The firebird affair

I nodded.

“Emily was on a shopping trip in Helsinki,” Joseph said. “Two days later, she came back with streptomycin. And here I am.”

I said nothing. I thought of Emily and suddenly felt remorseful, wanting her to have had a better life than I had given her. My remorse almost palpable, I caught myself reflecting on her frequent train trips to Helsinki—she disliked airplanes and would avoid them unless absolutely necessary – and I thought, all these years later, that I must have been a difficult person to live with and that she’d deserved better. But then I recalled that particular trip Joseph was taking about and I saw her radiant face as she was exuberantly explaining to me how she had managed to get a prescription from a Finnish doctor.”Guess what,” she said, looking at me with gleeful triumph. “I simply told him the truth.”

The silence continued for a while.

“You know, starik,” he said turning to me, and I sensed he was downcast probably because he was broaching the subject he had not thought about for a long time, “I envied you and at the same time I was proud to be a friend of an American correspondent. You allowed me a peek into the world from which I was excluded. You were rich and untouchable and above everything else you were free. Free.

“You probably don’t remember how we all lived in fear in those days, how unreal it all was. We had to hide our misery even from ourselves. You know what I’m saying. There’s a passage in Gorbachev’s autobiography that captures the debilitating spirit of those years, not that I care much for that silly boltun and his boring memoir. But this one passage is truly precious. Gorbachev describes his move from Stavropol to Moscow to join the Communist Party Politburo. The twelve guys who ruled the empire. He was given a dacha out here” – Joseph’s motion suggested somewhere west of his own compound – “not far from the dacha of his patron Yuri Andropov. Okay. Once Gorbachev gets settled, being a country bumpkin that he was he phones Andropov to invite him and his wife for a barbeque. Like they used to do in Stavropol, where Andropov was a regular visitor on account of his poor health. But Andropov rebuffs him by saying, We can’t do this, people will think we are plotting. I am not sure he used those exact words. Incredible, two Politburo members, one of them was chairman of the secret police. And you, my friend, you were free like a bird, you know what I’m saying. And you were not affected by our privations and food shortages and all that horrible stuff. You could buy your way out of almost every problem. If you couldn’t buy fresh fruit and vegetables here, you could have them shipped from Finland.”

“I know the streptomycin was a small thing for you,” Joseph continued, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know, I know. I do favors nowadays, make a phone call or write a check, and I forget it the next day. But the recipients remember. Know what I’m saying? A small gesture can change a person’s life. ”

“I’m not sure I get your point.”

“There’s no point, starik. The medicine was a trifle for you, but it meant the world to me.” He shrugged, as if other explanations were unnecessary.

We all went quiet after that.

Then Volkov snorted. The tendons in his neck were stretched tight as he whipped his head around and speared me with a glare.

“I’m puzzled,” he said, hostility creeping into his voice. “You’re besotted by the lady, you two fuck like rabbits, and you know nothing about her or what she does?” But the words meant something else: You lying bastard, you’re selling us the quest for closure and other bullshit while doing work for the CIA.

I grunted to mask my discomfort. My throat was dry. I felt growing anger at having a part in this conversation.

Joseph again started pacing around the room as if he couldn’t force himself to sit still. He was evidently under pressure of some sort, I thought.

“What we’d like to know,” Volkov said, “is whether you had mentioned anything about Rashidov and Uzbekistan to your lady?”

Suddenly, everybody seemed to be in a bad humor.

Joseph returned to his seat. I glowered into my martini glass, smiling ruefully at the memory of that afternoon when Amanda insisted that I could not get an Uzbek visa and when she angrily accused me of still being obsessed with Emily.

“I did mention that I wanted to go to Uzbekistan,” I said.

“Did Rashidov’s name come up?” Volkov said.

“No, not as far as I can remember.”

Volkov and Joseph exchanged a long look, consulting without words. Their body language seemed eloquent: they wanted to be rid of me, the pariah.

“Well,” Volkov snapped his fingers and stood up.

I got up, too. My left leg was tingling. I saw Joseph’s jaws tighten as he looked at his watch.”Christ, it’s so late, I have a meeting,” Joseph said.

We all took the steps down and, for a brief moment, stood inside the lobby entrance waiting for the Bentley to arrive. Outside, the cloudy humid sky pressed down on the city like a great granite tombstone.

“We’ll talk later,” Joseph said, looking at me. “I’ll call you within the hour.”

I watched him walk across the street, surrounded by Volkov and three black-suited bodyguards. My mind flashed to Joseph in the Pushkin Square centuries ago; after the demonstration, we went to Joseph’s communal apartment where he analyzed Norman Mailer’s non-fiction—from The Armies of the Night to Miami and the Siege of Chicago. Insisting he envied the novelist’s freedom. Freedom to create legends around himself—to generate publicity by drinking too much, hurling profanities at his audiences, indulging in drugs and wife-swapping, running for public office—and then writing about it all.

Joseph was about to climb in the Bentley when he suddenly turned around. He motioned Volkov and the guards to stay put, then walked across the street over to me.

“Now listen carefully,” he said softly, and I heard alarm in his voice. “Get the first plane out of the country! At once! Grab a cab and go to the airport.”

Looking over his shoulder, I saw Volkov holding a cell phone, which must have been switched off because Volkov’s big thumb was crooked over the top of it as he was waiting for the power to come up.

“What…”

Joseph said sharply, looking deeply into my eyes, “Go! By tonight, it’ll be too late. You’re in danger and I can’t protect you. Go! Go!” A look like that was much more eloquent than any amount of talk.

They climbed into the limousine and the bodyguards into the white SUV behind it.

42
It was three twenty.

I read it on an ancient gilded clock in the window of the antique shop. I also saw a yellow parking ticket stuck under the Lada’s windshield.

I knew instantly that I must follow Joseph’s advice.

The old Lada wouldn’t turn over at first, but eventually rattled into life. Behind the steering wheel and trying to engage the first gear, my left foot shook uncontrollably when I tried to keep down the clutch. I didn’t have the strength, my bones turned to liquid.

After several attempts, I managed to slip into first and then second. I drove down New Arbat in second all the way to the hotel, my mind buzzing with questions and receiving no answers.

Stay focused, I said to myself. At all costs avoid plunging head first into a sea of the worst possible scenarios one could imagine. Leave everything behind. No time to go up to my room. Just retrieve the passport from the desk clerk and go out to the airport. Catch one of the flights to Helsinki, Stockholm, Budapest. To any place.

I used valet parking outside the main entrance and gave the attendant a twenty-dollar bill. I told the desk clerk I needed my passport for an official transaction at the US embassy and would return it within a couple of hours. I also gave him a twenty-dollar tip. Then I jumped in the first taxi idling at the bottom of the steps.

To my intense irritation, I was trebling from fear that my sudden departure was about to be discovered any minute. I imagined the entire Russian police force was looking out for me—the moment the alarm went out.

43

Sipping Scotch thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, I ran through the events of the past twenty-four hours, looking for something I might have missed, something that would help me understand. Ever since Joseph’s warning to get the first plane out, I had been running on adrenaline. I kept wondering if I had done the right thing, if I had been too jumpy and the very suddenness of my departure could alert the authorities. How could anyone deduce I was fleeing Moscow? Yes, I reasoned, I had no luggage. It was futile stuff, I knew, and this line of thinking would drive me to madness. And yet, since I had no luggage, I bought two large plastic bags which I filled with wooden spoons, nesting dolls, and papier mache boxes from the Russian souvenir vendors before finding the Finnair agent, who sold me a first class ticket to Helsinki.

When I finally got to the head of the line and I handed in my passport, I heard the announcer saying, Second call for passengers of Finnair flight 156 bound for Helsinki to proceed to Gate Four.

A pimply, bucktoothed private of the mustard uniform of internal security troops leafed through the passport. He looked up and down from my photograph to my face several times, then tapped something into a computer and detached a separate paper slip registering my departure from the country. He was about to stamp it when an older officer with several green stripes on his shoulder epaulettes opened the door to the booth.

I was gooseflesh all over. Joseph’s parting words pounced on me and where overwhelming. The cops were organizing a search for me, I thought. I was not going to make it. I felt my chest tighten. I imagined my departure slip being perused in some back office and double-checked against the list of departing passengers. That’s him, I could almost hear the senior man saying, that’s Todd Martin; he can’t be allowed to leave.

Then what?

The senior man grinned and said something to the young soldier, who handed him stamped registration papers from a wire basket.

“Todd Martin?” the pimply-faced soldier said.

“Yes. Todd Martin.”

He handed me my passport and stamped my departure slip before placing it at the bottom of the wire basket.

Ta-da!

With trembling hands I accepted a glass of champagne from the chief bursar as I settled in my seat. An electronic ping sounded over the cabin’s audio system and the fasten seatbelt sign was turned on.

What was it about the Russian passport controls that always made me feel like a criminal? I’d have suspected there was something timid or deficient in myself had I not heard many colleagues make the same observation. Russia inspires fear, the fear that someone is always watching, always listening. Never mind, I said to myself. This was the last time I’m going through the passport controls at Sheremyetevo.

I calmed down once the 727 sliced through the clouds to explode into the sunshine. I had a miniature Finlandia bottle; in first class, one could have as many of them as one wanted. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to think about Joseph and my final day in Moscow. Instead, I surrendered to the monotony of air travel by listening to Mozart’s Requiem. By the time we landed in Helsinki, I felt a release from the brooding that had afflicted me for most of the past twenty-four hours.

I went straight to the Marski Hotel, a fancy and overpriced establishment in the centers of the city near the Stockman’s. There were cheaper and more frugal lodgings to be had in Helsinki, but the Marski was the place of choice by visiting reporters.

Immediately after checking in, I sent a message to Barbara: Had to leave unexpectedly for urgent family reasons. My profound apologies. The Lada is on the Ukraine Hotel parking lot. The concierge has the key. I’d appreciate it if the office would pay the hotel bill (I’m sure Kevin Page will approve) and collect my stuff from room 1010, especially my laptop, and send them to Washington. Many thanks for everything.

I had early dinner in the Marski restaurant, ordering smoked reindeer, a bear steak, and a bottle of Margaux.

For the past seven hours, I’d been living in the pure present, without any connection to the other parts of my life. Now I felt completely empty and drained and exhausted from it all. I thought about Joseph and his need to repay his debt to me. And I felt angry with myself because our friendship was over. I was base enough, God help me, but I couldn’t stoop to condemn my friend. I was the guilty party.

While I was debating in my mind the mystery that was Joseph, the waiter brought a second bottle of Margaux. With more wine, my displeasure faded into a transitory indifference. I have no recall of going up to my room. I know I escaped a nocturnal interrogation of myself.

The next morning, I bought an economy ticket for the first flight to New York. Still feeling hung-over, I had several miniature bottles of Finlandia and slept most of the flight. I dreamt about walking down a long corridor with many turns. Then I was suddenly caught behind the enemy lines and I knew I was not going to make it. The reason I was not going to make it was because I had forgotten to tell Joseph to pick me up or send Igor to rescue me. Then Joseph unexpectedly appeared. “Run, you’re on your own,” Joseph was saying. He was putting everything he had left in him into that unwavering gaze to convince me to run. What kind of danger was he talking about? Who was after me?

I was running when a flight attendant shook me out of my sleep. We were approaching Kennedy. “Fasten your seatbelt, sir,” she said. “We are landing.”

Such was my exhaustion that despite my anxiety—and several cups of coffee at La Guardia, I actually drifted into sleep on the late shuttle flight to Reagan National. I awoke when I felt the flight attendant leaning across me to check my seatbelt was fastened. I thought I’d been out cold for no more than a few seconds, but the pressure in my ears said we were coming in for a landing.

I thought of Joseph. Then my mind turned to Amanda, and that gave me a tingle in my groin. The truth of the matter is, she had jump-started my libido after years of semi-retirement. So what if she’s a CIA agent? Or an adventuress? Do I really care? I daydreamed about finding her in between the sheets of my own bed.

44

The roads were all but deserted. The cab approached the marina on the right, the Pentagon floated past as a giant housing project swallowed by the mist, then came the lights of the Memorial Bridge and the Lincoln Memorial. Rain drummed on the roof of the car. I found it soothing to observe the lucent skyline of Washington—the dark waters of the Potomac shimmering with lights all along the embankment; the Kennedy Center, Watergate, Georgetown. I had bonded with this city a long time ago. Less than a year after I came down from New Hampshire, I came to feel that the city was mine. Open to me. Made me feel accepted no doubt because of my association with the Tribune. Even as a lowly night copy editor, I’d say, “This is Todd Martin of the Washington Tribune,” and the person at the other end of the telephone line would listen.

The August downpour stopped suddenly before we got to Wilson Boulevard.

The hall table in my Rosslyn condo was groaning under a towering pile of mail, perhaps a few letters slipped into the usual packets of bills, credit card offers, catalogues, hearing aid ads, whatnots that the mailman each day thoughtfully bound with a rubber band.

Lisa, the neighbor who had watered the plants during my absence and collected my mail, had attached a welcoming Post-it note to a bottle of white Bordeaux. The fridge was bare except for eggs and the leftover provolone cheese.

Somewhere over the Atlantic on my way back, I had debated how to tell Jennifer that I had met someone else. That would have to wait, I decided. But now I longed for someone to confide in –someone other than Jennifer, someone who’d understand. In truth, I could not think of anyone I could talk to about Amanda because an admission of my infatuation would be exacerbated the pain of having misplayed my hand. I’d feel uncomfortable, and on top of it slightly embarrassed. Or not so slightly. I should think about her a little less, I said to myself, so that in time I’d forget her. But God, I would have loved to hear her voice now.

I phoned Alex.

He answered at the first ring.

“It’s late, I know, but I’m glad you’re still up and about,” I said.

“Welcome back,” Alex said. “Peggy’s asleep. I’m having a Heineken. You just got in?”

“Yes.”

“The place looks much better than before. Infinitely better.”

“Yeah, another triumph of democracy.” Alex’s sarcasm had the subtlety of a cavalry charge. “Spreading democracy is our new mission in the world, according to the leader of the free world.”

“I wouldn’t call Russia a democracy. But about that some other time.” I paused. “What else is new?”

“Buyouts are coming. They’re going to eliminate the book section. Other sections aren’t far behind. Shut down ten foreign bureaus.”

“I don’t like these rumors,” I said.

“Nobody does. Not even Kevin, I guess, but he’ll do the dirty work for the bean counters.”

“You can’t blame him,” I rebuked him. “You’d do it too if you were the chief editor.”

“Incidentally,” Alex said, “your buddy from Langley is apparently getting a big promotion. Saw it in yesterday’s Times.”

“He’s not my buddy.”

”I’m kidding. Don’t be so fucking serious. I thought you’d be interested.” Alex paused. “Did you accomplish what you set out to accomplish?”

I hesitated a moment. “Yes and no.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am, a little.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Some weird things happened. Someone was running interference from here. I think I need to talk to your friend Bob…” Bob Pittman was Alex’s childhood friend who recently quit his job at deputy chief of the FBI Technical Services department and moved for a ton of money, stock options, and other perks to one of the newly established security firms that have sprung up all over Northern Virginia after September 11, 2001. My hope was that he would be able to trace the mysterious e-mail address before I met Holz.

Alex interrupted quickly, “We’d better not talk about it over the phone. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, right? We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Jesus! You really think we’re being listened to?”

“I’m not guessing, dude. I know.”

“Oh, c’mon, man. Aren’t you being paranoid?” People who expect the worst, I thought, will always see the worst.

“Fuck you. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that the paranoids create the things they fear.”

This led to an icy silence on the line before I heard him inhaling deeply. “Let me tell you one thing: perhaps a paranoiac is a person in full possession of the facts.” Then he added sarcastically, “Lots of shit happened here recently.”

“Big Brother’s watching us?”

“You bet your sweet cheeks. They’re monitoring everything, our calls, our e-mails…”

“The feds?”

“Who else? All very hush-hush.”

“Well, look at it from their point of view…”

“Are you kidding me?” Alex cut in frostily, “Start seeing things from their point of view and you get paralyzed.”

“They need a court order…”

“They invoke national security, and that’s all they need. You know these neo-con extremists have taken over the government: Cheney, Rumsfeld.”

“Now why would they eavesdrop on our conversation?”

“Because it’s completely insane what we’re doing.” I heard Alex exhale into the phone. “It’s done automatically, dude.”

“Like how?”

“Computers are programmed to look for certain key words and phrases. They also have lists of suspects. Like I have a Syrian car mechanic who—being a Moslem —is a potential suspect. So the Syrian calls to ask if he should replace the gasket and the NSA picks up the conversation. Bingo, your name gets on a list of people associating with potential suspects. Something like that. And you can imagine phone calls from the Trib building. It’s appalling.”

“I saw nothing about it in the papers.”

“What planet do you live on?” He halted. “You find real news on Comedy Central. Jon Stewart is the new Walter Cronkite, telling it like it is.”

I wondered what Jon Stewart had to do with anything. Wasn’t he a comedian? I wasn’t up with the gossip, I thought. “What about Trib? And the Times and the Post?”

“We all sneak in bits of news. Hate to say it, but thanks God for the Times editorial and op-ed pages. Not the front page, though. This administration chokes off access to anyone running a hard-hitting story.”

“Brow-beating is an old game, Alex. Have you talked to Page? He knows about it?”

“Kevin!” Alex laughed with an exaggerated doze of amusement.

“Yeah, Kevin.”

“Of course I told him right away. So did Bob Schmitz. Schmitz is doing intelligence, as you know.”

“And?”

“Kevin says I’m paranoid. He told Schmitz that unless he has someone willing to be quoted by name, there was no point in even bringing up the subject. Now, tell me, who the fuck’s going to speak for the record in this atmosphere? Schmitz, to his credit, made an oblique reference to widespread NSA snooping. The story made a deep inside page. So did his piece suggesting we’re preparing to invade Iraq.”

“Yes.”

“Just window dressing! Let’s talk tomorrow,” Alex said.

“Now, don’t forget about Bob.” Talking to Pittman was my priority number one.

“First thing in the morning.”

After I hung up, I was suddenly wide-awake. I was conscious of the adrenaline surge running through my body. It was unlikely, I knew, that I’d go to sleep any time soon. I considered phoning Rick, but then decided to it would be far better to send him a long e-mail detailing the highlights of my trip before putting in a call.