“But then you’d hardly call him a top-level agent.”
“We don’t really know how the KGB defines its agents. Or how the head of the First Directorate selected the agents to be run by the Tactical Planning Division.”
“True,” Aharon said, “a lot of what we’re doing is guesswork and supposition. But A, without any additional concrete information, we have no choice. And B, the intuition of experienced and wise individuals is something I hold in very high regard.”
“QV Aharon Levin,” Michael mumbled.
“I heard that,” Aharon said, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “But yes, even the intuition of an old man like me still counts for something. Don’t underestimate us old folk.” He said “old folk” in a somewhat shaky voice, and Michael couldn’t tell if he was joking or had simply decided to adopt a new manner of speech to befit his status. “But I really mean this,” Aharon continued, “I look at this team I’ve selected, and I know we can do it. We’re on the scent now and it will lead us forward, until we get our hands on that piece of filth. And the scent is now taking me to Virginia.”
And a few minutes later he announced to everyone: “I’ve spoken to Bill. He’s expecting us. I told him to put out two extra glasses. The bourbon’s on us.”
36
DIMITROVGRAD, FEBRUARY 2013
They made her wait for almost an hour. It was already five to nine, and the meeting had been scheduled for eight. FSB headquarters in Dimitrovgrad were located in a relatively small three-story office block. It looked ostensibly very much like the neighboring buildings, which were fronted by small businesses offering tools and spare parts for agricultural equipment. Aside from the guard post at the entrance and the barred windows on the first floor, it wasn’t readily distinguishable from the adjacent structures. The flag of the Russian Federation flew unobtrusively on the wall of the building.
Katrina could guess what was coming next when the phone rang all of a sudden on Thursday afternoon. No, no, said a courteous voice, it isn’t urgent. A routine inquiry, standard procedure. They hadn’t been in touch with her for some two years, and now, immediately in the wake of a visit from someone who had presented herself as Igor’s daughter, she was called in for a routine talk. Or a routine inquiry. It didn’t really matter what they called it, especially since everyone clearly knew it was going to be an interrogation by the security services. Katrina tried to think who could have seen the young woman who had visited her and who had reported them to the local FSB office. She knew from experience that it could have been anyone. The taxi driver who had driven the young woman to her home, the neighbors across the street. Anyone could have reported seeing Katrina the recluse getting a visit at her home from a pretty young woman who could hardly have been her daughter or granddaughter. True, gone were the days when every second individual throughout the empire was an informer. The KGB’s iron fist had been gloved in fur and leather. But Katrina wasn’t a rank-and-file citizen. She had been banished to that remote city and had no doubt that the security organizations, even if they had changed their names, were keeping an eye on her. She didn’t think she was under round-the-clock surveillance, that would surely be an unnecessary expense. But her phone was probably being tapped, sporadically at least, and the little mail she received was probably being checked, too. And the neighbors must have been instructed to report anything out of the ordinary in the life of their quiet neighbor.
She waited without a fuss. No one took the trouble to keep her posted on what was happening or to apologize for the delay. At nine-thirty, she noticed a man walking toward her. She knew him by name, Alexei Volkov, from her years spent working at the local office. They had never exchanged more than a few polite words, when passing one another in the corridor or standing in line at the cafeteria. He was fat and unkempt, his hair greasy and in need of a cut, his shirt crying out to be ironed. “Good morning,” he said to her, not missing a stride, his right hand clutching a steaming cup of tea, a cardboard dossier tucked under his left armpit. “Come with me, please.” They walked into an empty dusty office, and Alexei gestured for her to sit down. He circled the metal desk and sat down across from her with a grunt, his oversized stomach pressing against the edge of the piece of furniture and pushing it toward her. He opened the dossier and said, “Yes, yes. Katrina Geifman. Well, how’s life been treating you since your retirement? I envy you. I still have a good few years to go before I can retire. And then only if the powers that be grant me permission. Anyway, you aren’t here to listen to my problems.” With an air of exaggerated importance, he retrieved a pen from his shirt pocket, reached for a notepad, cleared his throat, and said, “As you’ve already been told, this is merely a routine inquiry for some clarifications. We received a report last week about a foreign couple who had checked in to Hotel Lenin. Dimitrovgrad isn’t a small town and it gets its fair share of visitors, but they were the only foreign couple staying at the hotel at this time of the year. Two guests from Israel. We’d have been guilty of gross negligence had their presence not caught our attention. We checked with our usual sources, the kind you’re familiar with—you worked here for years, after all. And we learned via the taxi company that the woman had been to see you. You, Katrina Geifman. A stranger, from another country, comes to see you, a former employee of the Federal Security Service. She comes all the way to Dimitrovgrad in the dead of winter to see you. That’s unusual. And it certainly warrants a report, Katrina. And you didn’t make one.”
“I haven’t had a chance yet to report it,” Katrina responded apologetically. “And there really is nothing to report. She’s the daughter of someone I once knew. It’s all there in my personal file, there isn’t anything new to add. But the issue is classified. In any event, the man died years ago. His daughter contacted me only now. She was coming to Russia anyway. A business trip to Moscow. Something concerning her family in Kazan. I was happy to see her, we reminisced about her father. That’s all.”
“Did she tell you anything about her partner?”
“Not much. They’re coworkers and they’re involved with each other. I don’t really know her very well at all. I knew her father. I wanted to hear about him. I’ve wondered for many years what became of him.”
“Is there anything else I should know? Did she want something from you? Did she offer you anything? Did you make any arrangements with her, another meeting at some point in the future perhaps?”
“No. We spoke in general terms about keeping in touch. Of course she didn’t ask me for anything. What could I have to offer her? A pleasant young woman, polite. That’s all.”
Alexei scratched his head, scribbled a few lines on the piece of paper in front of him, and said: “Okay, Katrina. But the next time you make contact with a foreigner, or a foreigner contacts you, make sure you inform us before we come to you. I realize that you don’t view such things as matters of urgency, but procedures apply to pensioners, too. You know that and have signed all the relevant documentation accordingly. Have a good day, and if you remember anything I may need to know,” he said, before pausing for a few seconds with a stern look on his face, “if you remember anything, call and let me know. I’m sure you still remember the central telephone number.”
37
VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 2013