Beautiful Assassin (27 page)

“Of course,” I replied. “But I would first have to get Comrade Vasilyev’s approval.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, pursing her lips. “I see he keeps a rather tight rein on all of you.”

I smiled uneasily. “I think he worries that we will say something…inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” the First Lady repeated.

I took a sip of tea, hoping to give myself time to choose my words with care. Though I’d taken an immediate liking to this woman and felt instinctively that I could trust her, I still needed to be cautious. After all, what did I really know about her, or about Americans? Vasilyev had warned me to be wary around them, that they couldn’t be trusted. Even at this point, I felt myself treading water that was much deeper, with far more dangerous undercurrents, than I could ever have imagined. I happened to glance up and catch a look pass between Mrs. Roosevelt and the captain. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before they looked away, but I sensed in that moment something, a familiarity, the sort that passes between those who share a secret.

I put my cup of tea down.

“Comrade Vasilyev doesn’t want us to say or do anything that might offend our hosts,” I explained.

“I have little fear of your doing that, Tat’yana,” the First Lady said.

Captain Taylor stared at me after he had translated this. “What are you so afraid of saying?” he asked cryptically. “You’re among friends.” Yet he had a look in his eyes that belied the smile. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or asking a question whose meaning I could not quite glean.

“I mean only that we are in a different country, with different customs,” I explained. “I would not want to say anything that could be misconstrued in any way.”

“That’s understandable,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “And what of your personal life, Tat’yana? Are you married?”

“I…was,” I replied stumblingly, feeling a sudden and terrible rush of disloyalty toward Kolya. “My husband was killed at Leningrad.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Roosevelt offered, reaching across and patting my hand. “And your family?”

“They are all gone, too, I’m afraid. They were lost in the bombing of Kiev.” I thought of telling them about my daughter, but for some reason I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep them from feeling overwhelmed by my loss or to keep myself from it.

“You poor, poor dear,” offered Mrs. Roosevelt. “And yet you’ve managed to carry on so gallantly.”

“It was not a matter of choice,” I said. “It had more to do with my hatred for the Germans.”

Mrs. Roosevelt made a
hmm
sound. “It is, indeed, a vicious world we live in, Tat’yana. What gives me a little peace, however, is that I keep a prayer close at hand. It provides me with great comfort in times of need. Would you care to hear it?”

“Indeed.”

“It is quite a beautiful prayer, Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“Yes, I think so too. If this terrible war has taught us anything, it’s that we owe so many for our own lives. But enough of the war for now. I’d love to see some of your poetry sometime, Tat’yana.”

“Perhaps,” I replied vaguely.

We talked for a while more. Mrs. Roosevelt was an affable woman whose agreeable demeanor and ready smile put people immediately at ease. Several times she tossed her head back and laughed out loud, girlishly and without the least self-consciousness. I noticed too how she’d often rub the sapphire ring on her finger, almost unaware she was doing it.

“That is a very lovely ring you have, Mrs. Roosevelt,” I told her. “Did the president give it to you?”

She glanced down at it pensively. “No. A very dear friend gave it to me.”

At the end of our meeting, she said, “Franklin and I are having a few people over tonight for dinner. He would very much like for them to meet you, my dear.”

When I hesitated, she said, “Don’t worry, we’ve already worked it out with Ambassador Litvinov. You’re to come to dinner tonight and then stay over as our guest.”

“I am to stay at the White House?” I said.

“Yes. Franklin and I would be delighted to have you.”

“It is indeed a great honor.”

As we were heading back downstairs to join the others, Mrs. Roosevelt was met by a balding man with glasses. She excused herself for a moment and went off to talk to this man.

Captain Taylor said to me, “I am deeply sorry about your losses.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s hard to imagine losing my entire family. You are very brave.”

“Not so brave really. We all do what we must, no?”

He seemed as if he would say something more, but instead he nodded and smiled sadly. He was tall, well over six feet, with narrow, slumping shoulders and a lean frame that his crisp uniform hung loosely on, as on a scarecrow in a field. His slender face was boyish-looking with light freckles sprinkled over his cheeks like cinnamon. He had pensive, hazel-colored eyes, and a mouth that was almost too full for his slender nose, so that his lower lip bunched itself together and drooped just a bit, giving him a slightly pouty expression.

“Hopefully you’ll have a chance to have some fun while you are here,” he offered. “I could show you around a little.”

“I doubt I shall have any time for fun, as you put it.”

“That’s a shame. If I can do anything for you, anything at all, please let me know,” he said, smiling, but with a lingering look I couldn’t quite read. Perhaps, I thought, it was just that I was unused to Americans’ ways.

“Thank you, Captain,” I said.

T
hat evening, Vasilyev and I sat silently in the backseat of the limousine as we returned to the White House. Radimov had taken ill suddenly, presumably because the American food was wreaking havoc with his bowels, so it was just the two of us. The capital swept by in a blaze of golden light, monuments to America’s history illuminated by spotlights in the growing twilight. It seemed odd to be in a city lit up so carelessly, so audaciously, as if there wasn’t the slightest concern about the Luftwaffe. Through my open window, the warm, humid night smelled sweet, of honeysuckle and laurel. In the distance I could see the dark skin of a river, lights from the far side playing off its moving surface. On my lap I balanced a small overnight bag Mrs. Litvinov had lent me for my stay at the White House, since I had only my bulky soldier’s duffel bag.

“Are you sure you left nothing out?” Vasilyev said to me.

“I believe I have everything,” I replied, starting to open up my bag.

“No. I meant with your conversation with the president’s wife.”

“Oh. I told you everything.” We’d already covered my conversation with Mrs. Roosevelt in detail. When we had gotten back to the embassy, he spent half an hour asking me questions.

“You were with her a long time. You must have talked about something.”

“This and that. Nothing of importance.”

“Did she ask about the war?”

“Not really,” I replied.

“What does ‘not really’ mean, Lieutenant?”

“She said her husband was interested in hearing about the fighting in the East. That’s all.”

“Tonight if you speak to him, you’ll be certain to mention the need for a second front.”

“If the occasion presents itself.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You want to be subtle. You don’t want it to sound as if it’s been rehearsed. But try to work it into the conversation.” He removed his silver case, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “Would you like one?” he asked. “Camels. Real tobacco. Not like back home.”

I took one, glanced at the dedication—
WITH ALL MY LOVE, O
. As he lit my cigarette, I asked, “Is that a present from your wife, Comrade?” Though, of course, I knew already that it couldn’t be from his wife, as I’d remembered her name was Elena.

He looked at me with a blank expression. “What?”

“The cigarette case. Did your wife give you that?”

“No.”

“I thought ‘O’ might have been your wife,” I explained.

“My wife’s name is Elena,” he said, continuing to frown. “What are you talking about, Lieutenant?”

“Who is ‘O’ then? A lady friend, perhaps.”

He turned and gave me a harsh look. “I have been married thirty-two years, Lieutenant. In all that time I have not been unfaithful to my wife. Not once.”

“Congratulations, Comrade,” I said. “You must have a very happy marriage.”

“I like to think ours is,” he explained, his tone both indignant and boastful. “Despite what you might think of me, I am a man of strong morals.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I
am,
” he said emphatically.

“Who is ‘O,’ then?”

“Someone I once knew,” was all he said.

“Do you have children?” I asked. I don’t know why I asked him this. It might have been to try to get under the surface, to see him as a person, instead of just another
chekist
agent, if that’s what he was.

He nodded. “Three daughters and a son.” He paused for a moment. “My son is a captain in the Sixty-second Army.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“Proud, yes. Concerned too. The Sixty-second has recently been moved to Stalingrad for the defense of the city,” he said, his thin mouth puckering. I thought of his answer to the ambassador, that his family was fine. “You see, Lieutenant, we both have loved ones in harm’s way.” He turned to look at me. “Did Mrs. Roosevelt say anything else about her husband?”

“Like what?”

“She didn’t happen to say anything about his plans for the next election? If he intends on running again for office.”

“Why on earth would she tell me that?” I asked. “I just met the woman.”

“Women talk about things. She might have said something inadvertently.”

“She said nothing of the kind to me,” I replied, drawing on my cigarette. The American tobacco tasted slightly sweet, but it was strong, and it made my head swirl. “Besides, what does that have to do with anything?”

“A great deal actually. These Americans are very fickle. They change with the wind. The same is true of their leadership. A promise by this president may be broken by the next. Our people are getting contradictory information about his intentions. If you can, Comrade, casually ask his wife if her husband plans on running again.”

“How can I
casually
ask her that?”

“If it comes up in conversation. Did she happen to say anything about his health?”

“We’ve already been over this,” I said.

“Listen carefully, Lieutenant. No matter how seemingly trivial or unimportant anything she tells you, anything you overhear—and I mean
anything
—I want to know about it. Do you understand?”

I sighed and looked out the window.

“She seems fond of you.”

“I like her very much too. She’s quite nice.”

“It is good she has befriended you,” said Vasilyev.

I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Ambassador Litvinov said Mrs. Roosevelt could be useful to our plans. What are our plans besides getting the Americans more involved in the war effort?”

He turned toward me, holding my gaze for a moment. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed but without the least illumination in them. No light or feeling seemed to leave them. They were glossy and polished, hard as opals. There was about Vasilyev always a certain inexplicability, something fundamentally elusive, unknowable, perhaps like the Soviet government itself. Sometimes I thought it had to do with the demands of his job, the secrecy entailed in working for the Ideological Department or NKVD or whatever it was he worked for. But other times, I thought that it was only him, his character. Even when he occasionally let his guard down, as he had with his wife and family, he quickly put up his walls again.

Instead of answering my question, he asked, “What did you think of her interpreter?”

“The captain?” I replied with a shrug. “I don’t know. He seemed pleasant enough.”

“He speaks Russian quite well. I wonder where he learned it. Perhaps he has Russian ancestors.”

I took another drag of my cigarette and stared out the window.

“He seemed interested in you,” Vasilyev offered.

I glanced over at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The way he looked at you.”

“That’s his job, to look at me. To read the nuances of what I say.”

He nodded. “Remember, Radimov will not be with you tonight, so choose your words with care.”

“Poets always choose their words with care,” I said, somewhat flippantly.

By then we had arrived at the White House.

“I will pick you up tomorrow morning,” Vasilyev explained. “Prepare a few words to say at the conference.”

As I started to get out, he laid a hand on my wrist.

“Here, Lieutenant,” he said, giving me an envelope. “Put that in your pocket.”

“What is it?”

“Its contents don’t concern you. Someone will contact you tonight. You are to deliver it to him. He will give you something in return. Of course, you are to let no one see it.”

“How will I know who it is?”

“He will say the word
yurist
. It’s his code name.”

Lawyer, I thought. And I thought again of what the ambassador had said, that “they” had contacts in the White House.

I was met and escorted into the White House by Miss Thompson. When Mrs. Roosevelt saw me, she came right up and hugged me, as if we were old acquaintances.

“I’m so glad you could come, my dear,” she said, the captain translating for her. She wore a long white dress with a corsage of flowers at her shoulder, and her hair was done up. She looked actually young and pretty, vivacious as a schoolgirl.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied.

“Come. Everyone’s just dying to meet you, Tat’yana,” she said.

She escorted me into an elegant dining room where a couple of dozen people were milling about. Except for Captain Taylor and myself, everyone else was dressed formally, the men in suits, the women wearing long evening gowns and jewelry. Servants in white jackets carried trays of hors d’oeuvres. Mostly the men congregated in small groups, smoking cigars and laughing loudly while the women stood off talking among themselves. I didn’t see the president yet. Mrs. Roosevelt, however, was eager to show me around, while the captain shadowed us, translating.

Mrs. Roosevelt brought me over to introduce me to three men standing near a fireplace, over which hung a large painting of a white-wigged man on a horse, waving his tricornered cap and seeming to address his troops before battle.

“I’d like you to met Mr. Stimson, Mr. Hopkins, and this cagey little fellow here with his pockets full of money is Mr. White, of the Treasury Department.”

The others laughed heartily at Mrs. Roosevelt’s little joke.

“You’ve certainly given those krauts what-for, young lady,” said Stimson, who vigorously shook my hand. He was in his seventies, but lean and athletic-looking, with a long, narrow face, a stubby mustache.

“Mr. Stimson is our secretary of war,” Mrs. Roosevelt explained to me. “He thinks we should attack Germany right now. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stimson?”

“Indeed I do, madam. And the sooner, the better. We can’t just sit back and let the Germans run roughshod over Europe.” Then he turned toward me. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

Smiling, I said, “I…I am just a soldier.”

“But you’ve been in the thick of things. Who better to know what’s going on over there than you?”

As Vasilyev had warned, I chose my words with utmost care. “We would certainly appreciate any additional help from our American friends,” I said.

“See, Harry. That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you,” said the man standing to his left.

“Mr. Hopkins,” explained Mrs. Roosevelt, “is one of my husband’s closest advisers.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Hopkins, shaking my hand. He was thin, with a sallow complexion. I had seen this Hopkins before, in
Izvestiya
. He had met with Stalin and Molotov, beginning right after the German invasion. Back home he was viewed as a friend, more favorably even than Roosevelt, who many felt was only a reluctant ally. It was this Hopkins who’d pushed for the lend-lease policy for the Soviet Union. In person, he was a rather sickly looking fellow with tubercular eyes.

“If it wasn’t for Harry here,” offered Stimson, “your Red Army would be running on its tire rims.”

“Then I should thank you,” I said.

“Well, we want to give the Soviet fighting man—”

At this Mrs. Roosevelt interrupted him. “And woman, Harry,” she said, smiling. “And woman.”

“I stand corrected, Mrs. President,” he replied affably, nodding his
head in apology. “We want to make sure that every fighting man—and
woman
—has everything they need to beat those Germans.”

The man named White was about to say something when someone formally announced the president’s arrival. Everyone stopped in mid-sentence and all eyes turned toward one door, through which the president came in his wheelchair, propelling himself into the dining room. In his mouth was a cigarette in a long holder. He was smiling broadly and waving.

Mrs. Roosevelt led me over to him.

“There you are, young lady,” he said, shaking my hand. “Just the person I wanted to see. Tell me, how many Germans did you kill again, Lieutenant?”

“Three hundred,” I replied, then added, “and fifteen.”

“My goodness.” Turning to Secretary Stimson, he said, “Henry, we don’t need more planes and tanks. What we need is a few more women like this young lady. We could whip those Germans in no time at all.”

Everyone laughed at this.

“I don’t think the Republicans will agree to let us draft women, Mr. President,” replied Stimson.

“Then we ought to see that they’re voted out of office,” he said, winking at me. I could see that the president, despite his sad-looking eyes, was in good spirits and that he had a playful side to him.

Mr. Roosevelt then said something to his wife, who in turn spoke to the captain.

“The president wishes a word with you in private,” Captain Taylor informed me.

I followed the president and the captain into a small pantry off the dining room. The room was narrow, and the president had a little difficulty negotiating his wheelchair. I felt nervous, wondering what he could possibly want to talk to me about in private.

“Let me begin by saying just how much I admire you, Lieutenant,” the president said, with the captain translating. “Your courage is a shining example for us Americans in this terrible struggle we face.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied in English.

The president smiled at my attempt to speak his language.

“No, it is I who should thank you for all of your sacrifices. But tell me about the situation on the Eastern Front,” he said. “And I want you to be completely honest with me. Don’t mince words.”

“It has been difficult, sir. Nonetheless, the tide of victory is slowly starting to turn,” I heard Vasilyev say through me, as if indeed I were his puppet.

“Our reports suggest otherwise,” the president said soberly. “That the Germans have been routing the Red Army on all fronts.”

“Indeed, we’ve suffered a few setbacks.”

The president waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. “I’d call them more than a few setbacks, Lieutenant. I’m told you’ve just come from Sevastopol. What was it like there? What is the morale of the troops?”

I thought of all those we’d lost, all those the high command had abandoned to the Germans. But then I lied and said, “Our morale remains strong.”

The president and Captain Taylor spoke for a moment, with the captain seeming not quite to understand what the president was telling him.