come. You need tickets? This is why you call?”
“Thank you, Arkady. But…that night you said…well, if I needed something.”
“Of course, of course. Just tell me and we talk about it. Man to man.”
“Well—you know our mutual friend? The one who I had…come to visit. I had the sense that maybe…maybe we could talk about him more. Maybe you and he were…not so friendly?” I realized I was trying to talk like a spy when I had never met a spy. Except Arkady.
“What you want, Dick?” he asked. And that was the question. What I wanted.
“I guess I want to talk.”
“We can, yes. But you are sure about this?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. You know the Grant Memorial?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you go there around midnight tomorrow. Wait for sound of owl then begin walking north. Four blocks. You see a man with white hair carrying copy of Middlemarch and you follow him. He get into parked car, you get into car three cars behind him. Say the name Annabelle to driver. If someone follow you, they die, understand?”
“All right. Yes.”
“No! Don’t act like asshole. No one cares what you do. Just come meet me tomorrow, one o’clock at my office.”
The next day I told myself it was just to see what happened. Just to see how far this game would lead. It was just a conversation, nothing more. Just talk.
In spite of what Arkady said, I took a taxi from work to a crowded department store, walked in circles for half an hour before guiltily buying a set of earrings for Pat, then left by a different exit and hailed a taxi. We had driven for a few minutes before I realized the driver was shaking with laughter.
“Now I am chauffeur, eh?” Arkady said. He turned to look at me. In daylight he looked uglier. Lined face, worn overcoat, thinning jet-black hair.
“You followed me?”
“You try and do the spy thing, I think, All right, does not kid around. We do not wait. I am going to introduce you to a person, you talk to them, we see what happens.”
I tried to look calm and confident, as if I often let Russian spies drive me through the streets of the capital. I touched the revolver in my pocket. I’d bought it at a pawnshop earlier. It was heavy and loaded, but it still felt like a stage prop.
After perhaps twenty minutes, we pulled up at the loading dock of a brick office building. He left the motor running and turned in his seat to give me a long look. He had a wide, fleshy peasant face. Up close, he looked sixty at least, older than the government he served. Old enough to have survived the NKVD purges of the 1930s. Old enough to see straight through a thirty-five-year-old social-climbing congressman who fancied he was a spy hunter.
“She’s in room eight, Dick,” he said. I stepped out into the cool air and the city noises. The taxi glided away and I was left alone on the loading dock, useless gun heavy in my pocket, looking at a gray steel door with a metal handle. I stood outside for a few moments waiting for a cue that didn’t come. The door wasn’t locked.
Room 8 was halfway down an anonymous corridor, thin gray carpeting and fragile-looking drywall, door numbers painted in sky blue. I could hear a radio playing rinky-dink jazz elsewhere in the building; a man and a woman arguing. I stopped outside the door to room 8. All I could think about now was having a gun in my pocket. I tried to come up with something to say if I was searched. Maybe lots of congressmen carry guns.
I took a breath, knocked. No one answered. I tried the doorknob and it turned easily. It was a surprisingly large office, anonymous modern furnishings. A woman sat behind a desk, apparently expecting me, in an olive-green suit made out of some cheap polyester. It was the woman I had seen Hiss arguing with the night I followed him.
“Hello, Mr. Nixon,” she said with only the faintest accent. She stood and we shook hands. “How pleasant to see you again. You may call me Tatiana.”
“Hello,” I said as we both
“Thank you, Arkady. But…that night you said…well, if I needed something.”
“Of course, of course. Just tell me and we talk about it. Man to man.”
“Well—you know our mutual friend? The one who I had…come to visit. I had the sense that maybe…maybe we could talk about him more. Maybe you and he were…not so friendly?” I realized I was trying to talk like a spy when I had never met a spy. Except Arkady.
“What you want, Dick?” he asked. And that was the question. What I wanted.
“I guess I want to talk.”
“We can, yes. But you are sure about this?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. You know the Grant Memorial?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you go there around midnight tomorrow. Wait for sound of owl then begin walking north. Four blocks. You see a man with white hair carrying copy of Middlemarch and you follow him. He get into parked car, you get into car three cars behind him. Say the name Annabelle to driver. If someone follow you, they die, understand?”
“All right. Yes.”
“No! Don’t act like asshole. No one cares what you do. Just come meet me tomorrow, one o’clock at my office.”
The next day I told myself it was just to see what happened. Just to see how far this game would lead. It was just a conversation, nothing more. Just talk.
In spite of what Arkady said, I took a taxi from work to a crowded department store, walked in circles for half an hour before guiltily buying a set of earrings for Pat, then left by a different exit and hailed a taxi. We had driven for a few minutes before I realized the driver was shaking with laughter.
“Now I am chauffeur, eh?” Arkady said. He turned to look at me. In daylight he looked uglier. Lined face, worn overcoat, thinning jet-black hair.
“You followed me?”
“You try and do the spy thing, I think, All right, does not kid around. We do not wait. I am going to introduce you to a person, you talk to them, we see what happens.”
I tried to look calm and confident, as if I often let Russian spies drive me through the streets of the capital. I touched the revolver in my pocket. I’d bought it at a pawnshop earlier. It was heavy and loaded, but it still felt like a stage prop.
After perhaps twenty minutes, we pulled up at the loading dock of a brick office building. He left the motor running and turned in his seat to give me a long look. He had a wide, fleshy peasant face. Up close, he looked sixty at least, older than the government he served. Old enough to have survived the NKVD purges of the 1930s. Old enough to see straight through a thirty-five-year-old social-climbing congressman who fancied he was a spy hunter.
“She’s in room eight, Dick,” he said. I stepped out into the cool air and the city noises. The taxi glided away and I was left alone on the loading dock, useless gun heavy in my pocket, looking at a gray steel door with a metal handle. I stood outside for a few moments waiting for a cue that didn’t come. The door wasn’t locked.
Room 8 was halfway down an anonymous corridor, thin gray carpeting and fragile-looking drywall, door numbers painted in sky blue. I could hear a radio playing rinky-dink jazz elsewhere in the building; a man and a woman arguing. I stopped outside the door to room 8. All I could think about now was having a gun in my pocket. I tried to come up with something to say if I was searched. Maybe lots of congressmen carry guns.
I took a breath, knocked. No one answered. I tried the doorknob and it turned easily. It was a surprisingly large office, anonymous modern furnishings. A woman sat behind a desk, apparently expecting me, in an olive-green suit made out of some cheap polyester. It was the woman I had seen Hiss arguing with the night I followed him.
“Hello, Mr. Nixon,” she said with only the faintest accent. She stood and we shook hands. “How pleasant to see you again. You may call me Tatiana.”
“Hello,” I said as we both
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