The Class (65 page)

who thought he might one day be useful in sniffing out a potential Communist defector.

It was a nice day, so George walked across Pennsylvania

Avenue and down 17th Street to the restaurant. Andreyev, middle-aged and bald, in a typical shapeless

gray Russian suit, waved him over to the table, where a younger man, wearing a blue blazer and striped tie, rose to shake his hand.

"Dmitri Yakushkin, this is George Keller," said Andreyev.

He then added jocularly, "Be nice to him. He knows more about

Eastern -Europe than we do."

"I'll be on my best behavior," said the diplomat in impeccable English. -

George could not help but think, My God, his accent is almost as good as mine.

"What would you prefer to drink," Andreyev asked, "Bloody

Mary or champagne cocktail?"

"Since they have excellent Russian vodka here, I'll have a

Bloody Mary."

Andreyev raised three fingers to the Maître d', who simply nodded, having no need for further elucidation.

The conversation was extremely cordial and exceptionally superficial. George sat there waiting for the hidden zinger. Yet, when the crème brülée arrived, Yakushkiu was asking

him whether he ever went back to Hungary, which was now feasible since he was a U.S. citizen. And other trivialities. George discoursed perfunctorily-but not too

chauvinistically-about the pleasures of living in a

capitalist society and how much he enjoyed the social life in Washington, which was a veritable cornucopia of lovely women. As Dmitri would soon find out.

At this juncture, he thought he saw a sparkle in the young man's eyes. Perhaps he's a candidate, George mused. Perhaps he's asking in an oblique way how well a former Communist could live if he went to the other side.

This, at least, was the only conclusion he could offer in the Memorandum of Conversation he dictated to his secretary when he returned from lunch,

Sometime after three o'clock, the Secretary of State peeked his head through George's door and asked, "Well?"

"You were right, Henry. The duck was absolutely great."

Five days later, Yakushkin called George at his office

"just to touch base" and confirm how much he had enjoyed

their meeting. In fact, he wanted to invite George to dinner. They set a date and a gastronomic venue-the Russians'

favorite restaurant, appropriately called La Rive Gauche, on

Wisconsin- Avenue. According to the State Department

in-jokes, this was the most exclusive place in Washington. For its clientele was made up almost entirely of CIA and KGB agents watching one another watching other people.

Again, the chat was casual. But this time the beverage was vintage Bordeaux-and plenty of it. Each of them sat nonchalantly, trying to make out that they were just a little drunker than they really were.

"George," Dmitri said casually, "this city's so expensive. Do they pay you a good salary at State?"

"Not bad," said George, and added almost as an afterthought, "thirty-six thousand per."

"How much is that in rubles?" the young Russian asked.

"I really -don't know," George responded with a smile.

"To be honest," the diplomat laughed, "i'm not so sure myself. But anyway, between the two of us, I'd rather get my pay in dollars, eh?"

"That's the only thing they take in America," George replied, sensing that they were approaching a topic of some

- importance.

George casually lobbed the ball into the Russian's court.

"Tell me, Dmitri, can you make ends meet on your salary?" There was a pause. The twO chess players eyed each other, and the Russian said in candor, "Frankly, that was just what I

was going to ask you."

- And George thought, What an ass. He's trying to recruit nw. Do the Russians think I'm such a patsy?

Still, he had to keep his cool.

"I'm fine for money, Dmitri," he responded casually. "My needs are very simple."

"Yes," the Soviet concurred, a tinge of mystery in his voice, "you seem to lack for nothing. So is there no way we can. . . help you?"

George knew that he had to play along.

"That's most considerate," he said almost facetiously.

"But why should your embassy want to help a person like

myself?"

"Because you were brought up a Marxist and because perhaps you sometimes have nostalgia-"

"Never."

"I don't mean for the system, but for the old country. Don't you feel the slightest bit deracinated?"

"I'm an American," George Keller answered firmly. Dmitri pondered his reaction for a moment, reached into -his pocket, and withdrew two thin silver canisters.

"Cigar?" he asked. "They're Havanas. We bring them over in our diplomatic pouch. I bet you've never had one, eh?"

"No, thanks," George said politely. "I don't smoke." He

wanted the FBI observers to note that he would not even touch a Communist cigar.

Yakushkin lit up and started blowing little rings.

"Dr. Keller," he started with deliberate slowness, "I have some information that may be of interest to you."

The Russian's sudden change of tone made George uncomfortable.

"I'm always glad to receive information from the Russian

Embassy," he replied with nervous humor.

"It's about the status of your father," said the diplomat.

"I thought you might like to know that-"

"I know my father's risen in the party," George interrupted with annoyance.

"I mean the status of his health."

"Is he ill?"

"He has lung cancer."

"Oh," George said gravely. "I'm sorry to hear that." "It

will no doubt be very painful," the Russian added. "What do - you mean 'painful'?" -"Look," Dmitri began with fraternal consolation, "you're an expert on East European affairs and you know the level of hospital facilities in Hungary. We

don't have the abundant supply of medication that you have in the West. So it's not clear how long he'll live. It could be one year. It could be several months...."

Yakushkin sighed like a world-weary physician. "George,

this wretched arms race sometimes makes humanitarian concerns a secondary matter. If your father were in America, he would be so much more comfortable. You are so far ahead of us

in-what's the word?-analgesics."

"I'm sure Party officials don't lack for Western medicine, Dmitri."

"True," the Russian conceded. "But as you and I know, your father's rank is not that high...."

He paused and blew another Cuban smoke ring.

"I don't see what all this has to do with me," George protested quietly.

"Well," Dmitri said with a little smile, "a father is a father.

- I mean, if I were in your place I would want to help

him. At least to die peacefully. It's possible I could be in a position to help him."

"Then do so." -There was a pause, like the rest period between rounds of a fight.

Yakushkin replied simply, "It doesn't work that way."

"What the hell are you driving at?"

Dmitri refilled George's wine glass and then spoke in friendly, reassuring tones.

"Please, Keller, if you think I'm going to ask you to commit espionage, you're sorely mistaken."

"But you do want me to do something," George insisted.

"Yes. Something perfectly legal. It is simply a matter of unblocking the logjam of your government's bureaucracy. We have been trying for months now to obtain a piece of equipment-"

"Which, I suppose, you would like me to steal," George interrupted.

"No, no. This is a small device that we are trying to buy. Do you hear me? Buy. It is merely a gadget for enhancing

-photographic images from weather satellites. There's no hanky-panky here, but your Department of Commerce just won't get off the fence."

"And you want me to push them?"

'Push' is too strong a word," the diplomat replied. "I

would prefer to say 'gently nudge.' Look, all I want you to do is satisfy yourself that the Taylor RX-80 is of no

military value. Take your time and give me a buzz when you've checked it out. Anyway, I've had a very pleasant evening." Yes, George replied, trying to keep his psychic

equilibrium. "Thanks very much."

In his Memorandum of Conversation to the FBI referring to

his second meeting with Dmitri Yakushkin, Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy, George Keller wrote succinctly:

I tried to recruit him. He tried to recruit me. Game ended in a scoreless tie.

C. K.

But in fact, - in the days that followed, George was haunted by thoughts of the father whom he hated. And by thoughts of that same father lying in agony in a Budapest hospital. Whom he could no longer hate.

After three days and nights he was still in an anguished quandary. The thought even occurred to him that the Russians might be bluffing. For all he knew, his father might be hale and hearty in some elegant resort for Party officials. How could he be sure?

Dmitri Yakushkin had anticipated this. On the fourth morning, when George went downstairs to get the mail, he found a large manila envelope that had been delivered by hand.

It - contained two chest X-rays and a short note from the diplomat: -

Dear George,

I thought these might be of interest.

0.

ANDREW ELIOT'S DIARY

September 30, 1973 -

I'm scared that something's terribly wrong with George Keller. He called me this afternoon and asked me, since I'm active in alumni affairs, whether I knew any

good doctors in the Washington area. -

I was puzzled for several reasons. Why did he ask me, a layman? And why didn't he ask some friends of his who live in his area?

He explained that it was something really serious and had

to be kept confidential. Of course, I said that I would try to help him but I'd need some details, like exactly what kind of doctor he was looking for.

At first he gave a very strange answer. He needed -someone

"very trustworthy."

• This made me think that George might be having some kind of nervous breakdown. I mean, I know those high-security guys are under- tremendous pressure. But, no. What he wanted was the name of the best oncologist within driving distance of Washington.

This really upset me. Why did he need a cancer specialist? I didn't feel I had the right to ask.

I just told him I'd make some discreet inquiries among my medical friends and call him back. Then he quickly insisted that he'd call me.

At this point the operator interrupted to say that his three minutes were up. He shoved in some more coins just to say he'd call the next day at exactly the same time. -

Naturally, I immediately contacted the alumni office and asked one of my old buddies who works there to have the computer try to find what George needed (without using any names, of course). I soon found out that a classmate, Peter Ryder, was now a professor of oncology at Johns Hopkins, in nearby Baltimore.

Though I was worried about his health, something else also disturbed me.

Why did he call from a pay phone?

P

eter Ryder, Professor of Oncology at Johns Hopkins Medical

School, startled George by his greeting.

"Kak pozhivias?" he said.