Beautiful Assassin (43 page)

“Welcome, Comrade,” said the stocky, red-haired man to Vasilyev, shaking his hand. “And you, Lieutenant Levchenko.”

It was a tiny apartment—a narrow kitchen, a small sitting area, a bedroom I could see through a doorway. In the kitchen I saw a fat, unshaven man in a sleeveless undershirt preparing something at the stove. He wore a shoulder holster. The place smelled of boiled meat and cabbage, and of the bodies of men living in close proximity. As I passed by the bedroom, there were at least two other men in there. One had headphones on and was tapping out a telegraph message. I was led into
the sitting area, where another man, nattily attired in a dark suit and tie, waited. He stood as I approached.

“Lieutenant Levchenko, I would like you to meet Comrade Semyonov,” Zarubin said. This Semyonov fellow shook my hand. He was a short man with thinning hair and a pudgy, too-eager face, dark little eyes that flitted anxiously about like sparrows.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” offered this Semyonov. “Please, sit.” The man in the undershirt appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a teapot, cream and sugar bowls, cups. He wore no socks and his undershirt was yellowed, bulging with his belly. As he bent over to put the tray on a small table in the middle of the room, his holster hung down. In it was a bulky Tokarev pistol.

“You want some tea?” Zarubin asked, in his usual gruff manner.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Your pictures hardly do you justice, Lieutenant,” Semyonov said, smiling obsequiously. With a nod to the man in the undershirt, he indicated that he wished to have him pour some tea. He was soft-spoken but with the precise movements and the meticulous manners of someone who had grown up attended by servants. Semyonov didn’t ask Vasilyev if he wanted any tea. When the man was finished pouring the tea, he headed into the bedroom and shut the door. I could hear him conversing with the others, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Semyonov made small talk with me for a time—about the weather, our impending trip, if I had found New York to my liking. Now and then he would glance over at Vasilyev, who sat quietly in a chair near the window. A look seemed to pass between them that at first I couldn’t put a name to, other than that they knew each other. After a few minutes of polite talk, Semyonov glanced at his watch and decided it was time to get down to business.

“Comrade Vasilyev tells me you have become quite good friends with Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“I suppose we have. I like her very much.”

“Excellent. What have you and she discussed?”

“I have already told Comrade Vasilyev everything.”

“But now I wish you to tell me.”

“We talked about many things.”

“Comrade Vasilyev has told me that she said her husband was planning on traveling. Did she say to where?”

“No. But as I have already told him, I got the sense that it was abroad.”

He leaned forward and carefully poured some milk into his tea, followed by three perfectly rounded spoonfuls of sugar. He picked up the cup by the saucer and with the spoon made cautious circles in it, tapped the spoon, then placed it on the saucer and took a sip.

“Do you think she has Communist sympathies?”

“I do not know, Comrade. She certainly supports our struggle against the Nazis.”

“And what of this Captain Taylor? What sort of terms are you on with him?”

“Terms?” I said.

“Are you intimate with him?” he asked, staring levelly at me.

“No, of course not,” I said, too quickly, so that my tone rang hollow even to myself.

“But you are quite friendly with him, are you not?” he asked.

“We are friendly, yes,” I replied coolly.

“Have you been able to elicit from him any information regarding Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“In regards to her personal life, did the captain say anything about that?”

I shook my head. “No. Nor would he. He is quite loyal to her.”

“I see,” said Semyonov, glancing over at Vasilyev. I could see an expression flitter across the latter’s face. This one I recognized as a look of annoyance but also one of consternation. I could now tell that Vasilyev had a bitter antipathy toward this man. Also, that if he didn’t quite fear him, he regarded him with caution, the way you might a wasp very near your hand.

“This journalist friend of hers, what is her name again?” Semyonov said, snapping his fingers impatiently and tossing a sideways glance at Vasilyev.

Vasilyev supplied the name for him: “Hickok,” he said.

Turning back to me, he asked, “Have you been able to discern the exact nature of this friendship between Mrs. Roosevelt and this Hickok woman?”

“No,” I said.

“Are they lovers?”

“How would I know that, sir?”

“Certain…,” he said, gesticulating with his hands, searching for the right word, “gestures of affection. Things they might say to one another in private.”

“I know only that they are close friends,” I replied.

I decided, then and there, that that was as far as I would go down the path of betraying my friendship with Mrs. Roosevelt. I wouldn’t say any more than that, even if they were to threaten to do to me what they had to Viktor. And even then I felt a terrible sense of betrayal twisting in my stomach.

Finally Semyonov said, “In your conversations with Mrs. Roosevelt or Captain Taylor, has the word
Manhattan
ever been broached?”

“As in the city?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “As in a certain project the Americans are working on.”

With this I recalled, of course, my recent conversation with Vasilyev. What he had instructed me to do.

“I don’t believe she mentioned any such a project, but…” I paused for effect.

Semyonov took the bait. “But what?” he asked eagerly.

“There was something, I recall. Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt mentioned someone visiting her husband. A scientist, I think it was.”

At this both Semyonov and Zarubin sat up, their interest piqued.

“Do you happen to remember the name?” Vasilyev asked, playing his part.

“It was an unusual name,” I said, furrowing my brow, as if I were trying to recall it. “I think she said it was Szilard.”

“Szilard?” asked Semyonov, barely able to contain his satisfaction at hearing this news. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” I said.

Semyonov glanced at Zarubin and nodded. Then he turned his gaze back to me, studying me for a moment as he took a sip of tea. Any fool should have been able to see through my pathetic lie. But they had so convinced themselves that their scheme would work, they were ready to believe anything. They had been trained in the Communist system, which warped their sense between what was real and what they were told to believe.

“Make sure to alert Kharon of this development,” Semyonov instructed to Zarubin. From the coffee table he picked up a manila envelope and set it on his lap.

“May I inquire what all this is about?” I asked.

“You don’t have to concern your pretty little head with the details, Lieutenant,” Zarubin interjected. “Suffice it to say, the Americans and their British lackeys might be developing a new sort of weapon. We don’t know much about it. What we do know, however, is that the Americans are pouring tremendous resources into it and that they have done their utmost to keep it a secret from us. Our code name for it is—”

A split second before he could utter the word, it came to me like a blindingly bright flash, like one of those brilliant flashes the world would very shortly see—the infernal explosion of light followed by the blackening mushroom cloud unfolding ever upward toward the heavens, an image later imprinted on all of our mind’s eyes.

“Enormous,” I blurted out, glancing at Vasilyev as I said it.

“Why, yes,” Semyonov said, surprised, also looking toward Vasilyev.

“That’s why you repeatedly used the word in my speeches,” I said. I could only guess that they’d used the word in my speeches as some sort of code, to inform our agents here and those back home of our progress.

“The less you know, Comrade, the better,” Zarubin advised me.

“We hope to learn whatever we can about Enormous from whatever sources available to us,” said Semyonov. “We feel that Mrs. Roosevelt might prove instrumental in this.”

“Assuming for a moment she’s even aware of this secret project,” I said. “What information do you hope to gather from her? She’s not a scientist.”

“But she might have overheard her husband talking about meeting someone like this Szilard fellow,” Semyonov said. “Even if we can confirm they have actually begun work on it, this would be of great assistance to us.”

“And you expect that Mrs. Roosevelt will share this with us?”

“As I have already mentioned to you, Lieutenant,” Zarubin interjected, “we hope to be able to persuade her.”

“Blackmail, you mean?”

At this, Semyonov opened the manila envelope and removed its contents. They appeared to be a group of photographs. He extended them toward me.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Go ahead. Take a look.”

I leaned forward and picked them up. As I began shuffling through the pictures, I felt sick to my stomach. They were black-and-white photos, some grainy and from a distance, others quite clear and sharp, as if the person taking them had been just a few feet away. Some were of Mrs. Roosevelt alone, but most were of her and Miss Hickok. They showed them standing together, walking side by side, in various settings. In one they were strolling hand in hand, somewhere in what appeared to be a rural area, or at least where there were trees and shrubs and grass in the background. In another they were embracing. In the background of this photo I spotted first one headstone and then another and soon realized they were in a cemetery, and then I realized that the cemetery in question was the same Rock Creek Cemetery to which Mrs. Roosevelt had taken me. In yet another photo, several people were seated at a restaurant which proved, on closer inspection, to be the Russian Tea Room. They were close-up shots. One of the captain, another of me. How had anyone taken them, I wondered, without us noticing? Then I recalled the waiter who’d struck up a conversation with me. Had he somehow taken these pictures? Others showed the captain and me at the baseball game, getting into a taxi, riding in the carriage in Central Park. Just when I thought their little show was over, Semyonov handed me one last picture. It had been taken out of doors, during a rainy night, the black water glistening in spots off the pavement. The quality of it
wasn’t particularly good. It showed a woman and a man, both in uniform, standing together under some sort of overhanging cover. They were kissing. That much was clear. If I had not known the two participants in the photo, their identities would have remained anonymous. But I
did
know them: it was Captain Taylor and me. My God! I thought. The bastards had been spying on us all day.

“What is the meaning of this?” I cried, feeling a little as if I had been violated.

Semyonov just stared at me while Zarubin had a thin, crooked little smile pasted on his face. I glanced over at Vasilyev, to see if he was part of this, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“Are you still contending that the captain and you are not intimate?” Zarubin stated.

“You had no right.”

“The fact of the matter, Lieutenant, is that we had every right,” Zarubin said to me.

“I won’t stand for this.”

“You will shut your pretty mouth and do as we tell you,” Zarubin commanded.

I got up, started for the door. Before I reached it, however, the fat man in the undershirt stepped out of the bedroom and blocked my way. He stood there with his arms folded over his chest.

“Come and sit, Lieutenant,” Semyonov called to me. “There’s no need for any of these dramatics.”

I hesitated, then turned and walked back and sat down.

“Good. Are you sure I can’t interest you in some tea?”

“I don’t want your damn tea,” I spat at him.

“Very well. We want you to continue to monitor the activities of Mrs. Roosevelt,” Semyonov explained. “Work to gain her confidence. Get her to trust you. I want to know everything she says, particularly regarding her husband and his plans. Also, I would encourage you to capitalize on your relationship with this Captain Taylor.”

“Capitalize?” I scoffed.

“It’s obvious his interest in you is more than professional. We would not be opposed if you were, shall we say, receptive to his attentions.”

“You mean you want me to sleep with him,” I said.

“You are free to use whatever means to find out information from him,” Semyonov said.

Zarubin chuckled. “He wouldn’t be the first man who let himself be led around by his cock.”

I felt my jaw knotting. I hated these men with a passion, as much if not more than I had the Germans. At least the Germans I’d faced had been soldiers. They’d fought and died bravely. These men were lackeys, cowards who hid behind their influence.

“Comrade Vasilyev will keep me apprised of your progress,” Semyonov said. “And do not, I caution you, mention the American project to anyone. Do you understand?”

I stared at Semyonov, then Zarubin before saying, “I understand.”

Semyonov then reached into his inside coat pocket and removed what appeared to be a letter of some sort.

“Here,” he said to me, handing me the envelope, which was sealed yet had no address on it. “We would like you to deliver this to our contact in Chicago.”

“Why me?”

“The Americans are watching us very closely. It’s too dangerous to go by the usual means. They won’t expect you to be carrying anything. Keep it on your person at all times. These are very important documents. You mustn’t let them fall into the wrong hands. Someone will be in contact with you. His code name is Larin.”

“Larin?” I said.

“Yes. That is all for now.”

With this, Vasilyev stood and gave a perfunctory nod to the others, and I followed him to the door. Just before we left the apartment, Semyonov called, “Remember, Comrade Levchenko, you are still a soldier. You are merely fighting a different enemy now.”