CHAPTER EIGHT, MOSCOW AND TVER, EARLY JUNE 1994: PROOF OF CONCEPT
As their plane approached Moscow, a cascade of thoughts panicked Olivia. The first, most whimsical, was that in Vienna she had become part of the Russian diplomatic pouch, which, however metaphoric, was also no less real than if it were a literal pouch. A strange way to travel, but appropriate for a stateless person. And yet, she wasn’t stateless. She’d surrendered her passport but had not renounced her citizenship. Still, she could now disappear for the rest of her life, however long or short that might be, and no one would know where or who or when or why. Except for her father, her only link to her country was now a memo that some CIA jerk, if indeed he was even that, might or might not write, and that even if written, might never be read. Then it came to her.
I no longer exist. My country may never have any idea where I’ve gone and if it ever does, it may not care or want me back. By every civilized standard, I am gone.
That she trusted General Getmanov and Madame Getmanova and she thought the trust might possibly be mutual was a comfort, not a reassurance. The man was not cruel or vindictive. That was very far from nothing, but it also was only what it was. By refusing to question her about one American too many, Getmanov had been kind. He’d been kinder still to give her what she knew was a promise that he intended to keep. He would be her advocate, should she ever need one, but if—and only if—he thought she had earned one. Still, whatever his consideration and his promises, she’d given him something he could pursue and use against her, should that need arise. So, she realized, could others.
And that was the fount of the panic. She did not know, she could not know, whether a document that might never exist might also someday destroy her. She’d made her choices consciously, willfully, soberly, up to that last crazy, wine-and-drug-induced, irrational attempt to salvage some link to her country. She’d been like a woman desperate to hang onto a lover who’d proven his worthlessness over and over, in the forlorn, febrile hope that this time something might be different. Now, she realized, all she’d done was to endanger herself and possibly others; for the first time, she realized that Getmanov, who’d recruited her, might also bear some responsibility for her actions. And then a final thought assailed her. That document, if it ever came to exist and if the Russians ever got hold of it, could endanger people she hadn’t even met yet, people with whom she would work and maybe even…love. She cringed at the thought, rather like a pregnant woman whose bad habits might ruin the life of her child, but who had not cared to think that far ahead.
But panic accomplished nothing, so she decided to do what she must: concentrate totally on the present and whatever it might bring. The decision calmed her. By choosing to live more fully than she could in America, she’d placed herself, perhaps, among the missing, perhaps forever. So be it.
Then she realized that she had yet another decision to make. Inevitably, by someone somewhere, she would be asked a simple question. Have you had any contact with the American government since you left Los Alamos? She flinched internally at how she’d phrased the question to herself. No longer, Your government. The American government. The question would require a simple answer, yes or no. She decided on, No. If discovered, the lie would only complicate things. But she had no choice. Then she would say at every appropriate opportunity what she had told Jay Lyons: that she hoped her work would eventually serve as some sort of bridge between Russia and America because a weak and hostile Russia, a shattered Russia, is not in best interests of America, Russia, or the civilized world.
Then Olivia smiled within. Her fear of the moment was a child’s fear. It took children many years to realize that their destructive powers weren’t nearly as great as their imaginings would have it. But this was Russia, where the destructive powers were great indeed, and even a childish mistake could be fatal.
The plane landed. A limousine with curtained windows met them on the tarmac and took them away. Her new life began.
Their first stop was a small private bank in a small office building that listed no banks on the lobby board. Under the guidance and the eyes of the Getmanovs, Olivia set up two accounts, one in dollars, the other in rubles. Under their eyes, also, in a vault with a guard and a bank executive of some indeterminate authority, she took out a safe deposit box that she filled with her purchases from New York, her own jewelry, her mother’s jewelry. She made her list. Nothing would be sold without her authorization. But still, they seemed no longer truly hers.
The executive certified everything, then gave the documents to General Getmanov.
“These will be in the custody to the FSB during your period of in-processing, along with your other papers. We have not discussed this, and I’m sure you had hopes of getting right to work. However, before that happens, as Americans might put it,” he glanced at Lyudmila, “we need to get to know each other a little better.”
“I understand,” she said, then flinched. Nothing in the box could be sold, nor could she access her accounts until such time as the State deemed her worthy and…the thought almost made her sick…loyal. She was no slave. She was an engineer, soon to be set to work on work of value. But she was also, should they ever choose it, their prisoner. It was all so very un-American.
Their next stop was a small hospital, evidently reserved for significant people. Her in-take form took over an hour to complete, including detailed questions about all medications and contraception, if any. Olivia answered that one with a dry, “Hormonal contraception to regulate my periods. Please make a supply available.”
After that, various doctors and assistants put her through a complete physical exam. They took a stress EKG and x-rays of her lower back and pelvis. “Lord, have mercy,” murmured the nurse when she saw the films and the scars the color of watered wine that circled her back and pelvis like a skein of razor wire.
“May I dress now?” she asked the nurse politely.
“Yes, Doctor.”
Afterwards, Olivia and the Getmanovs shared some tea and cakes in a small room that seemed to have no clear purpose. Then they turned her over to a detachment of FSB in the hall. There were no good-byes, no explanations, no promises of, “We will see each other again.” Olivia understood. Military Intelligence had done its job. Now it was subordinate to Federal Security. Unless and until the FSB was satisfied with her, she had neither existence nor hope, and the man who’d recruited her could not now show any further concern for her. She had voluntarily placed herself under Russian control. Anything other than graceful acquiescence would be humiliating, degrading, and dangerous.
Olivia shook his hand, kissed Lyudmila, and did not look back.
“What do you think?” Getmanov asked his wife as they waited for the elevator down.
“She’s not an easy woman to like. She is certainly not the kind of American that Americans like. She’s not nice. But I think she is who she says she is.”
“So do I.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Then we have some choices, do we not, Lyudya? We can run her and see what she transmits. We can attempt to double her back. Or we can treat her as a gift the CIA or some other agency has given us, because they want someone they can trust to be able to talk to us. Although to be honest, I do not believe they hold us in such high esteem anymore.”
“Nor do we esteem them so much anymore,” she answered firmly.
“True. They are not what they were. However, I do not believe anyone sent her. She’d have had a different career if ever they thought well enough of her for such an assignment. But they don’t. They prefer to spend endlessly for expensive toys. That is not our Olivia.”
“Our Olivia? You are fond of her.”
“I am not. Yet.”
“I believe you,” she said.
“Are you?”
“No. Not yet. Perhaps never. But I would trust her to pilot me. Or you.” Lyudmila Trofimovna thought for a moment. “And I would trust our civilians and conscripts to her.”
“Sooner or
later, we shall.”