The Bearpit

4

Moscow’s signal, activating the mission for which most of his operational life had been spent in preparation, bewildered Yevgennie Levin. Galina had always been part of it and was prepared but the children, Natalia and Petr, were always going to be confused, unknowing. Which the planning had allowed for with the positive agreement that they would remain together, as a family, never divided. So the signal coming when Natalia was in Moscow was nonsense!

Levin’s was a cell-like room, a small box within a bigger box at the United Nations headquarters, but his seniority at least gave him a view of the East River. A linked line of barges, flat in the water, made a disjointed, arthritic line downstream in the direction of the unseen Statue of Liberty and the sea beyond, pushed officiously by a fat-bellied tug that seemed inadequate for the job. What about his adequacy for the job towards which he was now being prematurely pushed? At the self-question the nervousness positively vibrated through him, making the supposed recall cable shake in his hand. Despite all the training he didn’t really know what was to come: they had only been able to guess and to suggest and now the moment was here – the moment he had grown increasingly frightened would actually arrive – it all seemed utterly insufficient. Enough uncertainties then, without the inexplicable complication of Natalia trapped in Moscow. It could only be a mistake, an oversight. But there was no way he could query it, get it resolved before he had to move, because to everyone at the UN mission his defection had to appear genuine. Just as the need for absolute security dictated it had to appear that way to almost everyone in Dzerzhinsky Square, as well. So he was trapped, like Natalia, before he even began. Why! agonized Levin. Why! Why! Why!

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the river view, striving for control before he confronted the rezident, which protocol decreed he do immediately. He contacted Vadim Dolya on the internal telephone and as he expected the rezident agreed to see him within thirty minutes; although the cable was designated for his attention only, Levin knew a copy would have been sent separately to the controller, who would therefore have been waiting for the approach. Levin replaced one receiver and looked at the other, the outside line, wanting to speak to Galina but never forgetting the standard, insisted-upon procedure always was to act in the belief that open Soviet connections in the United Nations were monitored by the FBI. Which after all would have been a sensible precaution for America’s counter-intelligence service to take. Russians attached to the UN had the status of international civil servants, were not governed by the radius-to-city limitations imposed upon other Soviet installations within the United States and so it was regarded – and used – by the KGB and GRU as the most important intelligence base anywhere in the world.

Levin left his cramped office to make his way to the more spacious quarters of the UN’s mineral resources unit, where his official designation as economic affairs officer had enabled him during his tenure to advise Dzerzhinsky Square of every major – and some not so major – natural mineral deposit in Western and Third World countries. He made the pretence of looking at the incoming mail and the diary of that day’s events, relieved there were no committee meetings demanding his presence, and left for the appointment with Dolya still with time to spare. Always being on time was a trait of Levin’s, which sometimes surprised people who did not know him well because he was a shambling, untidy man, stray-haired and baggily suited; not someone who would immediately appear a stickler for appointments. But then Yevgennie Levin’s entire training had been to appear different from the person he was. And forever had to remain.

Dolya’s attachment – and cover – was to the UN’s peace and security studies section, but they did not meet there because the precautions against eavesdropping extended beyond telephone lines to include the offices they occupied. Instead they talked as most of the other delegations talked when they sought conversations they did not want overheard, pacing head-bent the wide, art-donated and decorated corridors of the skyscraper building.

‘Back to Moscow, then?’ said Dolya, at once. In contrast to Levin, the rezident was a fussily neat, bespectacled man given to studying his reflection in passing mirrors, constantly to ensure everything about himself was properly in place.

‘Earlier than I expected,’ said Levin. It was essential – safer – always to be as honest as possible. So much to remember!

‘The normal tour is two years,’ pointed out Dolya.

‘I have only been here eighteen months,’ said Levin.

‘No indication of any posting beyond Moscow?’

If there had been it would have breached security to have disclosed it to Dolya, which the man knew, and Levin was surprised at the question. He wondered what would happen to the man after the defection: he was a required victim. Levin said: ‘None at all.’

‘You’ll be missed,’ said Dolya.

Levin guessed there was truth as well as politeness in the platitude. His posting within the minerals section had provided Moscow with an enormous amount of information from which the government ministries had been able to make economic calculations and assessments extending at least three years into the future, particularly involving their own oil and natural gas deposits. Matching platitude with platitude Levin said: ‘I shall miss being here.’ Then he added: ‘The recall stipulates two weeks.’

‘I will inform the secretariat: see that all the necessary paperwork is completed,’ assured Dolya. On apparent impulse he added: ‘And maybe a farewell party. Nothing too large: just a few friends. Galina would be included, of course.’

‘That would be kind,’ said Levin. There was the vaguest stir of guilt at cheating the other man.

‘Has Galina enjoyed it here?’

‘Very much.’

‘And the children?’

‘It’s been a different experience.’ Natalia! he thought. Why did there have to be this stupidity with Natalia!

‘Perhaps whatever you do next will be as worthwhile,’ said Dolya.

‘I hope so,’ said Levin, with more feeling than the other man would ever know.

‘Is there anything else I can do apart from the bureaucratic formalities?’ offered Dolya generously.

‘Nothing,’ said Levin. Poor bastard, he thought.

‘You’ll be taking back as much electrical stuff as possible?’ anticipated Dolya, because every returning Russian did. ‘I’ll tell dispatch so they can arrange shipment. Don’t forget to buy an electrical converter: it’s surprising how many people do.’

‘I’ll remember,’ undertook Levin. Why should he feel the hypocrite he did? He was making a greater sacrifice for Russia than Dolya ever would.

‘Don’t just buy the article itself,’ urged the rezident, enjoying the role of expert. ‘Get spares, as well, for when it goes wrong.’

They had walked the complete circle of the building, arriving back where they started, and Levin knew the other man expected the conversation to end: take-home spoils were always the conclusion of such encounters. He said: ‘There is something. I would like to take Galina out, sometimes, during the last few evenings.’ Despite their supposed status in the United Nations, the Soviet Union did not regard its nationals as unfettered international diplomats. They were bussed daily to and from the securely guarded compound at Riverdale, in the South Bronx, and their whereabouts at all times logged in movement books both there and throughout the UN building, so permission for any change from normal had to be granted.

The KGB rezident looked up sharply from his head-bent stance against any directional microphone intercept or visual lipreading and said: ‘Take her out!’

Levin felt a jump of unease. ‘A restaurant. The theatre, maybe…’ He smiled, inviting the other man’s understanding after the lecture on the superiority of American consumer goods. ‘Whatever or wherever the next posting, I doubt it will be anything like New York.’

‘It could be London? Paris?’ suggested Dolya.

‘Still not the same.’ Please don’t let the imbecile become suspicious, not at this moment! Another contingency for which no allowance had been made.

Dolya smiled, an expression as abrupt as his looking up from the protective conversation. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Nothing is quite like New York.’

‘You approve it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Two or three nights, that’s all.’

‘Advise me in advance.’

Levin wondered how deeply the local KGB chief would later personally regret this particular acquiescence: he sincerely hoped it would not be too bad for the man. He said: ‘Of course. Every time.’

‘Travel safely, Yevgennie Pavlovich.’

Of everything that had happened on this uncertain day, the unexpected invocation of one of the oldest Russian proverbs came close to causing Levin’s open collapse. He swallowed against the sensation, feigning a cough so that he could raise a hand to his mouth to cover his distress from the other man. ‘To return to be your companion again, Vadim Alekseevich,’ he said, completing the rote-like ritual. He listened intently to the sound of his own voice, surprised at its evenness.

The recall notice gave Levin the excuse to leave ahead of the normal, mass departure of the other Soviet officials. He felt safe telephoning ahead, to warn Galina he would be early: she was too well prepared to respond wrongly over the open line but Levin was confident she would understand something was happening because he rarely departed from normality when he was working within the confines of the United Nations.

She was still cautious when he entered the compound apartment, following his lead, which he offered quickly, not wanting her to give any blurted sort of reaction too soon to be discerned by those who daily transcribed the monitors he knew to be installed in their apartment. Very early in the posting Levin had found three listening devices in the most obvious places – the telephone receiver, the light socket and inside the actual keyhole of the door separating the living room from the main bedroom – before abandoning the search as a useless exercise, because he knew they were the ones he was expected to find and that there would be others more cleverly concealed. Quickly, to guide her, he said: ‘I thought we might go out tonight. Dinner, I mean.’

Galina, who was as heavy as her husband, bulge-hipped and droop-busted, but unlike Levin worked harder to disguise it, always dressing carefully in voluminous, folding dresses and smocks, was instantly alert, aware of two departures from the norm within the space of an hour. ‘A mission party?’ she probed tentatively.

‘Just the two of us.’

Galina knew from Levin’s monitoring search that there was no visual surveillance. Confident therefore that the gesture was safe she nodded, knowingly, raising her voice in apparant anticipation. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Petr will be all right by himself,’ Levin insisted, in further guidance to her that their son was not to accompany them.

Galina became sober-faced in more complete awareness, but for the benefit of the listening devices she maintained the necessary charade. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’ll be quite all right.’

Levin decided upon the Cafe Europa on 54th Street, not talking within earshot of the cab driver on the way and politely asking when they arrived for their table to be changed, to ensure greater privacy. Galina had been involved from the beginning – that had been one of Levin’s insistences – so there was no necessity for detailed explanations. He still watched her intently as he spoke, alert for her reaction to match his earlier bewilderment.

‘This morning?’ she demanded, not able to believe it either.

‘Waiting for me when I arrived.’ He was glad of the waiter’s interruption for drinks orders although it delayed the inevitable question by only a few seconds.

‘How long?’

‘A fortnight.’

Galina looked at him doubtfully, as if she had misheard. Then, flatly, she said: ‘Natalia is not due back from Moscow for another month.’

‘Do you think I need reminding of that!’

‘So it’s got to be a mistake.’

‘Which I can’t do anything to rectify.’

‘You must query it!’

‘How can I!’

‘How can you not!’

‘I can’t go back!’ protested Levin. ‘I’d wreck years of preparation. The punishment would be their using the association with the FBI as the very evidence to send me to a gulag. Maybe worse. I’m helpless: we’re both helpless.’

The woman waited until the drinks were put before them and the waiter withdrew and then she said, quiet-voiced: ‘My darling Yevgennie Pavlovich. From the beginning, all those years ago in Moscow, I agreed to be in this with you. I agreed to defect with you and to live for the rest of my life in whatever unreal sort of existence I would be called upon to endure just to be with you. Because I love you. I’ll always love you. But I love our son and daughter just as much; maybe more, in some ways, because they’ll need greater protection than you do. Because they don’t know: they’ll never be able to know. You’re properly trained… a professional. For them it was always going to be a monumental upheaval, changing their lives, just like that…’ Galina stopped, snapping her fingers. She took up again: ‘I was prepared for that monumental upheaval: to help them and to explain as much as I could to them and maybe in time – a very long time – to make them understand you weren’t the traitor to your country they would believe you to be…’ She stopped, swallowing heavily from her drink, needing it. ‘I only ever made one condition. That we were never split. I will not do it… cannot do it, with Natalia still in Russia. Neither of us can.’

‘I’ll get her out,’ blurted Levin. ‘Not at once, of course. That won’t be possible. But in time. In time they’ll let her out…’

Galina shook her head sadly. ‘We can’t be certain of that, my darling. We can’t take that risk.’

‘Can we take the other risk!’

‘Not without Natalia,’ insisted the woman adamantly, refusing to answer the question. ‘I won’t go without Natalia.’

‘Things are different, under Gorbachov!’

‘Stop it, Yevgennie Pavlovich!’ said the woman sadly.

‘You’ve got to choose.’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘I’ll make a meeting, with the Americans…’

‘…What can they do?’ interrupted Galina objectively.

‘I can’t go without you.’

‘I can’t go without the children. Both of them.’

‘I don’t know what to do!’ said Levin, who did but did not want to confront the decision.

‘You really can’t go back, can you?’ accepted Galina.

‘No,’ he said shortly.

‘Why did it have to happen like this!’

‘I don’t know.’

The waiter arrived to take their order from a menu at which neither of them had looked.

‘What do you want?’ asked Levin.

‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘We’d better eat something,’ he said. ‘For appearance sake.’

‘Appearance sake!’ erupted Galina bitterly. ‘Always for appearance sake! Will there ever be a time when we can do something other than for appearance sake!’

‘I hope so,’ said Levin doubtfully. ‘One day.’ He’d never imagined it was going to be as bad as this. And it hadn’t even started yet.

Major Lev Konstantinovich Panchenko, the deputy security commander for the First Chief Directorate, stumped heavy-booted into Kazin’s office, a recruiting poster image of a militarily trained officer, shaven-headed, polished-face, starch-stiff. The salute was like the movement of machinery: he stood ramrod straight, eyes pitched just above Kazin’s head.

‘At ease,’ said Kazin.

There was a barely perceptible relaxation from the other man.

‘Comrade Major,’ opened Kazin, almost conversationally. ‘You have been attached to this Directorate security division for ten years?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘It is a vocation you enjoy?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘One in which you see a continuing future?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘Comrade Major Panchenko, for the past five of those ten years you accepted money from Jews seeking exit visas to Israel: bribes for linking them with the responsible officials at the Dutch embassy from which they can obtain finance necessary to purchase those exits,’ announced Kazin. ‘Through a KGB deputy in Tbilisi you import once a fortnight prime Georgian fruit and meat, for black market sale on a street stall in Moscow…’ The knee-pumping man stopped, apparently to consult some notes. ‘… The KGB deputy’s name is Afansasiev,’ Kazin recited. ‘The market is in Grebnoy Alley, every Wednesday. You have also, on occasions, exchanged money in the foreign currency bars at the Rossiya and Intourist hotels…’

Panchenko remained statued, gaze fixed over Kazin’s head.

‘Well?’ demanded Kazin.

‘Nothing to say,’ replied Panchenko, tight-lipped.

‘Under the corruption legislation introduced by Comrade General Secretary Gorbachov you are liable to fifteen years’ imprisonment.’

Panchenko still did not speak.

‘But I do not intend to initiate proceedings,’ disclosed Kazin. ‘I intend to promote you to replace the comrade colonel commanding this security division…’ Again Kazin paused. Then he added: ‘Who tried to switch the entire investigation on to you, when he himself came under suspicion. You really should not have trusted him as a business associate. Not to be relied on. Not, like I am, a man to be relied on. Never forget the need for loyalty, will you?’

‘Never, Comrade First Deputy,’ assured the man immediately.

‘You’ll remove all the evidence from records once you get your appointment, of course,’ predicted Kazin. ‘Never forget, either, that I have a complete file, will you?’

‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘That from now on you are absolutely dependent upon me?’

‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’

The old ways, the good old ways, thought Kazin.

In Kabul, Yuri Malik moved away from Ilena, not wanting the irritating distraction of sex, listening incredulously as she recounted the details of the cable traffic that had passed between the Afghan capital and Moscow.

When she finished Yuri said distantly: ‘Maybe there really is a Comrade God.’ And without the need for press-ups, he thought.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, confused by his reaction.

‘Neither do I,’ admitted Yuri. But he would, he determined: very soon he would.