A Very Private Plot (23 page)

“Why can't my other aides be like you, Pogodin! I say, well done.”

Pavel thanked him, saluted, and withdrew to his post. He would not ask Major Slavitz for permission to take even a half day off. He did what he could to stay awake until his duty watch was over, at four in the afternoon. He reached his mother's house with his eyes half shut.

Two days later, Major Slavitz told Pavel that the General Secretary had called again for his services. “Perhaps, Pogodin, he'll ask you to build an anti-missile missile system.” Pavel smiled demurely and walked out across the northeast courtyard past two detachments of guards. He was ushered in by the private secretary.

The grand private office of the General Secretary had not lost its imperial impact on the eye since last used by a reigning czar. There was the porticoed doorway. Fresh flowers sat on lunar-shaped marble tables on either side, pointing up toward the exuberantly painted ceiling with its great vault of puffy clouds and flying geese framed by an Italianate balustrade. On the left, an enormous chinoiserie screen, blending with the paneled walls and crystal lights, the whole of the room giving the impression of a red-carpeted avenue toward the throne at the other end of the room. Once upon a time it had been that: now in its place was an eighteenth-century gilt-edged desk, the cockpit of the de facto chief of state. Gorbachev motioned to Pavel to approach the desk. Pavel did so, saluted, and stood at parade rest.

“Relax, Pogodin. There is something I want. It is of a highly private nature. I have a remote … cousin. He is not altogether right”—Gorbachev pointed to his head, and tapped it lightly. “An accident, as a boy. But I like to humor him. He saw recently at the house of a friend one of those … French … tapes. I would like to present him with a little library of such videotapes of a relaxing … erotic nature. They are very widely viewed, as you may know, in Europe and in America especially. I could not personally be linked, you understand, with any official request for such tapes. But I am not ashamed to indulge my poor cousin with a little visual entertainment. These tapes I know are available on the black market.”

Pavel squinted his eyes, and cocked his head skeptically.

“How do I know that, Pogodin? Because I know
everything
is available on the black market.” Gorbachev found himself delivering a stock sentence or two from one of his speeches to the price control commissioner. He calmed down. “I need someone I can absolutely trust, and you have earned that trust, to bring me, oh, a half-dozen tapes? Now you will find in the envelope on my desk, directly in front of you—” Gorbachev reached over to snap on the table lamp, but the bulb did not light. “That accursed lamp. In any event, take the envelope over there and put it in your pocket. You will find more rubles there than you need, I am sure, to buy a little collection of the kind I am talking about. For my cousin. I wish you then to have constructed a dozen or so labels,
War and Peace
, Part 1, Part 2, et cetera. Affix those labels on the tapes on the outside. And inside, remove any indication of what the tapes actually depict. I would not want my cousin's housekeeper to know about this. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. But I do have one question.”

“Yes?”

“If the tapes I am able to find are not in the Russian language, does that matter?”

“Well, I am sure he would prefer them in Russian. But I suppose the kind of tapes he enjoys speak in Esperanto.” He smiled. “If they are truly … clever, I imagine it doesn't matter if they are in Italian or in French or in English.”

“I understand, Comrade General Secretary.”

“And understand this, Pogodin. I am holding you personally responsible that no human being should ever know about this transaction. Upon your honor?”

“Upon my honor, Comrade General Secretary.”

It was necessary, on this occasion, to inform Major Slavitz that Pavel would need to leave the Kremlin in order to perform a private errand for the General Secretary. Major Slavitz was now resigned to it: In effect, Pavel had become a kind of all-purpose aide to the General Secretary. There wasn't any point in giving vent to his resentment or his jealousy over Pogodin's privileged position.

Pavel knew that pornography was not permitted in the Soviet Union, but he knew also—Andrei had made references to it—that it was to be found. Like everything else in Moscow, if you had money, and if you were willing to run a risk.

Not much of a risk, he assumed: He was not even aware that Stalin had sent to Gulag the incidental merchant caught with “dirty pictures” in the folds of a bookstore or whatever front the smut merchants used.

He walked down the pedestrian mall of the Arbat, training his eye to look for telltale signs. There was no equivalent in Moscow of what he had read about Times Square in New York City or Soho in London. But as he strolled down the wide street he felt the cosmopolitan bustle, men—and women—going this way and that, often entering doors not marked as merchandisers of anything in particular. There were, as always, the stores that sold hard-to-get food delicacies. He passed by several movie houses featuring films not widely spoken of in the official newspapers. One woman, bent over with age and presiding over the Russian equivalent of a little kiosk, beckoned to him; would he like to see her supply of “foreign magazines”? She brought up a copy of
Penthouse
and opened it to the center spread, which he found himself looking at inquisitively, his mind turning to Freda, a recent girlfriend, a furtive comparison crossing his mind.

He asked if she had any videos. She said no, but for a few rubles she would give him an address. He gave her two rubles and she pulled a pen from her bosom, a scratch pad from the counter, and wrote out an address at the Tishinsky Market. He asked for directions. She offered to sell him a map of Moscow. Smiling, he took the map from her, giving her a few kopeks. He opened the map and studied it. The address was a short cab ride away.

There he rang the bell. It was promptly answered by a lightly clad young woman of voluptuous dimensions. She looked him over, without a word. She asked if he was a policeman, because “if so, you may know my brother. He is a policeman.” Pavel understood her point, and assured her he was not on official business. “In that case,” she said, “come in.”

He walked into her dingy quarters, past a little utilitarian kitchen, into a bedroom. “Ten rubles for one-half hour,” she said, slipping off her blouse. Pavel stopped her. He wanted videotapes, he said.

“Why not the real thing?” she countered.

Pavel was embarrassed by his brief hesitation. He asserted self-control, repeated that he wished only the videos and had been told she had a supply. She buttoned her blouse, walked to a corner cupboard and asked, “How many? They are twenty rubles, each one.”

How many did she have?

She smiled. “As many as you have rubles to pay for.”

He bought ten.

This was one half of his duty. He went then to a job printer, picked out the type design, and ordered the appropriate labels. They were ready by late afternoon. At his mother's house, in his study, he affixed the labels with care, eliminating all traces of the erotic descriptive matter.

The following morning he appeared at the security office with a cardboard carton. It was loosely packed, so much so that it was possible to discern one of the labels on the exposed tape, a video edition of
War and Peace
. Pavel telephoned to the private secretary of the General Secretary, gave his name, and said that he had succeeded in accumulating the research material he had been asked for. After a moment or two he was told to come with the material at 11:10.

Gorbachev dismissed the guard at the end of the room. Pavel approached the General Secretary, holding the carton in his left hand, saluting with his right hand.

“At ease. You succeeded?”

“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. And if after a while your cousin should desire more, you have only to advise me. There is a fairly large supply.” Pavel then reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, putting it down on the desk. “The excess rubles, sir.”

Gorbachev reached over to switch on the desk lamp. It flickered on. Then off. Then back on. “Cursed lamp. Thank you, Pogodin.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to get your lamp fixed?”

“I most certainly would. I have twice asked that it be done. You may know that the wiring for this whole unit of the Kremlin is being redone. For that reason, I suppose, they have postponed fixing it effectively. If you can have it done, more power to you. I am beginning to believe you can accomplish anything, Pogodin. Perhaps I should turn foreign policy over to you.”

“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I shall see to it.”

CHAPTER 30

OCTOBER 1986

They assembled again on Sunday morning, as planned. It was not easy to reach Okateyvsky because huge rains coming on the heels of the big electrical storm the night before had caused flash floods. Bus drivers welcomed every opportunity to bring service to a halt, and Andrei had walked to the front of the bus and made an unambiguous threat to his driver. Intimidated, and talking loudly to the crowded bus travelers, among whom two Narodniki sat, about the high probability that they would end up spending the night in a bus stuck in the mud, he eased his vehicle over on the left bank of the road and made his way past a water trap. Pavel, coming from the south with Viktor, was a half hour late. The storm gathered force again. The four conspirators were grateful for the mounds of hay that seemed to insulate them from the pelting rain, battering against the old building's rotting eaves.

Nikolai, with some forethought, had wrapped a large bath towel under his shirt and he offered it now to his sodden companions, who, stripping, did what they could to get dry. Andrei undertook to light a fire in a cavity near the entrance to the stable. He took dry hay and bits and pieces of wood and then a half-dozen loose egg-sized stones. It produced a modest and welcome blaze. He dragged from the corner an old bicycle wheel and placed it over the stones. Now there was a grate of sorts, over which the especially wet clothes were left dangling to dry as Nikolai called the Narodniki to order.

He told Pavel to recount the extraordinary experiences of the past week. He did so, leaving out the episode involving the pornographic tapes. He had given his word of honor, and although Pavel was prepared to assassinate Gorbachev, he would not dishonor a promise made to him. Pavel concluded by telling them that he had promised the General Secretary to fix his quirky desk lamp.

“I told Nikolai about this when I went off duty on Friday. Saturday morning, I brought Nikolai to the secretary in the outer office and told her that my friend Nikolai Trimov, the electrical engineer, would need to inspect the area around the desk in order to ascertain exactly what was needed to fix the lamp. With her and a security guard closely observing him, Nikolai did so. After the inspection, Nikolai specified what he would need to do.”

Pavel continued: “It must be done by Tuesday. We want to give the General Secretary immediate attention. I have an excuse for not getting it done tomorrow, Monday, when he will be occupying his office all day. But the General Secretary has the weekly Politburo meeting on Tuesday afternoons. I told Maritsa that my friend Trimov would come in prepared to fix the lamp when the General Secretary was absent from his office.”

Pavel deferred now to Nikolai.

Nikolai turned to another point. Inasmuch as none of his companions had advised him to the contrary, he said, he assumed that each had made his own escape plans.

Viktor said his plans were made but that his forger would not actually give him his documents until he paid for them. Nikolai turned inquiringly to Pavel.

“Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I should have begun with that.” He reached into his sack and pulled out three hefty manila folders, giving one each to his companions. “Three thousand rubles,” he said, with a routine voice. “My dear mother's jewels are indeed worth well over one hundred thousand. I wouldn't be surprised if they are worth twice that, even more.”

Nikolai said he thought it appropriate to thank Pavel. “Perhaps one day we can make it up to your mother.”

Pavel replied, “You will make it up to her in full on Tuesday afternoon. Nikolai will explain. Though God knows,” he laughed heartily, “what would happen to my dear mother if after the Soviet Union were overthrown and Restoration declared, they failed to tender me the throne.”

The laughter was general and their perspectives returned. The bourgeois debt to Pavel and to his mother faded in importance.

Nikolai spoke again. “You are not electricians, and you needn't know in detail what I plan. Suffice it to say this, that a) if Gorbachev leaves his office, b) if the Kremlin's electrical utility workshop has in it what I am almost certain are parts of its regular inventory, c) if the Kremlin security leave me alone under the desk, then d) I will proceed to wire the metal rosette handle that pulls the drawer open to a strip of copper under the drawer, so that anyone who pulls on the handle and simultaneously on the bottom of the drawer will receive a mortal load of current. I have gone through all the motions. I know exactly what I have to do under the desk, the measurements I need to make before going to the workshop. Pavel will accompany me, explaining to anyone, as required, what it is we are doing. Pavel has the complete confidence of Comrade Maritsa, who dominates that office. The desk's front is solid, so that what I am doing when on my back in the desk's kneehole will not be visible to any of the security wandering about.”

“What if he comes back in less than one hour?”

“I am in a position simply to fix the connection and leave undone the electrocuting link.”

Viktor wanted to know if anyone was likely to bring about a premature electrocution.