government officials (and even middle-rankers like George) sit down to dine with representatives of the nation that was supposed to be their mortal enemy.
This was not the first such meal in George Keller’s government experience. Though he could not fathom why, the Russian Embassy seemed to have taken a particular liking to him. At first he thought it was because of his fluency in their language. And yet all their conversations were held in English. And not even in hushed tones.
Still, always following the ground rules, he would furnish the FBI with a “Memorandum of Conversation” detailing the topics covered in each dialogue he had.
Far from arousing suspicion, the esteem in which the Soviets seemed to hold George actually raised his stature. For there were strategists at the State Department and the CIA who thought he might one day be useful in sniffing out a potential Communist defector.
It was a nice day, so George walked across Pennsylvania Avenue and down 17th Street to the restaurant.
Andreyev, middle-aged and bald, in a typical shapeless gray Russian suit, waved him over to the table, where a younger man, wearing a blue blazer and striped tie, rose to shake his hand.
“Dmitri Yakushkin, this is George Keller,” said Andreyev. He then added jocularly, “Be nice to him. He knows more about Eastern Europe than we do.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” said the diplomat in impeccable English.
George could not help but think, My God, his accent is almost as good as mine.
“What would you prefer to drink,” Andreyev asked, “Bloody Mary or champagne cocktail?”
“Since they have excellent Russian vodka here, I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
Andreyev raised three fingers to the Maitre d’, who simply nodded, having no need for further elucidation.
The conversation was extremely cordial and exceptionally superficial. George sat there waiting for the hidden zinger.
Yet, when the
George discoursed perfunctorily — but not too chauvinistically — about the pleasures of living in a capitalist society and how much he enjoyed the social life in Washington, which was a veritable cornucopia of lovely women. As Dmitri would soon find out.
At this juncture, he thought he saw a sparkle in the young man’s eyes. Perhaps he’s a candidate, George mused. Perhaps he’s asking in an oblique way how well a former Communist could live if he went to the other side.
This, at least, was the only conclusion he could offer in the Memorandum of Conversation he dictated to his secretary when he returned from lunch.
Sometime after three o’clock, the Secretary of State peeked his head through George’s door and asked, “Well?”
“You were right, Henry. The duck was absolutely great.”
Five days later, Yakushkin called George at his office “just to touch base” and confirm how much he had enjoyed their meeting. In fact, he wanted to invite George to dinner.
They set a date and a gastronomic venue — the Russians’ favorite restaurant, appropriately called La Rive Gauche, on Wisconsin Avenue. According to the State Department in-jokes, this was the most exclusive place in Washington. For its clientele was made up almost entirely of CIA and KGB agents watching one another watching other people.
Again, the chat was casual. But this time the beverage was vintage Bordeaux — and plenty of it. Each of them sat nonchalantly, trying to make out that they were just a little drunker than they really were.
“George,” Dmitri said casually, “this city’s so expensive. Do they pay you a good salary at State?”
“Not bad,” said George, and added almost as an afterthought, “thirty-six thousand per.”
“How much is that in rubles?” the young Russian asked.
“I really don’t know,” George responded with a smile.
“To be honest,” the diplomat laughed, “I’m not so sure myself. But anyway, between the two of us, I’d rather get my pay in dollars, eh?”
“That’s the only thing they take in America,” George replied, sensing that they were approaching a topic of some importance.
George casually lobbed the ball into the Russian’s court.
“Tell me, Dmitri, can you make ends meet on your salary?” There was a pause. The two chess players eyed each other, and the Russian said in candor, “Frankly, that was just what I was going to ask you.”
And George thought, What an ass. He’s trying to recruit
Still, he had to keep his cool.
“I’m fine for money, Dmitri,” he responded casually. “My needs are very simple.”
“Yes,” the Soviet concurred, a tinge of mystery in his voice, “you seem to lack for nothing. So is there no way we can… help you?”
George knew that he had to play along.
“That’s most considerate,” he said almost facetiously. “But why should your embassy want to help a person like myself?”
“Because you were brought up a Marxist and because perhaps you sometimes have nostalgia —”
“Never.”
“I don’t mean for the system, but for the old country. Don’t you feel the slightest bit deracinated?”
“I’m an American,” George Keller answered firmly.
Dmitri pondered his reaction for a moment, reached into his pocket, and withdrew two thin silver canisters.
“Cigar?” he asked. “They’re Havanas. We bring them over in our diplomatic pouch. I bet you’ve never had one, eh?”
“No, thanks,” George said politely. “I don’t smoke.”
He wanted the FBI observers to note that he would not even touch a Communist cigar.
Yakushkin lit up and started blowing little rings.
“Dr. Keller,” he started with deliberate slowness, “I have some information that may be of interest to you.”
The Russian’s sudden change of tone made George uncomfortable.
“I’m always glad to receive information from the Russian Embassy,” he replied with nervous humor.
“It’s about the status of your father,” said the diplomat. “I thought you might like to know that —”
“I know my father’s risen in the party,” George interrupted with annoyance.
“I mean the status of his health.”
“Is he ill?”
“He has lung cancer.”
“Oh,” George said gravely. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It will no doubt be very painful,” the Russian added.
“What do you mean ‘painful’?”
“Look,” Dmitri began with fraternal consolation, “you’re an expert on East European affairs and you know the level of hospital facilities in Hungary. We don’t have the abundant supply of medication that you have in the West. So it’s not clear how long he’ll live. It could be one year. It could be several months….”
Yakushkin sighed like a world-weary physician. “George, this wretched arms race sometimes makes humanitarian concerns a secondary matter. If your father were in America, he would be so much more comfortable. You are so far ahead of us in — what’s the word? — analgesics.”
“I’m sure Party officials don’t lack for Western medicine, Dmitri.”
“True,” the Russian conceded. “But as you and I know, your father’s rank is not that high….”
He paused and blew another Cuban smoke ring.
