Beautiful Assassin (33 page)

“Thank you,” I said.

“How are you holding up?”

I shrugged. “That congressman,” I said, “the one who asked me about the man who was murdered.”

“Oh, Rankin. He’s on the House Un-American Activities Committee.”

“Un-American activities? That sounds rather ominous.”

“I guess it does. His committee investigates Communists in America. He and his cronies think you Soviets have spies hiding everywhere,” he said, smiling. “You don’t, do you?”

I looked at him and replied with a straight face. “Just me,” I replied.

The captain laughed.

“And what of that man he mentioned?” I asked. “The one who was murdered.”

“The police found this Krivitsky fellow dead in his hotel room. There was a suicide note, so at first they thought he’d killed himself. But later there were some questions about whether he might have been murdered.”

“What does this have to do with my country?”

The captain took a long, pensive drag on his cigarette. “Some believe he was a Soviet spy who defected to the West, and then was murdered by agents from your country.”

“But for all our differences, our two countries are supposed to be allies, no?”

He turned toward me and ran a hand over his scalp. His mouth formed a faint smile. “Isn’t that being a little naïve, Lieutenant?”

I thought how that was the second time I’d been called that in the past few weeks. The other time was by Viktor, when we were aboard ship.

“I may be a lot of things, Captain, but naïve is hardly one of them,” I replied.

“Sorry,” he said. “But your country and mine have always been enemies.”

“We have never fought against you.”

“Maybe not openly. But you have to admit that communism’s goal is to overthrow capitalism. You want world revolution.”

“We want simply what everyone does—enough to eat, a safe place to raise our children,” I said. “If you’ll recall your history, Captain, it was
your
country who invaded
mine
.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After our revolution, it was the United States, along with its western allies, who sent troops into Siberia.”

“But what about the Marxist saying: ‘The proletariat is the undertaker of capitalism.’”

“We’re no one’s undertaker. We have never tried to hurt the United States in any way.”

“And Molotov’s nonaggression pact with Ribbentrop?”

I nodded. “That was wrong, I must admit. But if it were up to you Americans, my country would still be under the repressive tyranny of the czar. You would deny us the basic freedoms that you enjoy.”

I found myself, suddenly and instinctively, threatened by what the captain had said and rushing to my country’s defense, like some Party zealot, the way Gavrilov would have. Or even the way my father once had. I guess I felt that we Soviets, who’d fought and sacrificed so much for our nation and who’d suffered so terribly under it—
we
had the right to criticize it, but not outsiders.

“I wouldn’t exactly call what you have now the sort of freedom we enjoy in America,” the captain said.

“Your supposed freedom is not for all of your people,” I said. “What of your millions of poor? Or your Negroes? Or what of your Japanese who have been rounded up and put in camps? Do those people enjoy your precious freedoms?”

“All right, all right,” he said, raising his hand in surrender. “I can see I’m not going to win this one.”

We fell silent for a moment, staring out over the water to the far side.
When I happened to glance at him he was rubbing the sleeve of his missing left arm.

“Forgive me, Captain,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, I guess I had it coming.”

“It’s just that I’m so tired of everyone over here looking down their noses at us. They think of us as godless barbarians. Primitive savages. We had culture a thousand years before your War of Independence.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I know your country. I studied it. I guess we Americans can be pretty arrogant sometimes. Where’s your watchdog?”

“Vasilyev? Oh, he’s around somewhere. Spying on me,” I said.

“Spying?” he repeated.

“I meant that metaphorically, of course.”

“Of course.” He paused, then added, “He keeps you on a pretty short leash, doesn’t he?”

“He worries that Viktor and I will say something that will cause you Americans to stop sending us guns.”

“What could you possibly say to do that?”

“I have no idea,” I replied, inhaling deeply on my cigarette. “What is that, Captain?” I asked, pointing at the well-lit monument across the river.

“That’s the Lincoln Memorial.”

“Ah, yes. We read about your Mr. Lincoln in school. He was a great man, was he not?”

“Yes, he was. He was president during our Civil War and he freed the slaves.”

“And yet your Negroes are still not free.”

He looked over at me and pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, no. One of our early presidents called it our great and foul stain.”

“The Negro woman today, the one who sang so beautifully. What was her name?”

“Marian Anderson. She’s quite a famous singer. She’s good friends with Mrs. Roosevelt. A couple of years ago, Miss Anderson was supposed to give a concert right here in Washington, but they wouldn’t let her because she was black. So Mrs. Roosevelt stepped in and used her connections. In fact, she ended up singing right over there at the Lin
coln Memorial. Tens of thousands showed up. Mrs. Roosevelt has done much for the poor and for the working class. And for women too. Some people don’t like her because they think the wife of the president should keep out of such things. But I think she’s first-rate.”

“Yes, she seems to be a very strong-willed woman.”

“Are you looking forward to touring with her, Tat’yana?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Going across the country speaking about the war.”

I stared at him, confused. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Captain. When the conference is over, I shall be going back home to fight.”

“Oh, I was under the impression that you and she were going to tour together.”

“No,” I said. “May I have another cigarette, Captain?”

As he lit it for me, I happened to look up into his face. The light from the match danced in his eyes, and up close I could smell him—his cologne or hair pomade or sweat mingling into an aromatic fragrance, sweet and musky as fermenting corn. Our eyes met and he smiled at me. He had a smile that was open and generous, that came so naturally to him that it reminded one of a child’s, but for the fact that his eyes had a sad, almost wistful look to them. I couldn’t help returning the smile.

“There,” he said, pointing at me.

“What?”

As if he’d read my thoughts, he said, “You have a nice smile, Tat’yana. You ought to show it more often.”

I smiled again, this time exaggeratedly. “You Americans with your grim optimism.”

“Isn’t it better to be an optimist than a pessimist?”

“Better still to be a realist. One needs to know the world as it is, not as you would wish it.”

“And do you know the world as it is?” he asked.

“I suppose I am learning it right now,” I said with a toss of my head back toward the party.

“Yes, the complex subtleties of Washington,” he replied. “One has to learn one’s way around that.”

“And have you learned your way around it?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “May I ask you something, Tat’yana?” he said to me. “Something personal.”

“I’m really not supposed to be talking to you alone.”

“Why, because you might say something ‘inappropriate’?”

He leaned toward me, staring deeply into my eyes. Then he reached out and touched my face. For a moment I thought that he was going to kiss me.

“I was wondering—”

Just then a voice: “Oh, there you are, Lieutenant.” It was Vasilyev. “I was looking all over for you.”

Captain Taylor quickly pulled his hand back and used it to rub his face.

“I just stepped out for some air,” I explained.

“Good evening, Captain,” he said to Taylor with a circumspect nod. “Several people wish to meet you,” he said to me, tucking his arm into mine and leading me away.

I glanced over my shoulder at Captain Taylor.

“What did the two of you talk about?” Vasilyev whispered to me.

“We spoke of history.”

“History?”

“Yes. Comrade Vasilyev, when the conference is over, I am going home, am I not?” I asked.

“Just as soon as we finish business here. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I replied. “Have you heard of a man named Walter Krivitsky?”

Vasilyev shook his head. “Should I have?”

“The captain said he was killed by Soviet agents because he was a spy who defected to the West.”

“And just how would the captain know such a thing?”

“He said it was in the newspapers.”

“Ah, the American newspapers. A bastion of truth.”

“Are they any less duplicitous than our own, Comrade?”

Vasilyev leaned in to me and said in an undertone, “I would be a bit more circumspect with my tongue, if I were you, Lieutenant.”

T
hat is wonderful news,” exclaimed Ambassador Litvinov at breakfast the next morning.

Secretary Bazykin had just informed everyone at the table that several hundred thousand dollars had been donated in the past twenty-four hours to the Soviet War Relief Fund. In front of him were a number of telegraph cables.

“Here is one from a fraternity at the University of Illinois,” said the secretary. “They have pledged one thousand dollars to our cause. They cite Lieutenant Levchenko’s radio speech yesterday.”

“Bravo,” the ambassador cried, clapping his hands.

There were six of us at breakfast: the ambassador and his wife, Secretary Bazykin, Vasilyev, Gavrilov, and me. I hadn’t yet seen Viktor, who, Vasilyev had told me, was still sleeping it off. My own head was a bit dull from too much drink the previous night. I only managed to pick at my eggs.

“And just this morning,” continued Bazykin, “I received a call from Mr. Hopkins that military recruitment stations across the country have noted dramatically increased activity. Evidently, the Americans are signing up to fight in droves.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Vasilyev said harshly. “These Amerikosy have sat on their fat capitalist asses for far too long.”

The ambassador frowned at him and put his finger to his lips.

“Pardon me,” Vasilyev countered. “Let us praise the Americans for their newfound support.”

As I sat there taking all of this in, my mind drifted back to the previous evening. My conversation with Captain Taylor. The touch of his hand against my face. The personal question he was going to ask me. I wondered what it was.

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant?” a voice called to me.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” I replied, coming back from my reverie.

“The ambassador was saying that we owe all of this to your inspiring speech yesterday,” Bazykin explained to me.

“I fear it might be overstating my influence,” I replied with a smile.

“On the contrary, I think you’ve embarrassed these Yanks into fighting,” Vasilyev said.

I thought of what Captain Taylor had said to me, that the Americans weren’t cowards, that they wanted to fight but hadn’t yet been given the opportunity.

“Perhaps,” I offered, “they just needed a little push.”

“Whatever it was, my dear,” said Mrs. Litvinov, who sat next to me, “we are all so very proud of you.”

I glanced across at Gavrilov. He had a sheepish look, as if he was embarrassed by what he had told me the previous night, as well as annoyed at all the attention I was getting.

“I think the lieutenant already has one of the American soldiers under her sway,” offered Vasilyev with a wink to the ambassador.

“What is this?” asked Mrs. Litvinov.

“You know that handsome young officer Mrs. Roosevelt uses for an interpreter,” explained Vasilyev. “I think he has an eye for the lieutenant.”

“Comrade Vasilyev is joking, of course,” I countered.

“I’m not so sure,” Vasilyev said, rolling his eyes at Mrs. Litvinov. “I caught the two of them out on the terrace together. They were quite absorbed.”

The others chuckled.

I felt my face burn with embarrassment. Wanting to divert attention from myself, I said, “Let us not forget Comrade Gavrilov’s fine speech.”

“You’re quite right,” replied the ambassador. To Gavrilov, he said, “It
was, Comrade, a model of clarity and persuasive rhetoric. And a wonderful reflection of our fine educational system, wouldn’t you say, Vasily?”

“Indeed,” replied Vasilyev.

While the others were chatting, Mrs. Litvinov leaned toward me and said, “What did you think of Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“I liked her very much.”

“I knew you and she would hit it off.”

Secretary Bazykin said, “We’ve received numerous requests for speaking engagements, Ambassador. New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. Sioux City, Iowa—wherever that is,” he said with a bemused chuckle. “Several universities and trade unions, as well as a number of American veterans groups who have expressed an interest in having her come to speak.”

“Brilliant,” replied Litvinov. “It seems all America is quite taken by you, Lieutenant. You are going to be quite busy.”

Perplexed, I glanced at Litvinov, then at Vasilyev, who stared somewhat guiltily back at me.

“Busy?” I said to the ambassador.

“You have not told her yet, Vasily?” the ambassador asked.

“No, I haven’t had an opportunity, Comrade.”

“Told me what?” I asked.

“We’ve wonderful news,” Litvinov said. “Mrs. Roosevelt has asked that you accompany her on a tour of America.”

So that’s what she had wanted to talk to me about the previous night, I thought, and what the captain had alluded to.

“But, Mr. Ambassador, I was promised that I could return home after the conference.”

“We require your presence here for a while longer, Lieutenant,” replied Litvinov flatly.

“With all due respect, sir, I wish to return to the fighting.”

“Lieutenant,” Vasilyev said sharply. “You are a soldier—” But Ambassador Litvinov raised his hand.

“It’s all right, Vasily,” he said calmly to the other. “The lieutenant is understandably disappointed. As a patriot, she wishes to defend the Motherland in her dire need. We admire your fighting spirit, Lieutenant. Yet your country needs you in a different capacity now.”

“But I can best help our country by killing Germans.”

“We certainly appreciate all that you have accomplished. But now your country is asking you to perform a service that is equally important. One that will demand no less of a commitment. There are many in the highest levels of the Party who are counting on you. Besides, this could mean wonderful things for your own career.”

“I don’t care about my career,” I said.

“Well, you ought to care, Lieutenant,” Vasilyev admonished sternly.

“I won’t force you to do this, Comrade,” Litvinov said.

“But Ambassador—” Vasilyev interjected.

Once more, Litvinov raised his hand to silence Vasilyev.

“I am going to leave it up to you. I want you to take a few days to think about it. Remember, though, we are all counting on you.”

“If I were to accept, what exactly will I be expected to do?”

“Just be your charming self. Give a few interviews, make some speeches about the war in Europe. In short, promote the war effort.”

“That’s it?” I said. “That’s all I have to do?” I thought of the exchange of letters I had made with that man at the White House, the incessant grilling Vasilyev put me through each time I spoke with Mrs. Roosevelt. How they were, I sensed, using me for some clandestine purpose, to find out American secrets. I felt uneasy about all this, felt once again I was being lied to, manipulated. That whatever “service” I was being asked to perform for the Motherland, it was not just about promoting the war, getting the Americans to open up a second front. I thought of all the things that Vasilyev had coached me on, the precautions he’d given me. At the same time, I knew full well that Litvinov’s offer that I was free to decline was only an illusion. I had about as much freedom as a caged bird staring out through its bars. I was aware of the consequences were I to decline. Once back home I would be denounced as someone with “individualistic tendencies.” If lucky, I would be stripped of my officer’s rank, my medals. I’d be hidden away in some boring desk job for the remainder of the war, disgraced; in time, forgotten about. And if I weren’t quite so lucky, I would be shipped off to someplace like Kolyma in Siberia to be reeducated, or even, if those in the “highest levels of the Party” watching me were powerful enough, might be tried
for treason. I had thought my status as a Soviet hero had protected me, but now I knew better.

The ambassador and Vasilyev exchanged glances.

“Think of it as much-deserved R & R, Lieutenant,” he said. “My wife will take you shopping to buy some things you will need. I want you to enjoy your stay here, Lieutenant.”

“If I decided to do it, how long would I be gone?” I asked.

“Not long. A few weeks. A month perhaps.”

“And then I can return to the front?”

“Of course. You have my word on that.”

His
word,
I thought. It was worth about as much as Vasilyev’s.

After breakfast, I headed upstairs to my room. As I passed Viktor’s room, I heard him coughing in there and decided to knock. I waited, then knocked again. He called out, “Go away.”

“Viktor, it’s me, Tat’yana.”

“I told you, go away.”

“I want to talk. Please, let me in.”

When he didn’t answer, I tried the door and found it to be open.

He was lying on the bed, curled on his side, facing the wall. I sat on the side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

He snorted. “Just great. Couldn’t be better.”

“I think you were right, Viktor,” I said.

“About what?”

“About our not coming here just to promote the war. I think they’re planning on using us in another fashion.”

“Do you indeed?” he said, with a sarcastic laugh. “For a bright girl, you can be pretty dumb.” He turned slowly toward me, wincing as he moved. Then he let out a deep groan. “Jesus,” he cursed.

I was shocked to see him. His face was haggard-looking, etched with pain, his forehead damp with sweat.

“Viktor, what’s the matter?” I cried. “What happened to you?”

“Huh! Didn’t your pal Vasilyev tell you? I thought he tells his little darling everything.”

“I’m not his little darling,” I snapped at him, surprised that he would
accuse me of such a thing. I thought he knew me better than that. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What happened to you, Viktor?”

“I’m supposed to say I slipped after having too much to drink.”

“What really happened?”

“That fucking
suka
did this.”

“Who?”

“The Corpse. He and the other son of a bitch. The filthy whores worked me over good.”

“Where do you hurt, Viktor?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“Everywhere.” He touched his left side gingerly. “I think they broke some ribs,” he said, grimacing.

I carefully lifted his shirt. His side was covered with nasty red welts, some already turning black and blue. The skin, though, wasn’t broken.

“The Corpse used a lead pipe covered with rubber. Bastard made sure nothing showed through. He’s well versed in this sort of thing.”

“They did this just because you wandered off?”

“What?”

“They said you wandered off and got drunk.”

He laughed again, bitterly this time. “The lying bastards,” he hissed. He began coughing. Soon he was hacking pretty hard, spitting up blood. I hurried over to the bureau where there was a washbasin and got him a towel.

“Here,” I said, handing it to him. I rubbed his back as he spat blood into the towel. After a while he managed finally to stop, to get his breathing under control. I wiped his mouth, put my hand to his forehead, which was very hot.

“You feel like you have a fever.”

He pushed my hand away. “The truth is, they wanted me to spy for them.”

“Spy for them!” I cried.

“Vasilyev had wanted me to carry documents back and forth from our agents in the States.”

“Why you?” I asked.

“He said the American government was watching the Soviet agents too closely. That they wouldn’t suspect me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to go fuck himself. I told him I was a soldier, I wasn’t one of his
chekist
pigs.”

His head dropped on the pillow, and he stared at the ceiling. I went back over to the bureau, wet a facecloth, and returned and sat on the bed and began to clean him up.

“I’m so sorry, Viktor,” I said as I washed his face. “But you have to believe me. I didn’t know anything about this. I swear.”

He looked up at me, searching my face. “I believe you, Lieutenant. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“Are you going to do what they asked, Viktor?”

He shook his head.

“That could be dangerous.”

“What more can they do to me?”

“They could do a lot more, Viktor. You know that.”

“Fuck ’em. I’m not afraid of them.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“If they try any more shit with me, I’ll defect.”

“Ssh,” I told him. Whispering, I said, “You heard how they said the Americans had the embassy bugged.” Then I considered the possibility that our own side had it bugged as well.

He said softly, “I will. I don’t care anymore. They’re as bad as the fucking krauts. At least if we kick the Germans out, we’re done with them. These swine, they’re here for good.”

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

He snickered at that. “Don’t worry, I won’t. And what of you, Lieutenant? What plans do they have for you?”

“They want me to tour with Mrs. Roosevelt. To talk about the war.”

“Is that all?”

I paused for a moment, not sure I wanted to tell him. Finally I whispered, “Vasilyev did have me carrying a message to someone.”

“To whom?”

“Someone in the White House.”

“The White House. Jesus! So they got you doing their dirty work too.”

“I don’t think it was anything like that,” I said.

“Don’t fool yourself, Lieutenant. You’re in this up to your eyeballs.”

“What else can I do?”

“You can tell them to go fuck themselves, Lieutenant.”

After I left Viktor, I went in search of Vasilyev. I was fuming. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, whether or not I should tell him I knew the truth about Viktor’s injuries. Perhaps that might only get Viktor in more trouble. But I definitely wanted to tell him Viktor needed to see a doctor. I found Vasilyev in a small office at the back of the embassy. The door was half open and he was on the phone when I knocked. He waved me in, had me sit.

“Yes, Comrade,” he said into the phone, his tone the fawning one used with superiors. “Yes, of course. I am well aware of the significance of it. No, Comrade. Rest assured I shall deal with it straightaway.”

As he placed the receiver in its cradle, he glanced up at me and said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant? I am at the moment rather busy.”