Mistress

Chapter 90

Professor Andrei Bogomolov leads me through his house toward his back patio. But I stop in the den and watch the television, which of course is covering nothing but the events I just witnessed firsthand. An aerial view of the scene shows a black crater where the Russians’ SUV once rested. Rescue vehicles are everywhere, and bodies are being lifted on gurneys. Too early for a casualty estimate. The fact that this event took place about eight blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, after a 911 call from an anonymous cell phone warned of an attack on the White House, seems to be occupying the thoughts of the reporters and commentators more than anything else.

“Come,” Andrei urges me. “That story isn’t going anywhere. Let us sit outside.”

We pass the kitchen, where bottles of pills are lined up on the counter, where an IV drip rests in the corner. Cancer would be my guess, but it’s Andrei’s decision whether to tell me. I need to know a lot of things from Andrei right now, but that isn’t one of them.

“I should assume that what I was watching on television involves you in some manner?” he says to me, as he carefully settles into a cheap lawn chair on the brick patio. He has a small yard back here-it seemed huge when I was a kid-and a garden of flowers and plants that are precisely arranged in rows and columns.

“Why don’t we stop talking about assumptions and predictions,” I say. “And why don’t we start talking about what you know.”

Andrei looks up at me, then blinks away the eye contact and looks over his garden.

“Tell me that story again,” I say. “The one about how you were a psychiatrist on a Soviet ship, you jumped in the water off the Ivory Coast, and swam ashore. Then the Peace Corps volunteers hid you from the KGB and smuggled you to the American embassy in Ghana. Tell me that one again, Andrei. Because when I was a kid, I thought it was the most inspirational story a man could tell.”

His expression softens. “And you now doubt this story?”

“Cut the shit, Andrei. Okay? You’ve done a remarkably accurate job of predicting what the Russians are up to. ‘Expect a terrorist act soon’? ‘The Russians are rebuilding the Soviet bloc’? You nailed it. All of it. So let’s stop pretending it was just a lucky guess.”

He doesn’t answer. Not verbally, at least. But his eyes dance as he considers what I’ve said.

“You’re CIA,” I say to him. “You’re a spy.”

A soft smile plays on his lips. I’ve taught you well, Grasshopper.

“I’m a patriot,” he answers. “I was a patriot to this country before I even lived here.”

Considering it fresh as an adult, it all makes perfect sense. An officer and psychiatrist in the Soviet military probably learned a lot of dirt. A lot of secrets. Andrei was working for us. He was passing secrets to the CIA. And then something must have happened. Maybe the Soviets were growing suspicious. Or maybe Andrei had served out the terms of his agreement with us and wanted the prize-freedom. So the CIA set it up so he could defect. Maybe he really did jump off the ship off the Ivory Coast, but I’ll bet the rest of the story is bullshit. It was coordinated. The CIA had someone waiting to whisk him away to the United States.

“Listen, good for you, Professor. But fast-forward to the present, and it sounds like you still have your ear to the ground. You still hear things. You know a lot more about what’s going on than you’re letting on. And it’s time you told me.”

Andrei always has been, and in whatever time he has left always will be, a man of discretion. He will reveal only a fraction of what he’s feeling and thinking. But I think he expected this visit from me. I think he wanted this visit.

“Sit, Benjamin,” he says, motioning to the lawn chair next to him.

I pick it up and hurl it into the yard. Then I stand directly in front of my old friend.

“What’s on the video, Andrei?” I ask.