Red Ink (16 page)

She nods smartly. “I don’t care. I have to know. What else?”

“I don’t have a ruble to my name.”

Her eyes narrow, then shift from mine to the medals and back, softening with understanding and admiration. “I didn’t know there were any honest men left in Moscow, Mr. Katkov.”

“Thank you. Nikolai. Please.”

“Nikolai,” she repeats with a friendly smile. “Let me know how much you’ll need.”

20

F
irst thing in the morning I head over to the U.S. Embassy, a rococo, mustard-colored building on Tchaikovsky Boulevard, to get a visa. It’s not as easy as I thought, and I return to Yuri’s apartment without it. As he predicted, it takes almost the entire afternoon to get a call through to Agent Scotto in Washington, D.C.

“Run that by me again,” her dusky New York accent crackles over the line. “You need a special letter from me to come here?”

“Your embassy does. Someone in the United States has to vouch for me. No letter, no visa, I’m afraid.”

“What about your cousin in Brooklyn?” she jokes.

“Even if I had one, Scotto, I’m coming to see you.”

“Hey, with what’s going on in my life these days, Katkov, flattery’ll get you everywhere. Mind telling me why?”

“I have some information.”

“No kidding? What kind of information?”

“The kind you’ve been looking for.”

“Don’t play games with me, dammit. Come on, what do you have?”

“Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov’s documents.”

“Geezus. What’s in ’em? What do they say? Stuff about that pipeline deal?”

“Not so fast. If I tell you now, there’s no reason for me to come, is there?”

“What is this? Some ploy to get FinCEN to pay for your trip?”

“No, that’s all taken care of. It’s a ploy to earn a living. I give you the documents when I arrive, and you give me first crack at whomever and whatever they give you. Deal?”

“I don’t make deals, Katkov. Especially with journalists. They all seem to have a problem when it comes to taking sides.”

“You know, you’d make a rather good Communist, Scotto. They think the media exists to pump out propaganda for the State.”

“Where do I sign up?”

“I’m afraid they’ve been outlawed, but you’re in luck. We’ve been puppets for so long, there’s not a journalist in Moscow who
isn’t
taking sides now. I’m offering to take yours.”

“Big of you.”

“I’m quite certain you’ll be more than delighted when you see the documents. Are you going to send me the letter or not?”

She emits an exasperated groan. “I’ll pouch it to our embassy. You have the name of the immigration officer you saw?”

“Of course, his card’s right here.” I give Scotto the name, then turn my attention to getting a passport—a passport for foreign travel.

For the last sixty years, all Soviet citizens were required to carry an
internal
passport containing two crucial items: the residency stamp on page fourteen was used to restrict where we could live; and the infamous Item Five, which listed ethnic background, was used to discriminate against non-Slavs and Jews when they sought employment and access to government services. As part of the commitment to individual liberties, the internal passport has been declared unconstitutional and replaced with a plastic-encased identity card that contains neither item—though there are those who view the magnetic data stripe on the back with suspicion.

Of course, the internal passport had nothing to do with travel abroad. An exit visa—routinely denied to most citizens, especially Jews who were dubbed
refuseniks
—was required to leave the country. These have also been outlawed by the reformists, and only the standard traveler’s passport is required now.

Unfortunately, the Foreign Ministry is swamped with applications, and the issuing process can take up to a month, sometimes
longer. I spend countless days standing in lines, filling out forms, and dealing with a succession of envious, mean-spirited passport officers. They have nothing but disdain for those able to travel—and the power to delay or deny one’s application.

My evenings are spent in Yuri’s apartment, helping him catalogue books in his library, and thinking about Vera. I’m tempted to call her back but, despite knowing that I was in trouble, despite knowing I needed a place to stay, she’s neither beeped me nor even contacted Yuri. He gently suggests that, since she’s shown little interest in my whereabouts or well-being, and since, with any luck, I’ll soon be leaving Moscow, a lengthy cooling off period might be in order.

After more than three weeks of tedium at the Foreign Ministry I finally make it to the window where passports are issued. Looking at the bright side, instead of being in winter’s grasp when I arrive, Washington—unlike Moscow, where harsh weather lasts well into April—will now be basking in spring. A gray-faced bureaucrat rolls a blank into her typewriter and asks for my identity card. She stares at it for a long moment, then looks up. “This is your current address?”

Is it a routine question? Or does her unnerving tone mean she already knows the answer? If she does, if it’s a setup and I’m caught giving false information, new government or no, it might forever disqualify me. If she doesn’t, I’d be a fool to admit I’m between apartments and don’t have an address. Along with my ethnic background, it’s the sort of technicality the KGB would’ve used in the past to turn my life into a nightmare; and I’ve no doubt it’s the sort of thing this brain-dead
apparatchik
would use now to turn me down. I steel myself, and, as offhandedly as possible, reply, “Of course it’s current.”

She thinks it over for a moment, making me squirm, then nods matter-of-factly and begins typing. After filling in the blanks, she affixes my photograph, and embosses it with the government seal. Each step is done with painstaking deliberation intended to make the process take as long as possible. Finally, she folds the booklet in half and hands it to me with an insipid smirk.

I can’t believe my eyes. Instead of the Russian tricolor, the ruby-red cover is imprinted in gold with the Hammer and
Sickle. The letters
CCCP
parade above it, and
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
below. “Hey, haven’t you people heard? We’re neither Soviet nor socialist anymore.”

“That’s nothing to be proud of,” the passport officer snaps, making me glad I lied. “We’re issuing these until the new government decides on a new coat of arms. If they wait much longer, they might not have to change it.” She snorts at her own joke and holds out a hand. “I’d be happy to take it back.”

I force a smile and resist the temptation to say “Eat your heart out,
comrade
,” then head for the United States Embassy. It’s only a few stops on the Metro. To my relief, the immigration officer has the letter Scotto sent him and agrees to expedite my visa. I pick it up at the end of the day along with my passport and a copy of the letter. The next evening Yuri drives me, my briefcase, typewriter, and several pieces of luggage to Sheremetyevo Airport twenty-five miles northwest of downtown Moscow. I suspect his generosity has much to do with finally getting me out of that tiny apartment as saying bon voyage.

Just after midnight, Aeroflot SU-317 takes off in a raging snowstorm and soars high above the clouds, taking my spirits with it. I’ve left the thugs in trench coats and Ray-Bans behind. I’m no longer lonely, homeless, and unemployed. I’m unleashed, unencumbered. For the first time in my life, I feel free.

The jetliner heads due west, crossing the Baltics, the southern tip of Sweden, and the North Sea to Great Britain and a brief stopover in Shannon, Ireland; then it continues on over the stormy North Atlantic to the United States. Eighty-four-hundred miles and fifteen hours after takeoff, the wide-bodied IL-62 descends over the Virginia countryside, where the graceful sweep of plowed roads slices through fresh snow.

Snow? I press my face to the window in disbelief. Yes. Snow, as far as I can see. Not only doesn’t winter wait, but regardless of the season it seems to follow wherever I go. So much for the cherry blossoms I’ve heard so much about. A short time later, the intercom crackles and the pilot explains that a freak cold front pushed down from Canada over the weekend, turning April showers into wet snow.

Cool morning light streams into the cabin as the plane banks, and the intersecting runways of Dulles International appear off the left wing. My guidebook says it was named for John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State during the 1950s. It fails to note that
his policies fueled the Cold War and led to America’s disastrous involvement in Vietnam. I recall how his Soviet counterpart, equally responsible for instigating those decades of tension and distrust, and our disastrous involvement in Afghanistan, was held in similar esteem.

Snowflakes stick to the windows as the Ilyushin touches down and taxis to the terminal. I’m coming off the boarding ramp, numbed by the long flight, when the public address system comes to life. “Will arriving passenger Nikolai Katkov please proceed to inspection station number six?” a soothing female voice requests in Russian. “Arriving passenger Katkov to station six, please?”

I enter the brightly illuminated terminal, where a sign proclaims UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF IMMIGRATION AND NATURALIZATION. Another prohibits smoking. Long lines of weary passengers snake from stations one through five; but not from six. No, six is roped off and unused. A uniformed officer stands behind the counter. Is he waiting for me? Is it possible I’m getting VIP treatment? I can’t believe it, but it sure looks like Scotto has pulled out all the stops.

“Mr. Katkov?” the stocky fellow prompts with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Untied States.”

“Thank you. It’s my first visit.”

“Yes, we know. We just have a few questions.” He examines my passport and visa, then raises his eyes. “You’re a free-lance journalist?”

“Yes,” I reply jauntily, getting my second wind. “I’m working on a story.”

“I see; but you don’t have a job, per se?”

Something in his tone makes me uneasy. “I don’t work for one newspaper, if that’s what you mean.”

“What about your address in Moscow? Can you tell me about that?”

My gut tightens. I’ve good reason to be uneasy now. “Precisely what do you want to know?”

“Our embassy did a routine check. It seems the address in your passport isn’t current. As a matter of fact, they were informed the building was recently vacated and is being demolished. Is that accurate?”

“Yes, well, you see, that address was copied from my identity card. I can’t get a new one until I have a new address; but I
won’t have a new address until I return to Moscow and find a new apartment. I believe it’s what you Americans call a catch-something-or-other.”

“Twenty-two,” he says, unmoved. He lifts the phone and dials an extension. “Mac? Cosgrove here. . . . On this Katkov thing? You were right. We’re going to need a secondary . . . no, actually he sounds a little like an Englishman. . . . Uh-huh. On our way.”

Cosgrove directs me down a corridor and into an office where a stern-looking fellow in trifocals sits behind a desk. A nameplate identifies him as W. T. MACALISTER. A gold badge is pinned to his white military-style shirt. Impressive insignia perch on the epaulets. He takes my passport and visa from his colleague, who leaves the office with the ticket stubs for my bags.

“So,” MacAlister says. “You’re a journalist?”

“Yes. The immigration officer at your embassy said there shouldn’t be any problem as long as I had this.” I slip Agent Scotto’s letter from my briefcase.

“Treasury Department.” His lips purse thoughtfully as he reads. “You realize this letter isn’t on official stationary, Mr. Katkov?”

“Of course, it’s a copy. Your embassy retained the original. Agent Scotto’s meeting me here. She’ll authenticate it for you.”

He nods, then lifts the phone, and asks that Scotto be paged. “You see, Mr. Katkov,” he says in a patronizing tone, “the average person thinks a visa gives them permission to enter the country. It doesn’t. It merely entitles them to
request
it on arrival.”

“Is there some reason why it shouldn’t be granted in my case?”

“Possibly.” He folds the letter and returns it. “Your profile suggests you might be here to find work—illegal work—and it’s my job to make that determination.”

“Illegal work? I don’t understand. I told you I’m already working on a story.”

The phone rings. “MacAlister.” He listens, grunts, hangs up, and, as if rendering a guilty verdict, announces, “Agent Scotto didn’t respond to the page.”

“Well, you saw her letter, you—”

“A copy of her letter,”
he corrects sharply. “Put yourself in
our shoes. You’re single; you have no family in Moscow; no residence—in other words, little incentive to return. How do we know that you—”

“I have a round-trip ticket!” I interrupt, losing my patience.

“You’ll be using it sooner than you think, with that attitude. How do we know that you won’t work for American publications?”

“You have my word.”

“Mr. Katkov, if I had a dollar for every person who swore they weren’t going to work illegally and did, I’d be in Florida working on my short game.”

“Your what?”

“Golf. Nicklaus? Trevino? Forget it. The point is, before we can allow you to enter the United States, we need assurances you won’t become a burden to the American taxpayer.”

“I’ve never been a burden to anyone, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Good, I’ll keep that in mind. By the way, I meant to compliment you on your English. Unfortunately, it’s another thing that’s working against you.”

“Against me?”

“Exactly. You’d have no trouble making contacts; no fear of being suspected of doing business illegally. I venture to say the
Post
would welcome you with open arms, regardless.”

I’m about to lose my temper when Cosgrove returns and takes his boss aside. After several tight-lipped nods, MacAlister says, “Good news, Mr. Katkov, your luggage is clean. Now, would you empty your briefcase, please?”

I stare at him sullenly, then decide the better of challenging him and do as he asks.

MacAlister sorts through the items methodically, pausing at Vorontsov’s documents. His brows rise with suspicion. “What are these, Mr. Katkov?”

“Material for my story. Why?”

“Well, they look like originals to me. Stamped ‘received’—by your Interior Ministry, I believe.”

“That’s correct.”

“Care to tell us how you happened to get your hands on them?”