Beautiful Assassin (21 page)

“You think so?”

“I’d bet on it. So watch what you say around him. Anything you say gets back to Vasilyev.” Viktor looked out to sea for a moment. He was a good-looking man despite the jagged scar across his cheek. When he turned back to me, he said, “Besides, he has his eye on you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He’s sweet on you.”

“Gavrilov?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

Gavrilov and I had had only a handful of conversations, and in those he seemed only to try to annoy me. Several times I happened to say something about the war, how badly it had been botched in Sevastopol, and he would take me to task on it. “Lieutenant, it is not up to us to question the strategies of our government,” he said to me once. “Ours is only to defeat the enemy.” As if the little sycophant had killed so much as one lousy German.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No. He’s quite taken by you,” Viktor advised. “So watch yourself, Lieutenant.”

“And Vasilyev?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“What’s his role in all this?”

Viktor snorted, as if the answer was all too obvious. “He’s secret police.”

“He told me he wasn’t. That he worked for something called the Ideological Department.”

“Horseshit,” he scoffed. He hawked together some phlegm and spit it over the side of the ship. “He’s NKVD, all right. The other day, I happened to be passing his cabin, and I overheard him in there talking with those two
chekisty
pricks. He was giving them hell about something.”

“Over what?”

“I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but you could tell they were afraid of him. They don’t fart unless he okays it.”

“Why do we even need them along? We’re just going to a student conference.”

Viktor stared at me, the corner of his mouth twisted into that partial smile of his.

“Don’t be so naïve, Lieutenant,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure what Vasilyev has up his sleeve, but this is not just about some student conference.”

“How do you know that?”

“Think about it, Lieutenant. It doesn’t make sense. They send three people halfway around the world, on a fully manned battleship when they need every fucking vessel to fight the krauts. Just to go to some peace conference?”

“I was told our presence might get the Americans to be more willing to open a second front,” I offered.

Viktor rolled his eyes.

“Do you really think the Yanks are going to give a damn what we have to say? A couple of Russian
vanyas
. When they don’t listen to the Old Man himself.”

“Then what do you think our purpose is?”

He shrugged, took a final drag of his cigarette, and flicked it over the side. “I don’t know. And to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit. They want to take me away from the front, let me sleep in a soft bed and give me plenty to eat, I say fine. But I tell you, they have something up their sleeves.”

“Whatever their reasons, Vasilyev told me I could return to the front as soon as it’s over.”

“You can go back to the fucking war. Me,” he said, “I just might decide to stay.”

I glanced over at him. He stared out to sea, his brown eyes squinting, as if trying to sight something in the thick mist.

“What do you mean, ‘stay’?”

“I mean, not go back. I could find myself a pretty little American
devchonka,
buy a big convertible automobile, and become a fat capitalist,” he said, smiling.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge whether he was kidding or not. He kidded around so much it was sometimes hard to tell.

“Joking like that could get you into hot water, Viktor.”

His expression, though, turned suddenly serious. “Who’s joking?” he replied. “My father was a good Party member until he crossed somebody, and they shipped him off to the camps. We’ve not heard from him since. I had a brother who fell at Smolensk. What do I owe those fucking bastards?”

“But you’re a patriot,” I said.

He laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t expect such Party bullshit from you of all people. You fought at the front. You know what it was like. How we got fucked by those lying gutless bastards.”

“All the more reason we have to remain loyal to our cause,” I replied. “We’re fighting for our country’s survival.”

“Listen, Lieutenant. Like you, I fought for my country. As did the soldiers I served with. You and I know the truth. Not the made-up bullshit those lying pricks like Vasilyev and Gavrilov write about. We were sent to fight and we were slaughtered like sheep. And for what? So that the big shots can dress in fancy suits and eat caviar, have their dachas in the country.”

“But—” I began.

Casting a glance over my shoulder, Viktor quickly brought a finger to his lips.

“Speak of the devil,” he whispered to me.

When I turned I saw Anatoly Gavrilov approaching us along the deck.

“Good morning, Comrades,” he said. “I see you are taking the air, such as it is.”

“Did you and Vasilyev decide on how you were going to win this war?” Viktor said, his sarcasm hardly contained.

Gavrilov glanced at the much taller man and drew his thin lips sharply together, as if he’d just bit into a lemon. He was short, with a dark, pointed face made all the more sharp by the Vandyke he trimmed to a fine point. Though he wore pince-nez to read, he didn’t have them on now, and his eyes appeared startled, as if he’d just come from perus
ing a book with small print. On his head he wore a brimmed leather cap, of the type Lenin once wore. It was part of his image, the goatee, the pince-nez.

Ignoring Viktor, he offered, “The captain said if we make good time, we should arrive in New York in four days.”

“If the U-boats don’t get us first,” Viktor said.

“Why such negative thoughts, Comrade?” Gavrilov replied.

Glancing at me, Viktor said, “I’m going to get something to eat.” Then he turned and walked brusquely away.

After he was gone, Gavrilov asked, “What’s the matter with him?”

I shrugged.

“I fear he drinks too much. That it’s the cause of his pessimism.”

“He served his country bravely,” I said.

“I don’t question his bravery. It’s his attitude. Comrade Vasilyev would not approve if he knew of the questionable things he says.”

“It isn’t your place to tell him.”

“Of course I would never tell on him,” he said, suddenly indignant. “And how are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

“Better,” I replied.

“I am glad to hear it. Let us hope you are fully recovered by the time we get to New York. It will demand much of us all.”

“How so?”

He stroked his beard. “We must show the capitalists our resolve. Our iron will to defeat the fascists. As you have done with such bravery, Lieutenant. I personally am proud to know you.” He stared at me then, smiling so hard that his gums showed. I thought of what Viktor had told me, that he was interested in me, and it turned my stomach.

“Good-bye, Comrade,” I said, leaving him to the storm.

Two days later, the weather finally broke. I took the opportunity to walk along the deck, glad to be basking in sunlight for a change. The skies were a clear, flawless blue, the sea stretching out like a dark, polished tabletop. The sun felt good on my skin, warm and bracing, seeming to melt away the chill of the past week. I saw flying fish leap out of the
water, their scales glistening like diamonds in the bright light. In the distance, a large convoy of vessels traveled eastward, a fleet of merchant ships being escorted by the United States Navy. On the third morning, off to the northwest at the horizon, I could make out a thin, uneven gray band that was neither sea nor sky, which I would later learn was the coast of Nova Scotia.

That afternoon the younger of the two secret police approached me as I stood looking out to sea. Viktor had found out that this one’s name was Dmitri, with whom he played cards, while the older man was called Shabanov, though Viktor had taken to calling him
trup,
the Corpse, because he was so gaunt and deathly pale, and silent all the time. They didn’t take their meals with the three of us students and Vasilyev in the captain’s quarters. They seemed to flit about like shadows, standing in the periphery, watching us, spying on us, I felt. Once, returning to my cabin after dinner, I thought that my journal, which I kept beneath my pillow, had been moved ever so slightly, as if someone had handled it.

“I hear that we are almost there,” the one named Dmitri offered.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are you looking forward to America?”

“I suppose I’m a bit curious about it.”

I was surprised that he was trying to engage me in conversation. Up close, I realized he wasn’t quite so young as I’d first taken him to be. Late thirties. He had the drowsy gaze of someone who’d habitually gotten too little sleep.

“By the way, the Boss wishes a word with you, Lieutenant.”

I headed belowdecks to Vasilyev’s stateroom. As I approached along the narrow passageway, I heard voices within his cabin. One voice actually, Vasilyev’s. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Dmitri hadn’t followed me, then I leaned in toward the door. I couldn’t make out much; it all sounded garbled to me. But I did catch a few scattered words. One word that Vasilyev repeated several times was
rezidentura.
Residencies? But what residencies? I wondered.

The room fell quiet, and I quickly stepped back a few feet, and made as if I were just walking toward Vasilyev’s cabin. The door suddenly
opened, and the Corpse emerged. He glanced at me, his large, wet-looking eyes beneath the thick glasses appearing chastened.

“He wants to see you,” he said gruffly.

When I entered, Vasilyev was seated at a small table writing something. On the table were a bottle of cognac, some papers, an unlit cigar in an ashtray. Beside his chair was an expensive leather briefcase. He wore his wire-rim spectacles, and his hair was uncombed, a grayish stubble shading his cheeks. It appeared as if he hadn’t slept well.

“Come in, Lieutenant.” Without looking up, he motioned for me to enter. “Shut the door. Please, have a seat.”

The only place to sit was the unmade bed, so I sat there. His bulky shape was still imprinted on the sheets. Vasilyev continued writing. The room smelled stuffy, of smoke and stale whiskey.

“I just finished writing up a press release for your visit, Comrade. Here,” he said, handing it to me.

The first line read: “Senior Lieutenant Tat’yana Levchenko, the Soviet Union’s ‘Beautiful Assassin,’ who has courageously destroyed 315 of the fascists, is the leading sniper in the entire Red Army.”

“What is this?” I exclaimed. “I didn’t kill three hundred and fifteen.”

He waved the thought away, as if it were of little consequence. “Unfortunately, we’ve just learned that there’s another sniper who has reportedly killed three hundred and ten. Some fool journalist already wrote a story about it.”

“Then he should be acknowledged as the leading sniper. Not I.”

“But you are here. And this other fellow is not nearly as pretty as you.”

“First or second. What difference does it make?”

“You ran track. No one remembers who comes in second,” he said. “Things will go much more smoothly if you just say you recorded three hundred and fifteen kills.”

I thought how to men like Vasilyev facts were only a minor inconvenience, things to be manipulated to serve their purpose. As I was, a mere fact to be used. If I had not been considered pretty or a woman I’d probably still be fighting at the front. Or expendable, like those left behind in Sevastopol. But for now, at least, I was useful to them.

Beneath his spectacles, Vasilyev’s eyes were puffy and unfocused, with a look in them I had not seen before—a harried look, of one who had much on his mind.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

He picked up the bottle and poured some in a glass, downed the cognac in one swallow. Then he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. He put his fingers together, as if in prayer, and tapped them against his lips, as I had seen him do before. “We should be arriving in New York some time tomorrow,” he explained. “I wanted a word with you beforehand. To remind you that you will be representing the Soviet people, Lieutenant.”

“Did you think I would forget that, Comrade?”

“It’s just that we all have to be, well, extra vigilant.”

“Vigilant?”

“Yes. About what we say and how we say it. The image we project. You see, America is a very undisciplined society. They are not very good at keeping secrets.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Anything you say could find its way into the newspapers and have unintended consequences. Regarding the war, for instance. Berlin has only to read the American newspapers or listen to their radio to find out what these fools are planning next. The Amerikosy are not to be trusted,” Vasilyev said with such uncharacteristic venom that it startled me. “They are like spoiled children. They are pampered with self-indulgence. A debauched nation that will collapse under its own corruption.”

“I thought they are our allies.”

“For the time being,” he said almost glibly.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“As they say, ‘war makes for strange bedfellows.’ I don’t want you speaking to any of the Americans without Radimov or my being present.”

“That would be rather hard, wouldn’t it, Comrade, since I hardly speak the language?”

“Be that as it may, you are not to talk about the Soviet government, or say anything negative regarding the handling of the war.”

“Certainly they will ask about my experience at the front.”

“That is fine. You can tell them about all the fascists you killed. But you are to say nothing of a defeatist nature.”

“Such as the hundred thousand troops we lost at Sevastopol?” I replied.

My sarcasm elicited from him a disapproving stare.

“You are an intelligent woman. Perhaps too intelligent for her own good. A simple view of things is oftentimes preferable. Or at least, safer,” he said archly, with a glance in my direction. “Our job, Lieutenant, is to help persuade our reluctant American allies that ultimate victory is as much in their vital interests as ours. That this is not just some European conflict in which they have little at stake. We need them. At least we need their tanks and bombs and deep pockets. Anything we can do to further our mission is imperative. And anything that interferes with that mission would be frowned on at the highest levels.”