Who's on First (20 page)

“It was you. It was you, acting for myself. And acting also for Theo.”

It had become possible for her to mention Theo other than in tones that required an empathic shudder of deferential solemnity; and Blackford too—for the first time—could think of the young Theo, with the wistful, trusting, beardless, dark-skinned boy face, talking, smiling, with a mug of beer in front of him, blotting out the convulsive, tortured death mask that had planted itself permanently in Blackford's inventory of nightmares.

She went on. “I should have known. I
would
have known. We were all three of us together, what, three, maybe four times? After ten minutes with you, I should have known it wasn't you who betrayed him. Revolutions—counterrevolutions—counter-counterrevolutions—they take away your judgment. We
know
Theo was not good at seeing through people. How can I say I was any better at it? Both of us believed in József. So did Erno, and the others. But my belief in József was … different.” She lay back on the pillow, talking up at the ceiling. Impatiently she kicked the bed sheet aside, and now their bodies were entirely illuminated by the soft, eccentric light from the bed stand. She continued speaking as he, with his left arm under her neck, used his right hand to stroke her breasts gently. “It was Theo's purity that made everyone associated with him, by that association, pure. Do you know that—Erno told me this—in Theo's presence, in the locker room, there were certain stories they just wouldn't … tell? I mean, stories—you must know—about what so and so did with this girl or that girl the night before? The kind of story Theo wouldn't ever talk about.… The kind
you
wouldn't ever talk about; I expect”—she did not move her head—“that you are … a little that way yourself, Harry.” He found it a strain to be called Harry, a surrealist reminder of realistic vicissitudes—Blackford, shifting the frame of his thought, had a hard time believing the ribald story existed that hadn't been told in his presence. “Theo was not—as beautiful as you”—she turned, coquettishly, and ran her hand over his profile, slowly, from the top of his head to near his toes—“but he was beautiful all over. He was the best thing in Hungary, and one day there will be a monument in the public square. Do you think so, Harry?”

“I think there ought to be,” said Blackford, though that part of him that was the engineer paused to wonder whether there were enough public squares to commemorate the martyrs of that revolution. Or would the job need to be done collectively? What an awful concession to the Communists. But then they did use up their victims at a rate that made individual commemoration so very difficult. What does one do, when one hears of
15 million prisoners
in a slave camp? Perhaps someone, someday, in a great book, would give life to those anonymous victims of ideology and evil. He declined to cop a plea by adding the qualifier, “and insanity.”

Frieda rose, walked with aplomb out of the room, and returned in a few minutes wearing a beige nightgown and carrying a tray. She apologized for her quarters—the bedroom served also as the living room. “Don't bother with the bed; come, sit here.” She pointed to the armchair alongside her own, with the coffee table between, on which she had set down the wine and glasses. Blackford located his shorts and began to put them on.

“Don't dress. Come as you are. Isn't that what you say?” He smiled, walked over, and sat down. She said it first.

“What are we going to do about Bolgin?”

Blackford, accepting the glass and raising it silently to her, said, “We haven't had time to give it much thought.”

Now Frieda smiled impishly; and sipped the wine lasciviously. “Oh!”

“What's the matter!”

“I just thought of something!”

“What is it?”—instinctively, Blackford had risen.

“I have some caviar! I've had it since my birthday!”

“Your birthday has got to be today, right?”

“Of course!”

It had been a gift from the wealthy godparents of her friend at the telephone company, Hungarian expatriates, and she had thought it too shamefully expensive to consume.

“Harry, you know, the money?”

“Let's change the subject.”

“I spent half of it. When I needed it desperately. The other half I don't need. I cashed it this afternoon.” She opened the desk drawer and took out an envelope.

Blackford hesitated, and then took it, tossing the envelope in the general direction of his discarded jacket. “All this and caviar!”

She opened the jar and brought out butter and French bread.

“Listen to me, Frieda,” he said as he applied the caviar with the faded table knife. “Colonel Bolgin, as I've told you, is the chief KGB operative in Western Europe. His decision to use, to my terminal disadvantage, the momentum generated by the execution of Theo wasn't aimed merely at
one
CIA operative who had been working Budapest. He happens to have some old scores to settle with me, and I guess it's safe to say that his hostility reflects the … well, consolidated hostility of his service. They have been tracking me—that we know. Otherwise they wouldn't have known to inform József that I was staying at the France et Choiseul. They had a dragnet out for me, still do. Now I simply don't know
why,
other than what I've told you—the settling of old scores. But from all of this we can deduce several possibilities. One of them is that by now Bolgin knows either that József is dead, or that he is detained—or that he has defected. József was probably capable of becoming a double agent, of double-crossing the KGB; but not—I'd guess—in your presence, or Erno's. He would never have acknowledged to you that—hah hah hah—he was actually the guy who hanged Theo. If instead of killing him I had merely overpowered him, and then driven him away in a car … who knows whether money would have brought him around? We'll never know.

“Now let's assume Bolgin deduces the obvious—that something went wrong in Operation Hang Harry. He's still going to want to know whether József is alive or dead. He's going to want to know how much if anything he has … spilled.”

“There is a third possibility,” Frieda interrupted.

“What?”

“That somehow you overpowered József from the beginning, in the car.”

“In which case—how did you happen to dial Bolgin's number directly? How, unless you were suspicious, would you have known to say into the telephone what you did—that if the military attaché was interested in knowing the whereabouts of József Nady, you were in a position to give out that information?”

“All right. I agree. He figures I know what happened. That could mean I know where you are—or that I don't. You might be dead.”

“Correct. So—stay with me. Bolgin will attempt, over the telephone, to arrange a rendezvous. He would
certainly
dispatch to that interview a subordinate. The head of KGB-Europe isn't going to walk into something he hasn't cased out, something blind. You can also assume that whoever he sends to that meeting will be followed by one or more agents. So from that moment on, they would know (a) exactly who you are; (b) where you live. From that moment on—
whatever
happened during the interview—you'd be a sitting target on their list.”

“I assume I already am. I attend all the anti-Communist rallies, all the Free Hungary Committee meetings.”

“So does much of Paris. Anyway, we know there's one concrete disadvantage in your meeting him: You're put on his active list. On the other hand, you don't really
have
to meet him—or his representative. You might be able to accomplish anything you set out to accomplish over the telephone.”

“Like what?”

“Well, just thinking big for a minute, you could tell him József has been identified as a Soviet agent, and that he will be released only when Bolgin has arranged for the release of—you name it—some freedom fighter they haven't got around to executing yet.”

“There are many of them still in prison, and we know their names.”

“Well, that's one possibility, though the old coot would almost certainly ask for proof that József is still alive, and that isn't the easiest thing in the world to come up with.” Blackford got up, and, oblivious of his nakedness, paced the cramped quarters. “I dunno. I haven't got a real hunch on this one. But I feel that keeping the contact live is useful. Frieda, there's a guy in town—a very important guy—in a way I work for him. I should talk to him. My guess is at this point you're better off just stringing Bolgin along. Calling in at ten tomorrow and saying something like, ‘I know where József is and the American. What is it worth to you to know?' Their technique in these situations, by the way, is invariable: They try to set up a meeting. You should say flat out, ‘No.' You'll also find that the KGB is incredibly stingy. They're used to lubricating their informers on vats of ideology and sprinklings of cash. So you might mention an extremely high figure—extremely high by their standards—and see what the reaction is. Break it down. Tell them: ‘Ten thousand dollars'—I don't have a slide rule, so it'll take me a while to translate that into francs—‘for József, fifty thousand dollars for the American.' See what their reaction is. It's important for several reasons to know how badly they want
me
. And, of course, it would be interesting to know how badly they want József.”

“What do I say if they ask for proof that I know where József is?”

“Tell them you'll deliver his driving license.”

“What if they want proof that I know where you are?”

“Tell them you'll send a picture of me reading this morning's edition of
Le Monde
.”

“What will they say then?”

“That's what I think is worth finding out. But don't do anything till you hear from me.”

Later, when the dawn came in and woke them, she whispered to him, “Will I see you again, Harry?”

“If I'm alive.”

“Don't say that.” Her tone was almost hysterically stern.

“Sorry. I mean, ‘Yes.'” His fingers became, once again, active, and her body feints encouraged him, revived him, and the old sensation in the throat began to come back. Hands busy, he whispered to her hoarsely, “Frieda?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“You should impose one more condition.”

“What's … that?”

“Tell Bolgin he must stand up at the Comédie Française, halfway through the second act of
Boris Godunov,
and denounce Khrushchev.”

“All right,
chéri,
I promise.”

“Now, pay attention.”

“And what,” she asked dreamily an hour and a half later, “would he do for an encore?”

“Sometimes,” Blackford said, eyes closed, “an encore becomes too much to ask.”

24

The delegation, tired by the long flight with the exasperating layover in East Berlin, tired also by the hectic academic and social activity of the week, was granted leave to spend the night in Moscow instead of merely pausing to refuel and proceeding on to Tyura Tam, as scheduled. “You all have rooms reserved in your name at the Metropole Hotel,” Viksne had said paternalistically over the plane's loudspeaker as, nearing seven o'clock, they approached the airport. “Each of you will pick up an envelope, with the reservation slip, and a little bit of Welcome Home cash from the GIRD. Go out on the town, go to the ballet, have a good solid Russian meal, sleep late. The bus will pick you up at noon exactly at the hotel and we'll take the last leg of the flight back to headquarters.” There were audible grunts of satisfaction from the half-dozen scientists who would now have an evening in Moscow before returning to the six-hundred-mile-square scientific enclave where they were hectically engaged in establishing Soviet dominance over space.

Viktor and Tamara checked into their room and quickly washed so as to begin their evening as soon as possible. They discussed alternatives. They could go to the ballet, but there would be a long line for the few unsold tickets. They could perhaps ring up a friend or two—but this had the disadvantage that under security regulations they would need to spend most of the evening in dissimulation about their present activity. They could attend a play—there were several—and also a poetry reading by Yevtushenko. Somehow these events did not fit their mood. And so they decided simply to walk. “We might try,” Viktor said excitedly, “to retrace the route we walked on the night that I asked you to marry me.” That greatly appealed to Tamara. “Of course, we won't wear the same clothes! Do you remember how cold it was that night?” “No,” Viktor said, “I remember how warm I was that night.”

Smiling, she adjusted around his collar the new tie she had bought him in Paris on their slim hard-currency allowance; and she dabbed herself behind the ears with the perfume he had bought her. They set out together into a perfect summer night. As they had done on the other occasion, they had no formal meal. A vodka here. A Zakuska there. A beer at Café S'ev'er'. Coffee and brandy at the Hotel National. It was well after midnight before they returned to the hotel, happy in the knowledge that they could sleep in as late as they wished in the morning.

At noon, as they lined up to enter the bus, Pyotr Viksne approached. “I say, Viktor Andreyevich. Apparently you and Tamara will not be returning on the same flight to Tyura Tam. They wish to speak to you”—he pointed in the general direction of the Lubyanka. “I suppose,” he said with steel in his voice, “it is just one more formality involving the Algerian business.”

Viktor knew. Knew instantly. Those eight years had given him entirely reliable intuitions in such matters. He looked quickly at Tamara. She was concerned, but there was none of that critical anxiety on her face that suggested she too knew. Viktor's mind raced. He cared now only that she be spared. In fact he had not told her about any arrangements he had made, had not even told her the nature of his conversations with Vadim and the Americans. Could he maneuver so as to spare her? For this and for this only he must struggle. His own disposition, as upon reaching Vorkuta, was simply to give up, to accept his fate. Back then, Vadim had saved him. Now he must save Tamara. How? He felt his stomach contract when the car drove up and a cropped-haired driver with the telltale shapeless double-breasted suit got out and opened the door.