“Something to drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Gavra collected four glasses and a bottle of plum brandy from the kitchen.
“Just two,” said Kolev.
His assistants shifted, just slightly, in disappointment.
This was the first time Gavra had spoken to the Lieutenant General outside the confines of state security headquarters on Yalta Boulevard since the retirement party for Brano Sev, his mentor, three years before. Brano, still sturdy at sixty-nine years, and more than a little drunk, had whispered a few final words of advice to his old pupil: “Keep your eye on all these men-you hear? But listen to Kolev. He’s the only one I’d want watching my back.” The next day, Gavra went to Brano’s apartment, if only to get him to elaborate on the warning, but Brano Sev was gone, his apartment completely empty. Without telling anyone, the old cold warrior had disappeared, and Gavra hadn’t seen or heard from him in the three years since.
It was common knowledge that Lieutenant General Kolev sometimes visited people whose careers were shaky. He would walk in and share a drink, then deliver a warning, leaving before the cushions got warm. But the old Lieutenant General, peering at a small, obligatory portrait of General Secretary and President Tomiak Pankov to the right of the television, seemed in no hurry to leave. He peered up at his guards. “Balint. Vasili.” Then he nodded at the door. The two men went into the corridor and closed the door behind themselves.
Kolev tugged a photograph from the envelope and handed it over. “I want you to go to Virginia, USA, and find this man. Lubov Shevchenko.”
Shevchenko was in his late fifties; he had thick black Ukrainian eyebrows below a mane of white hair, and deep-set eyes above a fat drinker’s nose.
“You make sure he stays alive. That’s most important. Then you call me.”
“I just track him down and call you.” “Exactly. He’s in Midlothian, Virginia. Working at a high school, probably in administration.”
“What’s it called?”
“What’s what called?”
“The school.”
Kolev rubbed the side of his nose and sniffed again. “Our information’s sketchy. We don’t have his home address either, but we do know he lives in a housing project called Brandermill. You’re smart, though. You can do this with your eyes shut.”
Kolev liked to ply his subordinates with outrageous compliments.
“When you’re set up, call me directly. Don’t go through anyone else. Understand?” Gavra did. “Then call again when you’ve got him. If anything goes wrong, return to Zagreb and switch back to your passport. As if you never left.”
Gavra refilled their brandies and waited, but Kolev didn’t continue. “You’re not telling me more?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“I’d like to at least know who he is. Know what to expect.”
Kolev threw back his shot. Clear spirit spilled into his beard, but he didn’t notice. “He’s a defector. Went to the Americans in eighty-one. Shevchenko is the name they gave him.”
“And his real name?”
The Lieutenant General wiped his big nose with his fingertips, then shook his head.
“If you don’t know who he is,” said Gavra, “then the order’s coming from someone else. Who?”
The Lieutenant General went back to his nose. “I do know Shevchenko’s real name, but it’s not necessary you know it.”
“Sure it is.”
“No,” said Kolev. “And you’re right, there is someone else giving the order, and he agrees you should only be told what you need to know.”
“Then tell me who’s giving the orders.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he asked me to keep his name out of it.”
It was infuriating, but this really wasn’t such a strange thing-in the Ministry, ignorance was a common companion. “And me?” said Gavra.
“You?”
“I keep a desk at the Militia station. You’ve certainly got more qualified people to send.”
Kolev pursed his lips. “You were specifically requested.”
“By the person giving the orders?”
A nod, and nothing more.
Gavra pressed, but the Lieutenant General’s reticence didn’t falter. He would only admit that they were getting their sketchy information on Shevchenko, even the photograph, from a contact in American Central Intelligence. “Some low-level mole.” Then he tired of Gavra’s questions and handed over the envelope.
“Passport, tickets, and dollars. Your flight leaves in two hours.” He stood, patting his thighs. “Remember, you call me when you’re set up. Direct to my office.”
Gavra helped him back into his trench coat, and they shook hands at the door. Balint and Vasili, in the corridor, looked as if they were freezing.
Dawn glimmered over the Midlothian Turnpike, empty except the occasional blue-and-white police car. Off to the right, he noticed a green sign with clearly printed words ahead of a two-story building surrounded by pine trees:
STOP and DROP MOTEL NEXT RIGHT
The bearded man at the check-in desk looked more exhausted than Gavra, kept awake only by the staticky voices coming from a black-and-white television. Dallas. One of the few American programs shown in the Eastern Bloc-a pristine example, the information minister once told him at a party, of the decadence of the American ruling classes. And it says something that the American working classes take these cretins as heroes. Gavra didn’t bother mentioning that their own classless society did the same thing.
“Wanna room?” the man said with a thick southern drawl.
When Gavra told him yes, he’d like a room, the man cocked his head. “You Russian or something?”
“Something like that.” Gavra didn’t feel up to a geography lesson. He counted out crisp American dollars from Kolev’s envelope.
The man squinted. “Say…”
“What?”
“You guys got television over there?”
“Of course we do.” Gavra nodded at the screen. “Dallas is very popular.”
“You don’t say! Remember who shot J. R.?”
“Sue Ellen’s sister, Kristin, of course. And she was right to shoot the bastard.”
The bearded man laughed. “You really do watch it! Hey, if you got some time on your hands, I’ll buy you a beer. How about that?”
“Maybe later. Thanks.”
“Freddy,” he said, sticking out a damp hand. “I’m right here all day.”
They shook. “I’m Viktor.”
The room was better than he expected. It was warm and had its own bathroom, a working color television, and a view through trees of the turnpike. The water was hot immediately, unlike his apartment back home. To wake himself, though, he took a cold shower, then turned on a twenty-four-hour news station as he toweled off. A mus- tached black man, sitting in front of a superimposed banner that said FREEDOM IN EASTERN EUROPE, introduced a series of brief segments where reporters-some British, some American-reported on what had been an eventful year in our part of the world. Everyone focused on Berlin, and the Wall, but the other nations had been even more surprising.
In Bulgaria, President Todor Zhivkov had resigned on the tenth of November, after thirty-five years in power. Czechoslovakia, following a half-million-strong demonstration, changed hands with a series of signatures and press conferences. Since June, the previously illegal Solidarity Party had had a majority in the Polish parliament. Some of
