"No one met me," Nikolai complained.
"That's strange," said Masirov. "I arranged for Igor to meet you."
"Also, someone's been inside my flat. I assume there are microphones?"
"Please," said Masirov in his coldest voice. "There are protocols."
"What is going on here in Moscow? You owe me an explanation."
"I'm sure I don't know. But you will be contacted soon. Patience, please. Impatience killed the cat."
"That’s no help," Nikolai muttered and slammed down the phone. He sat on his bed and then lay back beside Sasha, full of dread. Masirov's voice and flippant words told him everything he needed to know.
Tomorrow he would be drugged and tortured until he told them he was spying for London. Would he tell them that? Could he withhold?
He shut his eyes.
No one ever had.
46
His mother arrived from Leningrad. She had agreed to visit and help with Sasha while he worked. They hugged, and tears were shed while his mother looked incredulously at Sasha, who had doubled in size since last time she’d seen her.
The next morning before dawn, as Sasha and his mother slept, he dressed in sweats and headed outside for his run. Two above freezing, it was cold, even for a Moscow October. He switched on his transistor radio and listened. He twisted the dial, listening then turning again. No news of the Soviet fleet headed for Cuba. BBC had covered it yesterday when President Kennedy announced he was sending the U.S. Navy. Nuclear war had been imminent when he boarded his flight in London. But Russian radio was mum about it.
He stuck the radio in his pocket and looked up and down the street. A Volga parked at the corner could contain eyes. Or the Volga on the other corner. He looked again. There was a man behind the wheel of a Saab. Would they follow in their car? Or would they try to keep up on foot as he ran? He turned to his left and set off.
The first five steps were always the hardest. He settled into a rhythm as he headed for the residential area where the pavement was flat. Without looking behind, he knew another jogger was pacing him, and he knew it was Viktor Bucharov—the flop-flop-flop of his clumsy Russian running shoes gave him away. Nikolai increased his speed. He ran five miles every day, his body trained for long distances. He would test the KGB man's condition. Had Bucharov been one of those who had followed him along the Thames when he jogged before every workday at the Soviet Embassy?
He took in his surroundings as he ran. Everything was gray and disagreeable. Uniforms were everywhere he looked, watching, always watching. Coming to a cross street, he hopped the first curb, turned the corner, and then stopped. Bucharov hadn't kept up; he would round the corner any moment. He waited, and then, sure enough, there was Bucharov. The KGB officer didn't change his expression as he came upon Nikolai. He passed by, breathing normally, running off as if it meant nothing. Nikolai called to him, "Tell KGB Moscow you caught me!"
He ran back to his flat for a quick shower beneath the on-again/off-again hot water before he dressed for work and headed to the Center.
At the office, Masirov met him in the reception. He took Nikolai to his own office. They sat across from each other on two facing couches. A secretary brought coffee and tea. "Care for a cup?"
"No, thank you."
"KGB Moscow has questions for you, Colonel. Let's not act like this is a routine visit."
"I can answer questions. Are they worried about my performance as rezident?"
Masirov dipped his finger in his cup before he sucked the coffee off. "Old habits," he said with a smile. "When we were kids, we were made to test all liquids for temperature since there was never money for doctors if we burned ourselves."
"Of course." Nikolai looked down at his own hands. They were trembling, so he stuffed them into his pockets.
"Now, you have just been promoted rezident of KGB London. That is an honor and well-deserved. But there are urgent questions."
"About what?"
"I think you know about what. It's not for me to say, anyway. Just be ready."
"Who will I be meeting with?"
"One man you know. That would be General Barishsky, who did your foreign service interview. The other man you know but not as well. That would be Colonel Bucharov. Now, when you answer their questions, keep your responses simple. Answer only what is asked. Do not volunteer. But tell the whole truth. KGB has legitimate questions, and KGB will get its answers." He smiled, letting his words soak in.
"I always answer truthfully to KGB."
"We all do. That's why we're where we are. But know this, Colonel, these men are not your friends. They are not my friends. But they do represent Premier Khrushchev himself, just like you do, or I do."
"Yes."
Another dip of the finger. "Anchev was expelled from London. You were promoted to take his place."
"It was sudden and unexpected," Nikolai said.
"It raises questions. Because it moved you from deputy to rezident, my question is, did London want you to be rezident instead of Anchev? Is that why they expelled him?"
“You’re only just now asking this?”
“It has been discussed previously. I will ask again, why did London expel General Anchev?”
"You would have to ask London."
"General Barishsky will be asking you. Prepare your answer. Everything depends on your answer to this, Colonel."
Nikolai tested the water. "Anchev expelled? He behaved too much like a KGB man. There was no Savile Row about him."
"Savile Row?"
Nikolai found it difficult with Masirov, where it had never been difficult before. "You know," he said, "when in Rome…"
"He wasn't British enough?"
"Wouldn't you have tried?" asked Nikolai.
The man was playing stupid. KGB was way brighter than this. Too many questions were meant to mislead, to distract from what they really wanted to know.
Without explanation, Masirov then returned Nikolai to his own office, a cubicle.
Nothing happened the rest of that day. Or the next. Still, he refined the notes he had brought with him about Britain's economy, politics, key figures, and relations with America. Anything to eat up the time crawling by while he awaited his summons.
47
He knocked and asked the next-door neighbor for help with Sasha that night, then took his mother for dinner.
“How did my father do it?”
He was preparing to leave Russia. Dinner was his way of saying goodbye.
“Do what, Nikolaevich?”
“How did he live with himself, doing the things they made him do?”
“Are you finding it difficult, a KGB officer’s life?”
“No—yes, very difficult. There is guilt, mother.”
“Of course.” She was a very bright woman, at one time a KGB officer herself who had retired to have her children. She was also a graduate of Moscow University with an advanced degree in linguistics. She appeared thoughtful, deciding her answer about his father’s guilt. He already respected the answer she hadn’t yet given.
“Your father learned early on that despite Party loyalty, guilt was a fact of KGB life, unrelieved by State hero medals. In the world of the KGB, rituals for the relief of guilt don’t exist. Votives and robes and incense are for other people. So, for Borya Anton Semenov, his absolution was found in the Kubanskaya vodka he swilled at night after you children were asleep.”