Beautiful Assassin (36 page)

“I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a true hero of the Motherland,” he said, shaking my hand and giving me a little bow. His voice was coarse, his manner both unctuous and brusque at the same time. “I’ve heard much about you, Lieutenant.”

“How do you do, sir?” I replied.

“So, Comrade Zarubin,” Litvinov said to the man, “how are things in Tyre?”

Tyre, I thought, realizing he couldn’t be referring to the ancient city in Phoenicia.

“They are fine, Ambassador. We are quite busy, of course.”

“Is the new man…what are we calling him again?”

Zarubin glanced at me, his sharp eyes cutting into mine like an auger. It was then that I realized where I’d recognized him from. He was the man I’d seen Vasilyev with outside the hotel.

“It’s all right,” the ambassador reassured him. “We have complete confidence in the lieutenant.”

My credibility having been vouchsafed, he replied, “Liberal.”

“Is this Liberal working out to our satisfaction?”

“Yes, Ambassador,” Zarubin explained. “He has good information and is well connected to others that share his sentiments. Feklisov has scheduled a meeting with him next week to continue his training.”

“Very good. But proceed with caution. You’ve heard that the Americans have turned one of ours.”

This Zarubin nodded.

Then, glancing toward me, the ambassador asked, “Do you know why we’ve brought you here to America, Lieutenant?”

I felt like a student taking an exam for which I’d studied but now was wondering if I knew the correct answers. “I think so,” I replied somewhat hesitantly, glancing at Vasilyev. “To persuade the Americans to help us more in the war effort. To push for that second front.”

He nodded. “Yes, that is certainly one of the reasons you are here. We very much want you to continue those efforts. But there are other, more long-term reasons as well.”

The ambassador turned to Vasilyev and used an odd term:
kapitansha
—the Captain’s Wife. “Did the Captain’s Wife say anything else about her husband?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Have you not briefed her on the significance of the Captain’s Wife to our mission?”

Vasilyev glanced at me, then replied, “I have told her only what she needed to know regarding that.”

“Well, perhaps it is time.” Turning to me, Ambassador Litvinov said,
“Lieutenant, what we are going to ask of you over the next several weeks will have a significant impact not only on our war effort but also on our position in the postwar world. You see, after the war the world will be a vastly different place. Our adversaries will change. We need to be prepared.”

“Yet we are fighting Germany now, sir. Shouldn’t we be working with America to defeat our common enemy?”

“Of course,” Litvinov said with a nod. “But two years ago, Germany was our ally. The world changes. We must look beyond the war, to the future. We cannot afford to fall behind the West.”

“Fall behind?” I asked.

“Militarily. America is a very wealthy and powerful country. Until now it has used its great wealth for self-indulgent purposes. Automobiles and phonographs. Now, though, the war has awakened it to the realities of the world. They have embarked on a path that will sooner or later bring us into direct conflict with them.”

“But they are helping us now to fight the Nazis,” I offered.

“The Amerikosy are throwing us table scraps,” Zarubin interjected. “Enough to keep the Germans occupied, but not enough to win.”

“I still don’t see what all this has to do with me,” I said.

“We feel that the Captain’s Wife could be very useful to us,” explained the ambassador.

“Captain’s Wife?” I asked.

“Explain to her, Comrade,” Litvinov said, turning to Zarubin.

“Our code name for the president is the Captain,” explained Zarubin. “So his wife is the Captain’s Wife. She has been very sympathetic to our side,” Zarubin continued. “She is an advocate of the proletariat. She has strong connections to the left in America, to trade unions and such. We know, for instance, that her own government has been spying on her for quite some time. Their Mr. Hoover has been keeping an extensive dossier on her activities connected to organizations of the left. He believes her to be a Communist. Even her willingness to sponsor your visit here shows her strong support of the Soviet Union. We feel she might be sympathetic to our side.”

“In what way?”

“She has, after all, the president’s ear. And he may confide in her certain things. Information that might prove invaluable to us.”

“Do you think she is just going to share with us what her husband tells her? State secrets?”

“It might take some persuasion.”

“Persuasion?” I asked.

“My dear Tat’yana,” the ambassador interceded in a fatherly tone, “we are merely saying that if we were in possession of certain knowledge about her, things she would not want made public, perhaps we could convince her to help.”

“What sort of knowledge? What are you talking about?”

“Her friend, Miss Hickok, what do you know of her?” asked Zarubin.

I shrugged. “Not much. She’s a journalist. She covers Mrs. Roosevelt. They have long been friends.”

“And what is the nature of this friendship?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“What sort of friendship is it?”

“I don’t know. They’re friends,” I said, a little too quickly.

Zarubin smiled rigidly so that his lips were drawn back over his yellow teeth, baring them like the fangs of a dog about to attack. “Are they intimate?”

“What!”

“Are they lovers?”

“How would I know?” I asked.

“There have been rumors that the two have been involved for some time,” Zarubin continued. “Have you seen anything that would lead you to believe this?”

I thought of the quiet familiarity they had around each other, the intimacy with which they had gazed into each other’s eyes. I thought too of what Captain Taylor had said to me, how if such a thing got out it would ruin her.

“No,” I replied.

“You’ve seen nothing at all. Not the slightest gesture that would lead you to that conclusion?”

“No. Nothing. Even if they were, I don’t see why it should be my business—or
anyone’s
for that matter.”

“Comrade,” said Zarubin, “if we were in possession of such knowledge, it would give us tremendous leverage with her.”

“You’re talking about blackmailing her,” I said. “The wife of the president of the United States. This is absurd.”

“Watch your tongue, Lieutenant,” Zarubin said. He glanced at Litvinov, then brought his hand up and rubbed his angular jaw. “We prefer to call it persuasion.”

I stared dumbfounded at the three of them. My gaze lingered particularly on Vasilyev, hoping to find at least in him some recognition that he realized how preposterous all this was, but he merely pursed his thin lips in an attitude of complacency. It was all so absolutely, so incredibly insane that I didn’t know what to say. They were actually considering blackmailing the wife of the president. Threatening her by revealing that she and Miss Hickok were lovers. Had they all gone stark raving mad? I wondered. The entire moment would have been comical if not for the fact that it was so deadly serious.

“So what is it you expect me to do?” I asked.

“I understand she has befriended you,” Zarubin said.

“She has been very kind to me, yes,” I replied.

“It is important that you continue to gain her confidence. We need someone who is close to her. In her intimate circle. We want you to report back to us anything she says.”

“You wish me to spy on her is what you’re saying.”

“We expect you merely to do your duty, Comrade,” replied Zarubin sharply.

“Duty!” I snapped at him. “This,” I said, holding up the Gold Star medal on my chest, “proves I’ve done my duty. What have you done to prove yours, Comrade?”

Litvinov, ever the ambassador, placed his hand on my shoulder. “Lieutenant,” he said. “No one is questioning your patriotism. The Soviet Union is deeply appreciative of all that you have done for it. We merely want you to help in a different way now. To learn whatever you can from the president’s wife. To continue to befriend her.”

“Not befriend her,” I replied. “Betray her, you mean.”

“Like you, Comrade,” said the ambassador, “we are only interested in protecting the Motherland.”

“Tell me how spying on her, someone who is trying to help us, is protecting our country.”

“There are certain subtleties involved of which you are not aware, Lieutenant,” replied Ambassador Litvinov. “For now, it is enough that you watch her closely.”

I looked at Vasilyev and asked, “Am I being ordered to do this?”

It was Zarubin who answered. “Yes, Lieutenant. Failure to comply will result in consequences of the most severe nature. Do I make myself clear?”

I paused for a moment, glancing from Zarubin to Vasilyev. Finally, reluctantly, I replied, “Yes, Comrade. Very clear.”

From that moment, I was no longer a soldier. I was a spy.

I
t is hard for one who did not live during that period to understand the paranoia, the fear, and the hatred that existed between our two countries, and the lengths to which each side would go to in order to best the other. Over the next several weeks, things with Vasilyev and the shady bunch he worked for grew ever more bizarre, as well as more dangerous. I had seen many strange things in the war, but nothing compared with what I was about to experience. At least since our little meeting in the shed, my eyes had been opened. It would still be a while before I learned the true extent of their machinations, but I knew enough now to realize that my role promoting the war was, if not quite a complete ruse, secondary to their other, more sinister plans, plans that had more to do with fighting the Americans in some future war than fighting our very real enemies now. Viktor, of course, had been right all along.

Nevertheless, I decided I would try to go along with what they wanted, play their game, be the good soldier, at least as much as I was able without completely compromising myself. I figured I owed it to my comrades back home fighting to do whatever I could to help defeat the Germans. Whether that was raising money, increasing the Americans’ awareness of the plight of my people, or even trying to persuade the West to open up that second front sooner rather than later. Since arriving in Washington, we had raised more than a million dollars for
the Soviet War Relief Fund. Each time I spoke or smiled demurely or agreed to an interview, each dollar I was able to get from the Americans was another dollar to buy guns and bullets, trucks and planes and bandages. I thought of Zoya and Captain Petrenko and my other comrades I’d fought with in Sevastopol. I tried to think only in terms of the Soviet lives I might be saving, the mothers who wouldn’t be grieving over children lost, or the Germans I might be helping to kill, even if only indirectly. I figured I could pretend to go along with what Vasilyev and the others wanted me to, if for no other reason than so that I could return home all the sooner to take up the real fight. I told myself that the rest was their slimy business, not mine. I was a soldier. My job was to follow orders.

We began our tour heading north by train. Accompanying Mrs. Roosevelt was a small army of personal assistants, advisers, friends, Secret Service agents, and reporters assigned to cover the First Lady. She brought along Miss Hickock, of course, and Captain Taylor, as well as her private secretary, Miss Thompson, to whom she dictated every morning her daily newspaper column. The First Lady had a train car all to herself and her entourage, while the Soviet delegation and the press corps occupied the car directly behind hers. The train was unlike any I’d ever been on. It was like a hotel on wheels, with a dining car, a lounge car, a smoking car, an observation car, and several Pullman sleepers where at night we slept in private compartments on comfortable beds with windows that looked out on the passing landscape. We had every imaginable convenience, which Gavrilov, in his usual surly manner, referred to as “bourgeois luxury.”

Sometimes we would make a brief “whistle-stop” at a station, where the First Lady and I would say a few words from the back of the train to groups that must have heard of our coming. The Americans appeared just as eager to see her as to see me. Like a benevolent queen, she was clearly adored by her subjects. They thronged about her, wanting to touch her, to get her autograph. Some held up their babies for her to kiss. Many called out her name. “Eleanor!” they’d cry. “Over here, Eleanor,” almost as if she were a personal friend rather than the wife of their leader. I couldn’t imagine anything similar taking place back home, the
natural, unrehearsed outpouring of real emotion. Not the sort of staged affairs that occurred in Red Square, where thousands were paraded by Stalin and forced, through the simple mechanism of fear, into obsequious shows of affection. And we certainly had no leaders’ wives who would have inspired such respect or love, and certainly none who were so influential. And for her part, Mrs. Roosevelt seemed genuinely to care for “her people,” as she referred to them. I marveled at the way she reached out and shook hands, accepted hugs, let them get close enough to look into their eyes, listen with real concern to what they had to say. Her enthusiasm and warmth were incredible. Here, I thought, was a remarkable woman, the model of what a woman could be. Her face beamed, her toothy smile was radiant. The sadness I had seen in her eyes at the cemetery was replaced by passion and joy and love.

At one stop in a small Maryland town, several hundred people, mostly laborers and farmers, had come out.

“Look at all your admirers,” Mrs. Roosevelt had said to me through the captain.

“No,” I corrected, “it is you they want to see. They adore you, Mrs. Roosevelt.”

She smiled kindly at me. “Thank you, my dear. But I’m afraid you haven’t met our Republicans yet.”

As I watched her waving and smiling to the crowd, the thought that I was going to have to betray her—a woman of such kindness and compassion, someone who had been so considerate of me, so helpful to my country—actually made me sick to my stomach. How could I do this? I asked myself. I thought of what Captain Taylor had told me at the cemetery—that he wouldn’t want to see her hurt.

One night on the train, after a pleasant meal with Mrs. Roosevelt and the others, Captain Taylor and I played a game of chess. I’d mentioned to him that I played, so he challenged me. It turned out he wasn’t much of a chess player, unlike Kolya. He gambled and played recklessly, lost his queen early, and I was able to checkmate him in short order.

“You’re very good,” he said to me.

“Not really,” I said with a smile.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” he kidded.

After our game, I stepped outside for some fresh air. The evening was cool, the air smelling crisply of autumn, of the fecund aroma of recently harvested crops. It made me think of the fields of the Ukraine, the times my mother and father would take me by train from Kiev to Sevastopol on holiday. I was standing there between cars, staring out at the countryside, when the door behind me opened.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” said Vasilyev.

“Hello,” I replied.

He removed his silver case and offered me a cigarette. He lit both of ours, then stood there for a moment silently watching the land pass by.

“It is a beautiful country, is it not?” he said.

I nodded.

“Anything to report regarding the Captain’s Wife?”

“No,” I replied.

Vasilyev had continued to loosen his previously tight hold on my leash, permitting me more and more freedom with and access to, as Zarubin had called her, the Captain’s Wife. Sometimes he would let just the three of us—her, Captain Taylor, and me—take breakfast together in the dining car or stay up late talking with her and Miss Hickok in the First Lady’s private compartment. Mrs. Roosevelt had even taught me how to play a game of cards called pinochle. Occasionally, the four of us would play and talk well into the evening. Of course, his goal in allowing me this freedom had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with the fact that he felt Mrs. Roosevelt would be more likely to “open up” with me if we were alone and I might find out something of interest. Afterward he’d grill me regarding what subjects we had conversed about, if she had mentioned anything of her husband’s plans, if he were preparing to travel abroad. I shared with him a few things about our conversations. Not much, and nothing I felt of real consequence, nothing that would do harm to my dear new friend. But I did give him scraps, because I thought if I hadn’t he might suspect that I was withholding information. For instance, I informed him once that Mrs. Roosevelt had made a passing remark about Mr. Wallace, her husband’s vice president. She’d said Mr. Wallace would likely not be around for a second term. It proved to
be a mistake, as Vasilyev interrogated me for an hour about whether she had meant that her husband was going to select another running mate or that he wasn’t going to be running at all and therefore Wallace would be free to make his own bid for the presidency. I told him I had no idea, that she hadn’t said anything further about it. I also fed him other bits and pieces of my conversations with the First Lady. But mostly I managed to avoid telling him anything of real significance, in large measure because Mrs. Roosevelt and I normally didn’t talk much beyond the personal sorts of topics any two women might discuss. Even if Mrs. Roosevelt did allude to something I sensed might be of greater interest to Vasilyev, I carefully chose to ignore it or at least to try to skirt the issue. How would he know what we’d talked about? However, especially when he’d press me for more information, I would become nervous as I found myself ensnared in my own lies. And Vasilyev, the
chekist
well versed in the ways of extracting information from unwilling subjects, was good at ferreting out a lie.

“Did she say anything regarding her and the Hickok woman?” he asked me this evening.

“You mean if they are lovers or not?” I replied sarcastically.

Vasilyev knitted his brows in annoyance, then looked out at the passing landscape. When he glanced back at me his expression had changed. It was almost sympathetic. “If I may give you some advice, Lieutenant. Comrade Zarubin is not someone you want to cross. He has important friends.”

“But you can’t seriously believe what he suggested,” I said to him. “It’s all madness. Do you really think Mrs. Roosevelt is going to share state secrets with us, even if we threatened to blackmail her?”

“What
I
think is unimportant,” he said. “But if you must know, I do not happen to share Zarubin’s opinion. He has, shall I say, unconventional methods. Unfortunately, he has the ear of a higher-up who has the ear of Beria himself. So what I think is irrelevant. But I am in agreement with him that the First Lady can be of use to us, directly or indirectly. As they say in America, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Isn’t it enough she’s helping us raise money?”

“She is also privy to vital information. She shares the president’s
bed.” Then, glancing up at me, he added with a smile, “At least on occasion. Besides, she is vulnerable.”

“How do you mean?”

“She is an idealist who believes the best of people. And like all idealists, she is blinded to what’s under her nose.”

“I think you’re wrong. She’s one of the smartest women I’ve ever met.”

“I see that you’ve become quite fond of her.”

“Yes, I have.”

“That’s good. But be careful that your feelings don’t cloud your judgment, Lieutenant.”

“Rest assured, Comrade, my judgment won’t be clouded in the least,” I replied. “Did you always know this was to be the real reason for my coming to America?”

“Does it matter?” he said. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

He flicked his cigarette into the wind, turned, and headed into the next car.

Now and then we would stop in a particular city and spend the entire day touring it. We made appearances in Baltimore and Philadelphia and Camden, New Jersey. In each city I would make a speech, meet with public officials and reporters, have what they would today call a “photo op” session. At the Aberdeen Proving Grounds, I was photographed shooting a bazooka at an old tank sitting out on the target range. In Philadelphia, I had my picture taken with Mrs. Roosevelt standing in front of the Liberty Bell. At Fort Dix in New Jersey, I sat in the nose turret of a Flying Fortress, pretending to shoot its .50-caliber machine gun at German Messerschmitts while mugging for the cameras. (Vasilyev, of course, continued to remind me to flash my smile. “Show them you are having a good time,” he instructed.)

During our tour, Gavrilov’s role had been reduced to almost nothing. He would sometimes be called upon to utter a few lines in praise of the Soviet Union’s heroic struggle against the Germans, perhaps answer a question or two the press directed his way about the Soviet
youth organization Komsomol. But other than that, he’d been told to remain silent, “out of the spotlight,” as Vasilyev had put it, because the Americans had come to see the “Beautiful Assassin.” Of course this insult stuck in his craw. On the train once, as I was passing between cars, I overheard him talking to Dmitri, with whom he seemed to have struck up a friendship. “The fucking bitch thinks she’s movie star.” I think too he was jealous of the attention I received from and paid to Captain Taylor. Whatever “feelings” Gavrilov had had for me quickly vanished, to be replaced now by the keenest envy and loathing. He often went out of his way to make cutting remarks about a speech I’d made or something I’d said to a reporter, toning it down only for Vasilyev. It would have done little good to try to convince him that none of this had been my idea, that I didn’t seek or want the spotlight, so I let him think what he would.

Viktor had accompanied us also, though he did even less than Gavrilov. He simply smiled woodenly for the cameras, showing off his scar or occasionally mouthing a few words that Vasilyev had written for him—how happy he was to be in the United States, his gratitude to the Americans for their continued support. Ever since the beating he’d received at the hands of the
chekisty,
he seemed to have changed, become complacent and docile, his eyes as vacant as someone anesthetized. Even with me he acted odd, distant and wary. Since leaving Washington I hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk with him. On the one or two occasions that I happened to bump into him on the train or in a hotel lobby, he would give me the cold shoulder, almost as if he considered me the enemy. He would drink with some of the reporters covering the First Lady or play cards with them in the lounge car of the train.

In New York they had arranged for me to make a series of speeches and public appearances at various sites throughout the city—at Astor Place, Cooper Union, Columbia University, Central Park, as well as at factories and plants and union halls, wherever they thought it likely that people would give money. During all of these visits, Mrs. Roosevelt accompanied me, lending me support and encouragement, helping to calm my nerves before I spoke. Our friendship grew, despite the hectic pace of our schedule and the secret task I had been charged with. In
front of a large crowd at Columbia, she introduced me. As I passed her to the podium, she whispered, “
Udachi,
Tat’yana.” Good luck. During our long trip, with the captain’s tutoring, we’d each been trying to learn a little of the other’s language. Mrs. Roosevelt would say something like “It is a lovely day,” and Captain Taylor would have me give it a try in English. Or in Russian I would say to Mrs. Roosevelt, “I like your hat,” and she would try to say, “
Mne nravitsya vasha shlyapa
.” At the Brooklyn Navy Yard, when she was unable to break a bottle of champagne across the bow of a new battleship about to be launched, she turned to me and said, “
Pomogite mne, pozhaluysta
” (help me, please). Along with Mrs. Roosevelt, I had to cut the ribbons at the opening of an aircraft plant on Long Island that had been converted to making P-47 Thunderbolt fighters. At a factory in lower Manhattan we had been invited to speak to workers who built radio compasses and other navigational devices for Allies’ aircraft. And always nearby to guard the First Lady there would be policemen, as well as Mrs. Roosevelt’s Secret Service agents, men I came to recognize. But soon I thought I noticed other men hovering at the periphery, dark-suited men who reappeared over and over again at our speeches, jotting down notes or surreptitiously taking pictures of us. It was Vasilyev who finally tipped me off as to who they were.