The Red House. Derek Lambert
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Becoming known as an unusually extrovert Russian, a valuable catch for the hostesses.’ He grinned sideways at Zhukov. ‘You may even recite some of your poetry.’
They arrived at the Monument reaching for a fragment of cloud. ‘The tallest masonry structure in the world,’ Zhukov supplied. ‘And for what purpose am I to do all this socializing?’ Although, of course, he knew.
You are not such a naïve man, Comrade Zhukov. However, I will elaborate.’
A line of schoolchildren accompanied by a pretty and enthusiastic young teacher passed them, headed for the Monument fringed at its base with a circle of Old Glories. Brodsky regarded children and teacher with distaste.
Zhukov said, ‘I presume you want me to assess opinion and trends.’
‘Exactly so,’ Brodsky said. ‘To take the pulse of Washington as it were. You will find many Americans and other diplomats anxious to make friends with you because a socializing Russian is something of a rarity in Washington.’ He squeezed Zhukov’s bicep for no particular reason that Zhukov could determine. ‘Most of us have to go straight home. In any case’—an explosion of mirth like suppressed laughter escaping in a classroom—‘can you imagine Comrade Grigorenko at a cocktail party?’
Zhukov said he couldn’t.
Brodsky continued: ‘Many of your new friends will, of course, be trying to feel the pulse of the Soviet Embassy through you. You will naturally supply their wants—after we have decided what they should be told.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite.’ The saliva froze again. ‘In Washington there are always weak men in low places with access to valuable information. However diligently they are screened they manage to hide their weaknesses.’ He stared at Zhukov from behind his scholarly glasses. ‘We screened you very carefully but we could not reach your soul.’ He lit another cigarette—American, Zhukov noted. ‘Such people seem to flourish on the party circuit. Men and women. It will be your responsibility to listen for indiscretions, because these people respond to sympathy, particularly on the third Martini. You will make friends with them,’ Brodsky ordered.
‘So I am to be a spy?’
‘Far from it. Merely a specialist in judicious fraternizing. The social bear of the Soviet Embassy.’
‘An agent provocateur?’
‘A theatrical term and out-of-date. You’re hardly the type to be a masculine Mata Hari. In any case most of the spying is carried out by the lesser embassies these days. You will primarily remain a diplomat with an extension of duties which is not, after all, confined to Soviet diplomats. You will merely be our representative—or one of our representatives—in this field. You see,’ he explained, ‘we leave the heavyweight operations to the military attachés—every country does. The more devious work to our friends in other embassies. We carry out duties of a more dignified nature.’
A women’s club passed by on their way to the Monument. Brodsky’s distaste deepened to disgust.
‘Supposing I am not fitted to these duties?’ Zhukov asked.
‘We—they—feel that you are. Or rather you’re the best candidate there is in the embassy.’
Zhukov knew that it was futile to refuse. ‘And what am I supposed to do about these … these weaklings, when I meet them?’
‘Report their weaknesses to us. Determine how they can be blackmailed. Men, women, alcohol, money … every American with two cars wants three, every American with a co-op wants a town house. But,’ he added, ‘I used the term weak loosely. You may meet strong men seeking only an outlet to contribute to the glorious cause of Socialism.’ His glasses glinted in the sunlight. ‘Their strength may be their determination to supply us with information despite the risks involved.’
‘Traitors, you mean?’
The grip on Zhukov’s bicep was reapplied, unexpected strength in the delicate fingers. ‘Sometimes I am surprised by your reactions, Comrade Zhukov.’
Zhukov shrugged—it wasn’t in his character to apologize. Then inspiration came to him on this inspired morning. ‘I have a daughter in the Soviet Union, Comrade Brodsky.’
Brodsky looked surprised. ‘I am aware of that. As a matter of fact I was going to mention her …’
‘Mention Natasha? Why?’ Alarm curdled into nausea.
‘It doesn’t matter for the moment. What were you going to say?’
‘Tell me why you were going to mention Natasha?’ Sweet, innocent Natasha with her mother’s loveliness and her father’s questing spirit.
‘No, comrade, you first.’
Zhukov’s voice faltered. ‘I was merely going to ask if you thought it would be possible for her to visit us here this year.’
‘You mean as a reward for your social activities?’
‘I thought it would be a wonderful experience for her …’
‘Anything is possible,’ Brodsky said thoughtfully. ‘It could be arranged.’
‘And now, why were you going to mention her?’
‘It seems that she has been keeping bad company in Alma Ata …’ And with relish Mikhail Brodsky recounted the arrest of Natasha’s lover with the true narrator’s relish of detail. Down to the shirt and underpants.
Vladimir Zhukov sweated with self-consciousness and the effort to be suave, like a teenager dancing with a haughty girl. All the subjects in the universe available for discussion and all original comment—any comment for that matter—eluded him. He hated the setting, hated the people. He suspected that they regarded him as a curiosity, a peasant: he, the representative of the most powerful nation on earth; he an intellectual and a man of cultivated habits; he a man of forty-four staring at his drink and digging his nails into the palms of his hands like a kid of eighteen.
The diplomat sent from the cultural section presumably to keep an eye on Zhukov was getting drunk and belligerent at the bar at the end of the ballroom. He didn’t seem to be a very cultured man despite his job, and when Zhukov noticed him through the heads and drinks and diamonds he was prodding a Czech in the chest with a karate forefinger.
A baptism by fire, Brodsky had said. And it certainly was. Champagne among the Matisse still-lifes, the Sèvres nymphs and the Gobelin tapestries on French territory in Washington, followed by more drinks and dancing at the after-dinner reception on Iberian soil. He stroked the watered silk on the lapel of his tuxedo; very decadent, soft—like stroking a seal.
‘What do you think?’ The earnest and boring Rumanian with the crinkled forehead waited with anticipation.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Zhukov said.
‘Really? That is very surprising. Very surprising indeed.’
Zhukov wondered if he’d contradicted Soviet policy on Rumania which had become a little recalcitrant of late. Tomorrow the contradiction would be relayed and worried over all day at the Rumanian Embassy. Had Zhukov made a deliberate leak? they would ponder. Was the Kremlin going soft on Rumania—fearful of the Chinese menace, perhaps?
At that moment Zhukov didn’t care what interpretation they decided on. In the first place, he had no idea what the question had been; in the second his job was to fraternize with Westerners, not Kremlin lackeys; and in the third place his mind was slurred with the champagne and vodka he had drunk in abundance to oil his conversation. And he was desperately worried about Natasha. The message hadn’t been subtle: co-operate and produce results and Natasha can visit you; behave obstinately and she’ll be arrested like her lover.
Zhukov looked down miserably at his intense companion. How did you circulate at these functions? If you managed to dispatch a bore then you stood the risk of being isolated—an inarticulate peasant stranded among the