Beautiful Assassin (47 page)

He stared at me, probably suspecting that I knew he was lying.

Instead of replying, he began to kiss me, my mouth and neck and breasts. As I lay there, letting him make love to me, staring at the ceiling, I felt something in the back of my mind, not the kindling of passion but a kind of low droning noise, like a Messerschmitt coming in from a long ways off. I kept trying to bat it away, but it kept returning.
Why would he be in possession of such important information
?

He must have sensed that my mind was not on our lovemaking.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“When you were in the Soviet Union, did you ever get a chance to visit Moscow?”

“I told you already. No,” he replied, attempting once more to arouse me. “Why? What’s all this about?”

I wondered if I should continue or just drop the entire thing and savor his body against mine.

“Vasilyev said the only Captain John Taylor in the army was in San Diego. That he was married and had a family.”

Jack smiled. “Now how would he know that?”

“I don’t know. That’s just what he told me.”

“And you believed him?”

“No, I didn’t say I believed him.”

“Well, obviously he’s wrong.”

Jack got up then and walked over to where his trousers lay on the floor and picked them up. I watched his naked body—tall and slender, the muscles taut, the tight curve of his buttocks—a body I had come so quickly to know and to love as I had never known and loved a man’s body. He removed his wallet and brought it over to the bed. He began taking out pictures of himself, his family, his sister, throwing them on the bed for me to peruse. He even had one of him standing before the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad.

“There,” he said. “What more proof do you want?”

“I don’t need any proof.”

“It seemed like you did.”

He lay back on the bed. He took up my hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it.

“You have a choice, Tat’yana. You can believe me. Or you can believe him.”

“I believe you,” I replied, though that droning sensation in the back of my head continued unabated.

“Good,” he said. “I want to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“What do you want to call our first child?”

“Our first what!” I asked, shocked at his question. And yet I found myself smiling. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

“I like to plan ahead.”

I thought of telling him I couldn’t have children, that I was an empty shell of a woman. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment—for him or for me. Right then, I even let myself pretend that there was such a possibility. I imagined our child walking between us in a park, holding each of our hands.

“If it’s a boy,” I said, “I suppose we ought to call him Jack.”

He smiled and kissed me gently.

From Denver we headed north to the small town of Laramie, Wyoming, a place whose streets were filled with bowlegged men wearing cowboy hats. I had seen cowboys only in the rare silent picture shows they played back home. I had thought they were just more of the American myth. The First Lady and her guests had been invited to a rodeo. We watched men with leather pants ride horses that tried to throw them off or rope cattle and tie the helpless creatures’ hooves together.

“Have you ever seen anything quite like this, Tat’yana?” Mrs. Roosevelt asked me. I was seated on the other side of her from the captain, and she had leaned forward to say this. She smiled at me, but there was something about her smile, a kind of reserve, a certain diffidence I had never encountered with her before. I wondered if Jack Taylor had told her about what I had been doing for the past several weeks now. And I felt the shame of my betrayal spread over my face like a hot draft from a fire.

That night we stayed at a lodge that had a large Indian tepee out front and the heads of animals in the dining room, their glossy gray eyes staring woefully at us while we ate. Later I was in my room, waiting for Jack, when I heard someone knock. I rushed over and threw open the door only to find Vasilyev slouching against the door frame. The disappointment must have shown on my face.

“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked coyly. He let himself in and walked over and sat in the chair near the window.

“What do you want?” I asked.

He stared at me, giving me a look whose precise meaning I couldn’t interpret, though it was, I knew, in the general nature of a warning.

“Here,” he said, dropping an envelope on the table in front of him. “You are to deliver this to Mrs. Roosevelt.”

I walked over and picked up the envelope. On it were words in English.

“What does it say?” I asked.

“Private and confidential.”

“What is this about?”

“A message. For her eyes only,” he said. “So give it to her when you are alone with her. And be sure to wait for her response.”

“Her response?”

“Yes, she is to give you a reply.” He then got to his feet and headed toward the door. Before he left, he said, “They are getting very impatient. I don’t know how long I can keep them at bay.”

For a long time I debated about what to do, wondering if I should open it or not. Finally I decided to call Jack’s room, see what he thought.

“I have to see you,” I said. He told me to come right up. I checked the hall, and after seeing no one lurking anywhere, I sneaked off to his room.

As soon as I entered he embraced me and started to kiss me.

“No, wait,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to show you something first.” I handed him the envelope and explained what Vasilyev had instructed me to do.

“Do you know what’s in it?” Jack asked.

“No. But he said I was to await her response. What do you think we should do?”

“I think we should open it.”

I hesitated, then finally agreed. The letter was brief, just a few sentences, which he translated for me.

It wasn’t, of course, signed.

“Those bastards,” Jack cursed. I snatched the letter back from him, and in my anger I was about to tear it up, when he stopped me.

“Don’t. We might need this as proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of your government’s attempt to blackmail the wife of the president. It might help strengthen your case for being granted asylum.”

“But I would not wish her to know of this…of my part in it.”

“She’s going to have to know,” he said. “I can’t let this go on any longer, Tat’yana. You have to make a choice. Right here, right now.”

I looked at him and nodded. “I have already made my decision. I wish to defect.”

He approached, threw his arms around me, and hugged me. Then he leaned back, stared down into my eyes. “I’m going to have to consult with Mrs. Roosevelt about this.”

“Are you going to tell her of my role in it?”

“I don’t see how I can’t. But I’ll only tell her what I absolutely have to. Then we’ll have to see how she wants to handle it.”

I cringed at the thought that Mrs. Roosevelt, a woman who had been so kind to me, who had befriended me, would now know of my deception and duplicity.

“She will be very disappointed.”

He nodded, pursing his lips. “She’s also going to be your most important ally.”

O
ver the next couple of days as the train sped westward on the final leg of our cross-country trip, I stayed mostly in my sleeper compartment, feigning illness. Jack had come up with this plan, so as to buy us some time. That way, I could say I hadn’t yet had a chance to deliver Vasilyev’s letter to Mrs. Roosevelt. Out my window, I watched as the flat, endless plains gave way first to towering mountains, some already snowcapped, followed by brown, desiccated deserts, then more mountains, and at last, the green abundance of California. I lay there thinking about Jack Taylor, about the possibility of a life with him, about all that was soon going to change for me. Wondering if I could actually go through with defecting to the West. Once, as if sensing my conflicted state of mind, Jack Taylor stopped by to see how I was doing.

“I heard you were sick,” he said loudly, playing along with our ruse in case one of the
chekist
officers was within earshot.

“I’m feeling a little better.” Then in a whisper I asked, “Did you talk to Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“She’s been busy,” he said, somewhat evasively, I thought. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll check back with you later.”

Before he left, I said, “Jack.”

“Yes?”

“You do love me, right?”

He smiled, reached out and stroked my cheek. “Of course I love you. How could you doubt that?”

Finally we arrived in San Francisco. I was to give a couple of speeches, make a tour of the city, meet with some reporters, before having a final gala dinner. After that, Vasilyev had informed me that we were to head home by way of an American merchant ship bringing lend-lease materials through the Persian Gulf. We arrived at our hotel, which was in the downtown part of the city, near the water. I went up to my room and took a long bath. I was lying there in the hot water, thinking about everything, when there was a knock on my door.

I threw my robe on and answered it. Dmitri was standing there.

“The Boss wants to see you,” he said.

“What’s he want?”

“I don’t know. But he’s in one of his moods, so you better get a move on.”

I quickly got dressed and followed him to Vasilyev’s room. When I entered, I saw Gavrilov sitting on the bed, his back to the wall. Prior to this, Vasilyev had usually excluded Gavrilov from our most private conversations, but now he sat across from me, staring at me with that smug expression of his. On his lap he held a briefcase. Vasilyev was seated on one of two wing chairs overlooking the city below.

“Have a seat,” Vasilyev told me brusquely. I sat opposite him. “I trust you are feeling better, Lieutenant?”

“A little.”

“Did you get a chance to deliver the message to Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“And?”

“She didn’t say anything.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t say anything?”

“She just read the letter.”

“She didn’t give you any response at all?”

“No.”

Vasilyev and Gavrilov traded glances. I realized then that Gavrilov was in on all of this too, just as Viktor had guessed. He wasn’t just a student representative, a Komsomol member. He was one of
them
.

“Do you still have the letter you received in Chicago?” Vasilyev asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Give it to me.”

“I don’t have it on me. It’s in my suitcase in my room.”

“Bring it to me later,” he said. “Did you inquire of Captain Taylor if he were ever in Moscow?”

“He said he wasn’t.”

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

“How would I know that?”

With a nod to Gavrilov, he said, “Show her.”

From the envelope on his lap, Gavrilov removed what I could see was a photograph. He leaned across the bed and handed it to me, a thin little sneer drawing his face into a rigid mask.

“I knew I’d seen him somewhere before,” Vasilyev commented.

I glanced at the photo. It was a little fuzzy and had been taken from some distance. It showed two men emerging from a building. I didn’t recognize the first one, a heavy, middle-aged man with a light-colored suit and a fedora. The other was younger and slender, also dressed in civilian clothes. Despite his clothing and the fact that he had both his arms, there was no mistaking that it was Jack Taylor.

“Do you recognize him?” Vasilyev asked.

I looked across at him. “Of course. It’s Captain Taylor.”

“Do you recognize that building?”

“Should I?”

“You were there,” Vasilyev said. “That’s the American embassy in Moscow.”

“So?” I said, trying to act as if this information didn’t come as something of a surprise.

Gavrilov said, “Has love blinded you to his deception?”

“Go to hell,” I hurled at him. “That could be any building.”

“But it’s not,” Vasilyev replied. “The captain lied to you when he said he was never in Moscow.”

“So what? Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps he merely made a visit and overlooked it,” I said, though I was starting to get that buzzing sensation in the back of my head again.

“No, he wasn’t visiting, and he surely didn’t forget. He worked there,”
explained Vasilyev. “The man with him is Robert Fowles. He’s a well-known agent of the Americans. A spy. As is your Charles Pierce.”

“Who?”

“Captain Taylor. His real name is Charles Pierce. Or at least that was the name he used on his visa back then.”

“I don’t believe you,” I snapped at him.

“Stop behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush,” said Vasilyev harshly. “Charles Pierce is an OSS officer. He worked in Moscow and later in New York translating cables the Americans had stolen from us.”

I recalled then Jack telling me his friend had contacts in the OSS. Still, I fought to keep my doubt from being displayed on my face.

“How do I know you’ve not made this all up?” I said.

“Pictures don’t lie,” Gavrilov added.

“What have you told him?” Vasilyev asked.

“What do you mean?”

“About what we are doing? About what we know regarding Enormous?”

“I haven’t told him anything.”

“You’re not working for the Americans now, are you?”

“No! Of course not.”

Vasilyev’s eyes searched mine, trying to ferret out a hint of falsehood. “You had better be telling the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Has the captain told you anything I should know?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“The American is only using you,” said Gavrilov. “He doesn’t love you.”

I wanted to strike his thin weasel face. “And what would
you
know about love?” I flung at him.

“All right, enough,” Vasilyev said. “Comrade Gavrilov will be giving the rest of the speeches.”

I looked at Gavrilov, who raised his eyebrows self-righteously, as if to say he’d won.

“It makes no difference to me,” I replied. But the truth was I was wary about what this sudden change implied.

“You will speak to the press only under my direct supervision and
with Radimov doing the translating,” Vasilyev continued. “And you are to cease having any contact with the Americans.”

“The Americans?” I asked.

“Yes.
All
Americans. Including the captain. Is that clear?”

“You don’t wish me to talk to Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“That’s correct. No contact.”

“Won’t they think that’s strange?”

“It doesn’t matter what they think anymore. You will be going home shortly.”

“Home,” I said.

“Yes, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” offered Vasilyev.

I felt a churning sensation begin in the pit of my stomach. I wondered what was going on. If they had gotten Viktor to talk, perhaps he’d told them I had been considering defecting. Or maybe they had somehow found out about my conversations with Captain Taylor. Or what was the other name Vasilyev said? Charles Pierce. It did cross my mind that they had somehow bugged a room I’d been staying in and had listened to our conversations.

“Why the sudden change?” I asked.

“It’s just the way it will be, Lieutenant,” Vasilyev said, staring at me. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Will I be returning to the front?” I asked.

“In two days we sail for Dudinka.”

“Siberia?” I exclaimed. “I thought we were headed for the Gulf.”

“A change of plans.”

Dudinka, I knew, was a port on the Arctic Sea. It provided supplies for the nickel-producing town of Norilsk, made infamous for its labor camp. Back home, people spoke of “going to Norilsk” as one might say “going to hell.”

“I warned you, Lieutenant,” Vasilyev said. “Now it is out of my hands.”

When I left this meeting, I headed back to my room. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts in complete disarray. What was all that about? I wondered. Did Vasilyev know about my plans to defect? Why had he suddenly ordered me not to have any contact with the Americans? And he was obviously worried I had told the captain
something about what we had been doing. But then I thought about the picture he’d shown me regarding Jack. How he’d said he was really someone called Charles Pierce, an American spy. Could I believe him? I wanted to think that Vasilyev was lying just to manipulate me, but why had Jack denied being in Moscow? Could I trust him? Or was he just using me, as Gavrilov had said? I found myself ensnared in a web of treachery and deception, with seemingly no way out. I couldn’t trust anyone, it seemed.

After a while, someone knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” I asked.

“It’s me,” came Jack Taylor’s voice.

I opened the door a little but not wide enough for him to enter.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked, smiling.

“I’m not supposed to talk with you anymore.”

“What?”

“Vasilyev’s orders. I’m not supposed to talk to Americans.”

He frowned.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” I replied coolly. “Those are his orders.”

“What’s really the matter?”

“I told you.”

“There’s obviously something else going on, Tat’yana.”

I stuck my head out and glanced down the hall both ways, to make sure no one was watching us. Then I said, “Come in quickly.” After I’d shut the door, I said, “I think Vasilyev suspects us.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me about Enormous. If I had said anything to you about it. And he ordered me not to talk to you anymore.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“That we would be sailing to Siberia. Not the Middle East.”

Jack ran his hand over his face, rubbing his jaw contemplatively. “Jesus. Do you think they got Viktor to talk?”

“I don’t know.” I stared at him, remembering the picture of him and the other man coming out of the American embassy. “Why did you lie to me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you hadn’t been to Moscow.”

“It’s true. I haven’t.”

“I saw a picture.”

“Picture?” he said. “Of what?”

“Vasilyev showed me a picture of you and another man. You were coming out of the American embassy.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Stop trying to deny it, Jack. I saw it with my own eyes. It was you.”

He took a deep breath. “All right. I can explain.”

“You can explain!” I said with a caustic laugh. “How convenient.”

“I can.”

“What else did you lie about?”

“Nothing. I swear.”

He leaned toward me and tried to kiss me, but I turned my head.

“No,” I said. “Do you know a Charles Pierce?”

“What?” he said, feigning ignorance of the name. He quickly and adroitly recovered, but I saw a momentary flicker of acknowledgment in his hazel eyes, enough to tell me I had hit a nerve. “Who’s—”

But I cut him short. “For God’s sakes, stop lying to me, Jack. Or Charles or whoever the hell you are.”

“I’m not lying,” he pleaded.

“Yes, you are. Tell me, who is Charles Pierce?”

He seemed about to continue with his denials, but then he suddenly changed tactics and said, “All right. Let me explain.”

I laughed at that. “You can explain away all of your lies.”

“Please, Tat’yana. I love you.”

“Do you take me for a complete fool?” I said, turning and heading over to the window. “Damn you…,” I said, not knowing whether to call him Jack or Charles.

He followed me over and put his hand on my shoulder. “We don’t have time for this now, Tat’yana.”

I spun around. “We don’t have time for the truth, you mean. You made me believe you. That you loved me.”

“I do. You have to believe that.”

“I don’t have to believe anything,” I cried.

“I understand how it must look to you.”

“Look to me! You lied to me.”

“We can talk about this later. Right now, Mrs. Roosevelt wants to see you.”

“I don’t know if I want to see her.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, I’m not supposed to talk to Americans. They might be watching me,” I said. “Besides, I don’t know if I want to go through with it anymore.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure I want to defect,” I said.

“You don’t have any choice,” he cried.

“One always has a choice.”

“If you go home, they’ll punish you.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“If you don’t care about yourself, what about us?”

“How can I believe there was ever really an ‘us’? That it wasn’t just another one of your lies?”

“It wasn’t, I swear. I love you.”

“I don’t even know who or what to believe anymore. You Americans are as bad as our side.”

“Before you make up your mind, please, just talk to Mrs. Roosevelt. It’s very important.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, whether I wanted to go back home and perhaps be denounced as an enemy of the state, be sent to a camp, or worse. Or take the chance of defecting. Both paths seemed equally unappealing and equally fraught with peril now.

After a while, I said, “All right. I’ll talk with her.”

“She’s on the eighth floor.”

We headed over to the door. He started to open it, but I said, “Wait.”

I poked my head out and saw one of the
chekisty
just down the hall. He was leaning against the wall, smoking.