Jack, that was fine with Jack. All he wanted was to get out of this situation, out of Moscow, get out of the Soviet Union. But to go where? Not Germany, certainly.

  Peter said, “The most important instruction is this: Lead a normal life. Do exactly what is expected of you by the world. The key to your future is—listen carefully, Jack—the key to your future is to be yourself. Doors will open for you. My job is to make that happen and tell you which doors to go through. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Good,” Peter said, “Now we will start turning keys. I have a few more instructions for you. They are very simple. Listen. Memorize. Are you ready?”

  Jack nodded.

  Holding up a thumb, European style, for number one, Peter said, “First, go back to Heidelberg.”

  “But, Peter, my God—”

  Peter cut him off. “You will not object. You will not interrupt. You will not substitute your judgment for that of your friends. Go back to Heidelberg. There is no danger. Believe me. Write your paper. Take the exams. Finish your course. Do what is normal.”

  Peter held up his index finger. “Second, go home.”

  Jack said, “To the States?”

  “Yes, where else? Third, withdraw from the antiwar movement. Isolate yourself from radicals. Their day is over. But do not alienate them. Someday you will need them. They will always be activists, so they will always be useful.”

  Jack nodded, as if Peter had provided him with a profound insight. In fact, he had. Jack was beginning to see a pattern.

  “Fourth,” Peter said, raising his ring finger, “do some sort of military service.”

  Jack cried, “Military service? Go to Vietnam?”

  “Of course not Vietnam,” Peter replied. “Join the reserves, the National Guard. The war will soon be over. Go to drill, wear a uniform once a week.”

  “What if the unit is called to active service?”

  “It won’t be. America has lost the war. Fifth, get a temporary job with your senator. Write to him from Heidelberg. He’ll be glad to have you back.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “I’m sure.” He lifted his other thumb. “Sixth, apply to law school.”

  This astonished Jack. The last thing he wanted to be was a lawyer. He said, “Law school? Wait a minute. I can’t afford it even if I wanted to go, and I don’t.”

  Peter said, “All that is irrelevant. The U.S. government is run by lawyers. You must be their equal; it is a matter of credentials. Study. Take the exam. You will do well. Apply to Yale, Harvard, Cornell, Georgetown. Not to Columbia. You will be accepted by one of those schools with a full grant.”

  “Which one?”

  “You’ll know when it happens.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then, obviously, you go to law school,” Peter said.

  “For three years?”

  “Yes. Just like a normal person,” Peter said. “One more thing. At a certain moment—this may happen any day or it may not happen for years, but it will happen—a person chosen by me and your other friends will come to you. That person will speak the following words: ‘Welcome to the country of the blind.’”

  Jack said, “Ouch.”

  “Yes, I realize that phrase has certain personal associations,” Peter said. “But that’s why it was chosen, to ring a bell. When you hear those words you will know that the person who speaks them comes directly from me. This person will be your friend, and you must do as he or she suggests as if it were I myself who made the suggestion. You must comply, cooperate with this person always, without fail, no matter what the suggestion is. This is the price of friendship.”

  Jack, himself a born actor, recognized Peter’s behavior for what it was, a performance. He (or so he said later) was offended by it. He himself, after all, was a virtuoso of untruth. Suffering through Peter’s deceptions was, for Jack, what watching a spy movie would have been for Peter—a confection that was laughable i
n its technique, preposterous in its assumptions. To Jack, this spelled weakness.

  Peter said, “Do you understand?”

  Jack thought, Better than you know. He said, “I understand everything you’ve said to me, Peter, and I appreciate everything you’re trying to do for me.”

  “‘Try’ has nothing to do with it. We will succeed, not try.”

  “I believe you. But you left things out. Who exactly are these friends you keep talking about? The KGB?”

  Peter’s handsome face darkened. He was silent for several heartbeats—eight; Jack counted them.

  “That’s a stupid and insulting question,” he said at last. “You know what I am, who I am, and what I stand for. I have explained everything. You have accepted.”

  “Yes, I have,” Jack said. “It’s a deal. On the terms stated. But I’m not sure you’re telling me everything, Peter. You can see how difficult that makes things for me. Whatever my opinion of the United States may be, and I told you truly what it is, I’m an American citizen, subject to American laws. My whole future is at stake. I hardly know you. We’re in Moscow. And you’ve made it obvious that I’m at your mercy. All I’m asking is the truth.”

  Peter folded his fingers into a fist and gazed at it for a long moment. Then he opened his hand again and said, “Jack, listen carefully. I never lie. The KGB has a name. But what I am, what you are, what we all are together, has no name. It will never have a name. But together, in our lifetimes, we will change the name of everything. Are you now telling me you don’t want to be part of that?”

  Jack was just as unsmiling as Peter. This was serious business. There was no spark of sympathy in Peter’s eye. Jack felt a chill. He was in Moscow, under a false identity. All he had with him to prove who he was were his fingerprints. He realized that he could die—now, quickly, in this room, or, if Peter chose to make it slow, elsewhere. But he also realized that he had something that Peter wanted, and wanted badly, or all this would not be happening. Otherwise, Peter would not be dangling carrots and asking him for promises.

  Jack said, “I’m not saying I don’t want to be part of what you describe. What I want to do, Peter, is trust you. Bear with me. This is a new experience for me.”