Chernobyl

Chapter 39

What Park Avenue once was to New York City is what Gorky Street is to Moscow. People who live there matter. The apartments in the buildings on Gorky Street are light and airy. Walls meet each other at right angles, doors close without a body block, and no one tries to enforce the nine-square-meters-a-person rule. Cars, like Johnny Stark's baby-blue Cadillac Eldorado convertible, are not pulled up on the sidewalk and protected with tarpaulins. They are in roomy garages, and it is not only the cars that have plenty of room. The people who live on Gorky Street are ballerinas and film stars, pianists and chess champions, the brothers of members of the Central Committee and the grandsons of great generals. Of course, they all have dachas. Of course, they travel abroad. It is a paradox of Gorky Street that these people whose homes are so spacious occupy them so little of the time.

Emmaline Branford had never been at a party in a Gorky Street flat before. At first she kept very quiet, because she had not been wrong. These people were far out of her league. The skinny uniformed man with the prematurely bald head — all those stars on his shoulderboards surely meant that he was a general. The pretty woman with the plump young man at her arm was, Emmaline was nearly sure, a featured dancer from the Leningrad Kirov, and the man the dancer was talking to was a

Bolshoi opera baritone. As far as Emmaline could see, she and Pembroke Williamson were the only Americans present — not counting Johnny Stark's wife — but the elderly woman with blue hair was something in French motion pictures, and the young couple in hiking boots turned out to be Australian. Emmaline stayed close to Pembroke's shadow until the third or fourth interesting man bore down on her to practice his English or let her work on her Russian. The first had been a film director, another, oh, my God, a cosmonaut!

Then she remembered that her color made her, too, a kind of special celebrity in Moscow.

The red crepe had been, after all, not one bit too dressy, because these other women were at least as stylish as she, and none of their clothing had come from Lerner's. The dancer's pearls were certainly real. And Johnny Stark's wife, the American — well, the former American — was really quite modestly dressed, until you looked at the rock on her finger that could not be less than three carats.

Emmaline could not imagine why in the world she had been asked here.

When Pembroke called to say he had been invited by Johnny Stark to the party — though it wasn't really Stark's party, just a friend's — and that she was invited too—"Yes, by all means bring a guest, and why not that very pretty American girl who was at the offices of Mir with you?" — Emmaline had been close to refusing. To be sure, it was an opportunity direct from heaven for a junior dip in Moscow, for such doors were very seldom opened to Americans from the Embassy.

But ten seconds of thought convinced her that she couldn't pass up the chance to be the only American diplomat in Moscow to be a personal guest of the famous (and mysterious) Johnny Stark. So here she was, rubbing elbows with the cream of Moscow's jet set, listening to a short young man with a very nearly punk haircut tell her how much he wanted to sing some of his Soviet rock songs in America.

At least the singer had maneuvered her over to the table with the food, and for the moment she was content to listen to his tortured attempts to define his music—"Not Prince, not the Grateful Dead, perhaps one could say a — a suspicion, is it? — of the Stones, yes" — while she ate as many slices of the perfectly red-ripe tomatoes and loaded thin-crisp toast with as much of the fresh black caviar as she could manage. She had long since lost sight of Pembroke, last seen talking earnestly to the man in the general's uniform through the translation of Johnny Stark's wife. The rock-singer man (at close range he was not all that young) did not require much conscious attention apart from an occasional nod of understanding.

That was welcome to Emmaline, because it gave her time to think about what she was doing here. It was certain that Johnny Stark had not made a point of having her invited simply because she was pretty, or even because she was black.

No. There was surely a reason, she told herself. People like Johnny Stark didn't do things on lighthearted impulse. Did he plan to get her drunk so that she would babble secret CIA plans into a hidden microphone? There was certainly enough champagne around for that, but no one was forcing her to drink to excess. Come to that, Johnny Stark was too sharp an article to expect any secrets from her, because he was undoubtedly aware that she wasn't the kind of person who would know any big ones.

There had to be some other reason for her presence here with Pembroke. Emmaline wondered wistfully if she would ever find out what it was.

She was so wrapped up in her imaginings that she didn't even realize the rock singer had gone off to find a more sympathetic ear until Johnny Stark himself touched her arm. He handed her a fresh glass of wine and said amiably, in perfecdy American English, "Are you having a good time among our Hollywood types? I hope so. That's your privilege, being the prettiest girl in the room."

She gave him a diplomat's smile, since he was talking diplomat talk. "I haven't met any Hollywood types yet."

Not counting yourself, she meant. Stark was wearing a black silk shirt open to his breastbone, with a heavy medallion on a heavy gold chain, and he looked like every Russian's image of a Hollywood producer. He said, "Well, that's what Teddy threw this party for, for some of the film people in town for their union congress. But I'm afraid a lot of them are still battling over the elections. Have you heard what they did today? They've thrown over the traces completely, elected that madman Elem Klimov First Secretary of the union."

Emmaline blinked. Soviet trade unions did not "throw over the traces." Such things never happened. She tried to place the name. "Is Klimov the one who made Go and See?"

"Yes, exactly. All rape and bloodshed. I suppose you could call it our equivalent of Straw Dogs or Apocalypse Now. He's quite mad, you know. Poor fellow, his wife was killed in a car smash — very tragic — and he still talks to her ghost every night. God knows what he'll do with the union." He glanced around. Still smiling, he went on. "Actually, I've been wondering if you'd like to see some of my ikons? I've promised to show them to our honored guest, and I thought you and Pembroke might like to come along. A car? Oh, we don't need a car. My place is just upstairs. What you in America would call the penthouse."

"Well," said Emmaline, trying to estimate what Stark had in mind, "I think I should at least say good-bye to my host—"

"Oh, Teddy's off somewhere. I'll do it for you later."

"Well," she looked around uncertainly, "what about Pembroke…"

"Already asked him," Stark grinned. "He was pretty gung-ho. He never expected a chance to spend a little time with a member of the Central Committee."

For Emmaline it was exactly as though someone had touched her with one of those electric tinglers unpleasant people goose girls with at veterans' conventions. She shuddered. Every muscle tightened. She hardly heard the name of the polite elderly man she was introduced to — was it Mishko? — because the reverberations of the words "Central Committee" drowned everything else.

Junior dips never ever got to meet members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

She was only vaguely aware of the elevator Stark bundled the four of them into (though it was at least three times the size of the one for her own flat, and quite noiseless). She noticed that the room Stark led them into was huge and pleasandy air-conditioned, but that was only because she found that she was shivering slightly. She gazed unseeingly at Stark's ikons, though the one from (Stark told them) sixteenth-century Byelorussia was not only as large as the Mona Lisa and crusted in gold leaf, but had track lights discreetly playing on it. She didn't really recover her wits until she found herself sitting on an embroidery-upholstered chaise longue, next to a coffee table with the latest issues of The Economist, Der Spiegel, and The New Yorker, and Stark began to speak.

His tone was good-humored but rather serious. "And now, perhaps we can have a bit of serious, talk, eh? Off the record, as you say. To help us understand each other, so that we can help our countries do so. One moment," he added apologetically, and switched to Russian for Mishko's benefit, while at the same time opening a tiny freezer to pull out four icy glasses and a botde of straw-colored liquor.

When Mishko replied, Stark translated. "He says this would please him very much. He says that we can speak honestly if not absolutely openly — there are, of course, some things that even candid friends should not say to one another, and let us appoint one another honorary friends for this evening — especially when one of our little circle is in the diplomatic service of the United States."

He smiled at Emmaline tolerantly. So, she thought, I'm here unofficially so that I can report unofficially. But what? Mishko, watching shrewdly, cut in. He spoke in Russian, di-recdy to Emmaline. "You do not have to promise not to report this to your organs. I would not ask for a promise you couldn't keep. In any case, if you do, it will become a classified document in their files which no one will be allowed to read for twenty-five years, and by then it won't matter."

Stark translated swiftly for Pembroke, pouring icy vodka into each of the icy glasses. "I toast the antidrunkenness campaign," he said. "Please don't think I'm mocking it. I approve of it. I now limit my own drinking to two glasses a day, no more than two days a week, except on special occasions. This is one."

When they had all drunk, Mishko spoke. "If we are to speak candidly," he proposed good-humoredly, "let us start with small things. I have a small thing I have wanted to talk to an American about. It is your films. I have seen your White Nights and Moscow on the Hudson. In one of them, every Russian is evil. In the other, we are all half-wits. Why are there not any American films which sometimes show at least one Russian as a decent human being?"

"Because it would flop at the box office," Pembroke predicted when Stark-had translated. "There is only one supreme rule for our American filmmakers. Their films must not lose money. They will be forgiven for anything else, but not that."

"Ah, yes, the capitalist devotion to the dollar."

Pembroke was shaking his head before Stark finished putting the sentence into English. "Yes. But also no. It is the way capitalism works, but that way is not necessarily bad. McDonald's serves better food than the buffet in a Soviet hotel. Why? The people who run McDonald's are better motivated. They know if they don't satisfy their customers, they're out of business. What motivates them is money."

"In fact," Stark put in in English, when he was through with the Russian, "even V. I. Lenin encouraged small private ventures during the period of the New Economic Policy, for just that reason."

"And you could try it again," Pembroke grinned. "Especially in your restaurants. Is it my turn to bring up a small thing? Then let it be this: why do the doormen in every halfway decent restaurant in Moscow work so hard to keep customers out?"

"A good question," Stark applauded. "I have my own answer, but first let's defer to Mr. Mishko." He rapidly translated the question and relayed Mishko's answer. "Mr. Mishko suggests it is mostly because these jobs are given to old people, and old people of any country are likely to be crotchety. I have a different theory. I think it is because of the rule of 'eternal vigilance.' Every Soviet child is educated to be on guard at every moment against enemies of the state — shirkers, black marketeers, drunkards. Oh, and worse than that, of course, but your average ten-year-old child does not encounter many traitors or CIA agents in his playground. To be sure, many of these children themselves grow up to be drunkards and black marketeers. But they never forget 'eternal vigilance.' Then they achieve a position of some authority — doorman in a restaurant, ticket taker at a theater, conductor on a trolleybus. They guard their portals! And they do it ever vigilantly. No trespassers! When in doubt, say no, because to be too vigilant is only an excess of zeal, but not to be vigilant enough threatens the state — so each one is as consecrated as an agent of the KGB itself!"

He was grinning as he elaborated his thesis, and Pembroke and Emmaline returned his smile. But as Stark translated for Mishko's benefit, his own smile faltered before the expression on the face of the man from the Central Committee. There was a rapid interchange which Emmaline could not follow. Then Stark said, with just a touch of strain in his voice, "Our honored guest has rebuked me. He says that I speak of the KGB as Americans do in their spy novels, whereas in fact the organs of the state are, in a sense, the elements which lead us to a more complete democracy."

"Oh, reallycried Emmaline, unable to help herself.

"Yes, really," Stark said firmly. "Mr. Mishko is quite correct. You have the opinion, I am sure, that the Soviet Union has become more 'liberal,' as you would say, in the past ten years or so. And who brought this about? First Andropov, himself a former head of the KGB. Now Gorbachev, Andropov's proteg6. You are quite mistaken if you think the KGB are all cold warriors, like your own spies and operatives. They—"

He hesitated, then shrugged, smiling again. He took the botde out of the freezer again, with four new icy glasses. As he poured, he said, "And so we see how quickly we move from small things to big ones!"

The big things got quickly bigger. Emmaline knew what was coming, and yet was surprised when old Mr. Mishko moved at once to Star Wars. "Since it is my turn, I ask why America is more interested in building new weapons in space than in nuclear disarmament?"

Pembroke turned his empty glass around in his hand. "Does Mr. Mishko think Star Wars will work?" he asked.

The answer came back quickly: "As a 'nuclear umbrella' to protect that pretty little girl we see on American television, no. Of course not. Our scientists say such a total defensive shield is quite impossible, and our scientists are quite intelligent. For that matter, most of your own scientists say the same."

"Then why do you oppose it?"

"Because, first, if it worked even partially, it would be an excellent adjunct to a first strike, made without warning — and your country has always refused to abjure any first use of nuclear weapons. Second, in the course of working on it, you will come up with some very troubling new weapons. These

X-ray lasers with which you propose to destroy our missiles in flight, for example. If they can shoot down a thousand missiles in five minutes, then surely they could, for example, set fire to all of our cities. Is that an effective way to wage a war? Ask the people of Dresden or Tokyo! But," Stark went on, raising a hand as Pembroke was about to speak, "Mr. Mishko asks me to point out that he has answered your questions, but you have not answered his. Why?"

This time Pembroke didn't hesitate. "Americans are afraid of you," he said. "They're afraid that if there's a treaty you'll cheat."

Emmaline's nerves jumped. She had not expected so explicit a word as "cheat." But when Stark translated, Mishko only said, "Yes, we have been accused of cheating. But is it not your rule that even one who is accused is considered innocent until he has been proven guilty?"

Pembroke said stubbornly, "That works only when you have a judge and a jury — and a sentence passed on a person found guilty. There is no international criminal code."

"We have a World Court, which has found America guilty of, for example, mining the harbors of Nicaragua."

Pembroke hesitated. "I'm not in favor of the Contras, and I'm not too crazy about underhanded acts of war. I don't like the CIA much better than the KGB. But that World Court is a joke. It may be biased, as my President claims. It is certainly toothless. It can condemn, but it has no way to punish."

"Because it has no power. Would you give it the power to punish a country such as your own?"

"Would you?"

Mishko took his own turn to think for a moment. "It is not up to me," he said through Stark, "but if it were, I don't think I would. You see, we don't trust Americans, either. You had a treaty that obligated you never to invade the territory of any other American state, but you broke it when you attacked Grenada. You bombed Libya without any declaration of war. Was that any different from Pearl Harbor? You condemn hijacking, but your own Air Force hijacked the civilian plane of a friendly nation over international waters in order to capture the people you blamed for the Achille Lauro—that is defined as piracy—"

"Now, wait!"

"A moment, please," said Stark, in the middle of translation. "There was one more thing. Your CIA overthrew the government of Chile, and didn't even have the decency to do it in the open. Now," he said pleasantly, "what was it you wanted to say, Pembroke?"

Pembroke was scowling. "I was going to say that the Achille Lauro people were terrorists, but I've got a better idea. Let me run through a little list of my own. Your country has not lived up to the Helsinki declaration on human rights. You built a radar at Krasnoyarsk that violates the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. Your jolly, sweet KGB operates a gulag archipelago that—"

But Stark was holding up his hand. "Can I translate that much before you go on, please? I don't want to get it wrong." And when he had finished, and Pembroke was ready to continue with his list, Mishko grinned broadly and leaned forward to gently slap Pembroke's knee.

Emmaline was astonished to hear Mishko say directly to Pembroke, in slow, thick English: "I speak to you 'Vietnam' and you speak 'Afghanistan.' I speak 'El Salvador,' you speak 'Poland.' I speak 'Bay of Pigs,' you speak 'Hungary.' So for that cause — for cause—" He shrugged and abandoned the attempt at English. He finished in Russian, and Stark translated.

"Therefore, Mr. Mishko says, we might as well stop hurling epithets at each other and talk seriously of problems. He thought the discussion of Star Wars was quite valuable. Have you a question you would like to put to Mr. Mishko?" And before Pembroke could speak, he went on, caressing his gold medallion as he spoke. The tone of his voice didn't change, but there was something in his expression — a tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes? — that made Emmaline sit up as Stark spoke. "I remember the other day you were asking about some rumors about a secret document. Miss Branford, too, I think, has asked some questions. Would you like to ask Mr. Mishko to comment on it?"

Mishko's demeanor changed too. He didn't scowl. He simply listened very attentively, nodding encouragement to continue each time Stark translated a sentence or two of what Pembroke was saying. "What I heard was a rumor, secondhand at that. Of course, I'd rather not say where I heard it." He went on to describe what he had heard, with particular emphasis on the most revolutionary aspects — the ending of censorship, the free elections with even separate political parties.

When he was finished, he waited while Stark and the man from the Central Committee talked back and forth for a while. Then Stark turned to the Americans. "He asked what I had answered you when you first brought the subject up," he reported. "I told him that I said, as you remember, that I had no personal knowledge of such a thing and wondered if it might be a fake originating with anti-Party emigre elements in the West."

"That's what you said to me, all right," Pembroke agreed. "What does Mr. Mishko say?"

"I'll ask him," said Stark, and reported the result sentence by sentence. "First, Mr. Mishko says that free elections can happen without any change in Soviet laws, and in fact they do. He mentioned what we discussed earlier, Miss Branford, the results of the elections in the filmmakers' union today, where the membership simply rejected the proposed list of officers entirely and elected a whole new opposition slate. So such things do happen in the USSR, though of course they are rare—"

"I'll say," Pembroke grunted.

He got a scowl from Stark for that, but then Stark continued. "Mr. Mishko points out that the possibility that an anonymous document is a fake cannot be excluded. Also, persons in high positions have quite adequate means of arguing cases without resort to samizdat. However, the leadership of the Party and the nation does not wear blinders. It is constantly examining all possible alternatives. All of them can be proposed and discussed. Those that have merit are adopted. But the leadership is not a string of paper soldiers. All sides of a question may be argued, and some people propose projects that are rejected. So, even if the document is a forgery, it is possible that some parts of it do in fact represent the views of certain high officials — but, Mr. Mishko says, not a majority" — Stark smiled—"or else it would have been printed in Pravda instead of in samizdat."

As Pembroke waited with Emmaline for her bus, she said thoughtfully, "Johnny Stark knew I'd been asking questions about that manifesto."

"Does that prove he's KGB?"

Emmaline shrugged. What she thought was that it proved two people were KGB — both Stark and Rima, the person she had hinted to about it — but she didn't say that. She only said, "You know, at first I thought it was very indiscreet of him to invite us to talk to this Mr. Mishko — I've absolutely got to look him up, first thing in the morning, and find out who we were talking to! But I don't think Stark's ever indiscreet."

"So what do you think was happening up there?"

"God knows! It looked like somebody was trying to score some points off somebody else. About what?" Emmaline shrugged. "Stark was the one who brought up that mysterious seventeen-page document, right?"

"But he didn't say much about it himself."

"Maybe he wanted to see what Mishko would say. Maybe they think Mishko's involved in it. They're both pretty big wheels, you know. The KGB can't just haul Mishko in and interrogate him, so maybe Stark was trying to get a rise out of him." She sighed. "Whatever it was, I don't think you and I will ever find out the score."

"Not even with glasnosO"

"There will never," Emmaline told him seriously, "be that much glasnost."