had chatted for a while and Boris had learned that Dunayev was working as a cleaner on the railways.
'What, with your qualifications?' Boris had said, amazed. Dunayev had been one of his best students and had graduated with honors.
'I ran afoul of the
Boris knew, though not from personal experience, how it was. He felt sorry for young Dunayev, thinking it a sad waste of a keen intelligence.
After that they kept in touch, meeting occasionally for a drink in the evenings, and it struck Boris that for someone in a badly paid job Dunayev always seemed to have plenty of money to spend. The reason became clear when Boris once complained of not being able to buy a decent pair of shoes, and the next time they met Dunayev showed up with a pair of genuine English tan brogues, spanking new. He was
When Boris made the decision to defect, it was naturally to Andrei Dunayev that he turned for help. It had been very simple. A phone call, a meeting in the park, and everything, according to Dunayev, would be arranged. Boris and his wife were to get their hands on as much money as they could, in cash, pack two suitcases (as if they were indeed going on a short vacation), and be ready at twenty-four hours notice to leave.
The word came. They were to take the overnight train to Riga where accommodations had been booked for them. They were to travel under their own name until out of the country. False papers would be supplied. Of course he trusted Dunayev, Boris kept telling himself, yet now that they were here, had taken that crucial and dangerous first step, he was beginning to have qualms.
After a light lunch of chicken and salad he and Nina walked arm in arm along the embankment that bordered the river. The port itself was some three miles away. They could see the tangle of cranes and the funnels of ships to the west. Hereabouts the river traffic was mainly strings of coal barges, tugs, and other small craft. Boris didn't want to be away too long in case someone tried to make contact, so after ten minutes they turned and strolled back. He couldn't help glancing nervously at every car that passed, wondering if they were being followed, observed, reported. Even the landlady made him nervous. Her eyes had bored right through him as she took his papers, noted down the details, and handed them back with a hard gray stare.
'Where will it be?' Nina asked, holding tightly on to his arm. 'Sweden? Finland?'
Towering beside her, hunched inside his overcoat, Boris shook his head morosely. 'I wish I knew. Wherever they send us, it won't be easy. We both know the risk.'
She was silent for a while. 'Are we doing the right thing, Boris? There's still time to go back before we're missed.'
'We can't go back. I must get to America.'
'But why--why you?' she cried suddenly, clutching his arm, and Boris looked around fearfully. Nina bent her head and lowered her voice, even though there was no one else on the wide paved embankment. 'There must be others who know what's happening. Let them do something!'
'Perhaps you're right. Perhaps there are. But somebody has to take the responsibility. I know what's happening and I feel responsible. How could I just sit back and do nothing?'
'But what can the Americans do?'
Boris stared sullenly across the river, sparkling in the weak afternoon sunshine. She had pierced to the heart of his dilemma. He recalled how Theo had been balked in his attempt to convince his own people that something had to be done before the environment took its revenge for the damage inflicted upon it by modern industrial man. Theo had been ignored, castigated, reviled--so what chance had he? All governments were tarred with the same brush. Capitalist or Communist, it didn't make any difference. Don't upset the equilibrium. At all costs maintain the status quo. Ignore unpalatable facts and they'll go away.
These facts wouldn't go away, and still he couldn't answer her.
They waited the rest of the afternoon and that evening for contact to be made, staying in their poky room on the second floor, fearful that the landlady might suspect something--mightn't she begin to wonder what on earth they were doing here, this elderly respectable couple who were clearly ill at ease in such impoverished surroundings?
Nobody called to see them and the few times the phone rang in the dark brown-varnished hallway the calls weren't for them.
At breakfast the next morning, sitting around the large communal dining table with the other three guests-- two merchant seamen and an engineer from Leningrad--Boris heard a car draw up outside and his heart was in his mouth when he saw that it was a dark green Zhiguli, the model used by low-ranking KGB officers. There was nothing they could do; useless to run (run where?) and nowhere to hide.
Feigning indifference lest one of the people at the table was a police informer--there were
Nina was looking down at her plate (did she too know about the car?), and the sight of her neat gray head, the hair parted in the middle and held in place by two combs, filled him with an ache of tenderness and affection.
It seemed his worst fears were coming true when the landlady entered and curtly informed him that there was someone to see him. Well, he thought, resigned, nothing else for it but to bluff his way through as best he could. Stick to the prearranged story that he and his wife had come to Riga (Riga, for God's sake!) for a short break. But even as this was going through his mind Boris knew that it would never be believed. It never even occurred to him to wonder how the KGB had tracked them down: He just assumed, as he walked into the hallway, that they would know precisely where to find him, night or day. His fatalism was total.
The man was wearing a brown belted trench coat, standing with his back to Boris, studying a faded sepia photograph of a family group. Through the frosted vestibule door Boris saw the blurred silhouette of a lurking figure; the man's colleague, no doubt.
The man in the trench coat turned casually to reveal a thin young face and pale deep-set eyes. He didn't look at Boris, but beyond his right shoulder, and said, 'Is this the one?'
'That's the one.' The landlady was standing in the doorway with her arms folded. She jerked her head at Boris. 'He checked in with his wife yesterday about noon. 1 thought there was something a bit funny about them. Call themselves Stanovnik.' She used the name like an insult, smiling sardonically as if at some private joke.
'What is this? What's going on?' Boris asked, trying a show of bafflement shading into righteous indignation. 'My name is Stanovnik. I work for the Hydro-Meteorological Service in Moscow.'
The thin-faced young man gave a faint mocking smile. He was unshaven, Boris noticed, in fact rather unkempt generally. The KGB was becoming more and more slovenly in appearance these days.
'We already know that, Professor.' He motioned to the woman to close the door to the dining room and went on in a softer tone, 'We also know why you're here. Did you really think it would be so easy?'
'I've no idea what you're talking about. Are you the police? I have a right to know what you want with me.' His bones felt like water. Why in God's name had he dragged Nina into this?
'It's pointless, Professor, keeping up this pretense.' The young man shrugged very slightly. 'Dunayev told us everything. You should choose your friends more carefully.'
Boris stared at him for a full five seconds. His shoulders sagged. The strain was etched on his face. He swung around to confront the landlady but was unable to speak; his expression was eloquent enough.
'His wife's in there,' the landlady said with a backward nod. Boris's hatred had left her quite indifferent.
'You've done well,' the man in the trench coat said. 'You will be rewarded.'
'I seek no reward,' said the landlady snidely. 'I only wish to serve the state as best I can.'
The man stepped forward and grabbed his arm. 'You're in enough trouble as it is, Professor. Don't make it any worse for you and your wife. Are your things packed?' Boris nodded his head at the worn carpet and the man
