Mistress

Chapter 71

I sit on a bench outside the Bender Library looking over the Quad, where I spent four years eating my lunch or throwing a Frisbee or playing Hacky Sack between classes. The Quad is sort of the heart of American University’s main campus, a rectangular lawn bordered by the library on one end and the Kay Spiritual Life Center on the other. It’s crisscrossed with pedestrian walkways and has a seating area in the middle, complete with concrete benches. Some of the main academic buildings are situated along the borders. I haven’t been here since, oh, I think it was 2008, when I covered a student demonstration protesting the genocide in Darfur, complete with a mock refugee camp and a “die-in,” where all the students lay across the lawn to simulate the mass casualties.

After I’ve told him my lengthy narrative-the tale of Benjamin Casper over the last two weeks-Professor Bogomolov, seated next to me, puts a frail hand on my shoulder. “A most troubling story,” he says.

He should know about troubling stories. Andrei Bogomolov was born in the Soviet city of Leningrad, now Saint Petersburg, where he studied psychiatry and history. But he wanted to live free in the West. So in 1974, while serving as a psychiatrist on a Soviet boat, he jumped ship off the Ivory Coast and swam ashore. The KGB chased him through Ghana, where he reportedly was hidden by Peace Corps volunteers in a camp and later smuggled to the US embassy in Accra, where he was granted political asylum. The whole matter led to an international dustup in the heat of the Cold War period. (Can there be heat during a Cold War?)

Anyway, Andrei came to American University to get a PhD in Russian history and never left. He’s been part of the history department ever since. He’s one of those professors who likes to sit out on the Quad eating his lunch with the students, enjoying the sunlight on his face and, I suppose, the feeling of freedom as well.

I took one of his classes while I was an undergrad here, but the truth is, I’ve known Andrei since I was a kid. He and my father were colleagues in the history department for decades. Andrei would come to our house for dinner, always showing up with a present, usually some Russian coin and a story to go along with it.

After Mother’s death, he was particularly nice to me. I remember him telling me about harsh winters in Russia, hunger pains in his stomach, a feeling that he had no control over his own destiny, and how his faith in God got him through all of it. You can suffer anything, Benjamin, he used to tell me, if you believe in yourself and God.

I haven’t talked to Andrei in years, probably not since Father’s funeral, but I remember him being a man of understatement. After experiencing what he experienced, I guess most things pale in comparison.

“A most troubling story,” he repeats.

“Operation Delano, Andrei,” I say.

He nods. He knew that was the question I was going to ask him, and his reaction tells me I’ve come to the right place. Ever since I heard the phrase, and then learned about Alexander Kutuzov, I’ve been thinking about the Russians. If anybody would know about the Russians, it’s Andrei.

“Very well,” he finally says. “Operation Delano.”