There was black, and there was black. And then there was the blackness of Russian coffee, a shade beyond the naked oblivion beloved of philosophers from Plato to Sartre. Plato had his cave, Nietzsche had his superman; Fisher had his coffee.
It occurred to Fisher that the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant could not have been a true coffee drinker; he was too much of an idealist. Or, rather, given his syncretistic leanings, he would have been the sort who added milk and sugar, botching the whole operation and skewing his view of the universe in the process.
Coffee like this — strong, black, so full of caffeine that the surface buzzed — this sort of coffee was the reason Russia had produced musicians and writers rather than philosophers and poets; the liquid was as thick as sandpaper, scrubbing away the ethereal coatings of your esophagus, a region much given to philosophical thoughts. And the heartburn that would surely follow tended to wipe out lyrical expression.
Fisher, never much for poetry or philosophy, decided he would have to drink more of this on a regular basis. Maybe he could get his local Dunkin’ Donuts to import it.
The FBI agent achieved these insights while sitting at the back of Assembly Room Two in Meeting Hall Pavilion A, Government Facility Conference Buildings, Moscow, listening as an engineer sang the seemingly unlimited praises of microcurrents. Fisher was sitting two rows behind Kung and Mathers, who were themselves two rows behind the Korean subject, who had come with his minder and sat in what appeared to be rapt attention, though his dossier said he spoke little English, the language of the presentation.
There were another dozen people in the room, including one Russian agent and one of the CIA backup team members. Fisher had also spotted a Chinese conferee sipping coffee with cream; this was a dead giveaway that the man was either an intelligence agent or a German philosopher trying to reform.
The speaker droned on in an English that came from somewhere between London and Dusseldorf. Apparently there was a brave new world lurking in the circuits powering modern life; Fisher didn’t understand most of what the man said, but it did give him a new respect for his cordless shaver.
He remained in his seat as the session broke up, watching Dr. Park up close for the first time. Thirties, no family to speak of, the man was a mid-level drone in the Korean scientific community. As far as that went, he had a relatively sheltered life; in that society he would even be considered privileged.
So why did he want to defect? Beyond the obvious appeal of apple pie and Chevrolets?
Fisher got up as Kung and her gnomish bodyguard passed by his seat. Mathers wagged a finger at him as if they were in junior high; Fisher set his glare on stun and fended her off.
Outside, the hallway was crowded with scientists, engineers, and spooks assigned to make sure they didn’t make off with too many doughnuts. Fisher sifted to the far end of the snack table, making like he was checking the program listing.
Fisher had emphasized the importance to Kung — and to the gnome — of letting Dr. Park come to her. So far she was sticking to the program, nibbling on cookies with Mathers at one end of the long table while Dr. Park stood almost motionless on the other. A Finnish engineer came up to the two women and started talking about alternating current, obviously some sort of codeword for threesomes involving short people.
Fisher slid through the crowd and got closer to Dr. Park. He had a minder and a shadow: The shadow had registered as a scientist from China, but Madison ID’d him as a Korean agent. A pair of Koreans from the embassy were watching outside in a car.
A lot of company for a mid-level scientist, unless they suspected he wanted to defect. But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have stopped him from attending the conference in the first place?
Fisher watched as Kung and the gnome walked off toward the next session. Dr. Park moved in the opposite direction.
Where were the professional matchmakers when you needed them?
“From Swiss National Electric?” asked a cheery balding man, glancing at Fisher’s name tag. His accent was very British, and his name tag revealed that he worked for the London Power Company.
“ Sweden,” said Fisher. He mimicked the man’s accent and threw a lisp in as a bonus, though it was a lot to weigh on a single word.
“Spent time in the States?”
“Too much,” said Fisher.
“Many issues there, I suppose.”
“It all comes down to too many volts,” said Fisher, shambling after Dr. Park.
Miss Kung was plumper than he remembered, and a little older. Still, she had an exotic air about her. Her smile was not quite Korean, but it warmed the room nonetheless.
Dr. Park had not realized until he saw her at the conference that he was attracted to her in a romantic way. Perhaps he had not been until that moment.
He knew she was some sort of spy. The Americans routinely sent their agents across the world to enmesh unsuspecting males; he’d learned that as a child at school. They were devious, but that was one of the things that made dealing with them attractive.
As he walked toward the conference room, Dr. Park realized with great disappointment that Miss Kung was not attending this session. He could not change his own plans, however, without arousing the suspicion of Chin Yop.
A tall European with an absentminded, arrogant air bumped into him just outside the door. The man managed to knock the packet of handouts Dr. Park was carrying from his hand onto the floor.
“Pardon, pardon,” said the man, bending and helping pick them up.
Dr. Park stood motionless as the man handed him the folder.
Was there a message in the papers he handed back?
Chin Yop grabbed the folder.
“Sorry,” said the man who’d bumped into him.
Dr. Park wanted to run away: He thought of jumping on the man, grabbing his chest, demanding help.
But he wasn’t even an American. All that would accomplish would be to expose himself and his plans. He would be dragged away, taken back home to Korea, shot.
They wouldn’t bother taking him home. He would be shot in Russia, left in an alley for the dogs to eat.
“You — cigarettes? Have some?” asked the European in broken English.
Dr. Park couldn’t get his mouth to speak.
“Cigs?” repeated the man. He took a pack out and held it in Chin Yop’s face. He said something in a foreign language that Dr. Park didn’t understand, then repeated it in English. “Where I can get more?”
Confused, the minder shook his head.
The European turned to Dr. Park. “You?”
Dr. Park managed to shake his head.
“No smoke?” said the European. He turned back to Chin Yop, said something indecipherable, then switched to English. “I can tell you smoke. Where do you get your cigs?”
The minder glanced at Dr. Park. “Is he crazy or what?” he said in Korean.
Dr. Park shrugged. Chin Yop did, in fact, smoke: He had a box of Marlboros that he had picked up near the hostel in his pocket.
“Cigarettes? You smoke American?” asked the European, pointing at the box.
Chin Yop nodded hesitantly.
“Can I have one?” said the European, pointing at the minder’s pack. “Two of mine for one of yours.”
Chin Yop held up his hands, not understanding or at least pretending that he didn’t.
Dr. Park explained in Korean, then added that he ought to hold out for three at least.
“Three?” said the European when the trade was offered. But he made the deal, trading his entire pack for three Marlboros. He lit up immediately.
“Where?” he asked as he exhaled. “Buy them? Where did you find them? American, right? I didn’t know you could get them here.”
“Should I tell him where I got them?” Chin Yop asked Dr. Park as he deciphered the question.
Dr. Park shrugged. Cigarettes were available throughout the city, though they had bought theirs from a black-market vendor near the hostel at a considerable discount.
Was this man really a Russian policeman, checking on them?
