The poets game, p.2
The Poet's Game, page 2
2 Lubyanka Square—FSB Headquarters
Matthews was aware of unfamiliar voices close by and then they faded. At first, he thought the voices were part of a dream, but he opened his eyes and heard men in the corridor outside, and then they walked past and the sound disappeared.
He sat up on the hard bed, dropping his bare feet to the cold cement floor. He opened and closed his fists to bring sensation back to his fingers and he massaged his calves until the tingling numbness passed. He’d slept in his clothing, and his shirt smelled of sweat from his night of incarceration.
Questions and threats from the interrogating officer the night before came back to him as a puzzle of farcical absurdities, with the man’s questions having nothing to do with the traffic incident. His initial blandishments had turned into a stream of shouted obscenities when Matthews kept repeating the same story about the woman, the car, the other American, while the interrogator kept returning to Trinity Capital’s tax filings.
Matthews stood and stretched, moving his head one way and then the other, trying to relieve the neck pain that came from sleeping without a pillow. His mouth was parched. One small fortochka pane at the top of the high window was open, but no breeze entered. Dim light through the iron bars meant it was still a predawn hour.
He tried the handle of the cell’s heavy wood door. He didn’t think it would open, but it was a thing to do, a useless gesture of a man caught in an absurd situation. He pounded on the door and repeated what he’d said many times the night before, “I want to talk to my lawyer!”
He lay on the bed again, eyes open, listening to the silence, and in a few minutes, he drifted into groggy sleeplessness under a harsh fluorescent light that never went off.
Moscow was a bustling, modern city, but there was no sanctuary from its official criminal class for most people. The rich and agile survived its many hazards, and being both, Matthews knew how to dodge dangers without succumbing to the poison of indifference. Indifference wore him down, bled him, and kept him from understanding a predicament objectively. He’d learned the skill in the CIA and he put it to good use as an investor. There were no villains, only uncomfortable situations that required an iron will and a sense of humor.
* * *
“Wake up.”
Matthews was curled in a ball, hands between his legs for warmth, when he felt the poke in his ribs. He looked up into the face of an officer standing over him: clean-shaved, intelligent looking, with the fresh appearance of a man who’d just come to work. He wore a forest-green uniform and carried a high crown cap tucked under his arm. Matthews recognized the single gold star on his red epaulet: a colonel in the FSB’s Sixth Service. All the things that Matthews had been trained to remember to use against the officer if the opportunity arose.
Matthews sat up, moving his feet off the bed, and saw the officer’s polished black shoes and the cup of coffee he offered.
“Koshrovo,” Matthews said, sipping. It was no worse than the shitty coffee offered by Moscow’s cafes.
A lower-ranked officer stood by the cell door, hands clasped behind his back, his expression alert and deferential.
“Mr. Alexander Matthews,” the colonel said.
“Da.”
He pointed to a table in the middle of the room with long, delicate fingers, a pianist’s hand. Two battered wood chairs faced each other. “Join me.”
Matthews sat and watched the colonel take the seat opposite. He placed his cap on the table and sat straight up, rigid, smiling. “You may call me Viktor Petrovich.”
Wanting to be friendly, Matthews thought, giving his first name and patronymic. His last name was stitched above his breast pocket: Zhukov.
“Smoke?” Colonel Zhukov hit his pack of Primas on his arm, popping a cigarette, which he offered. When Matthews declined, Zhukov lit one and took a long pull, brightening the end. He released a lungful of smoke from the corner of his mouth and smiled.
“How are you doing, Alex? Did they treat you well last night? Have they offered you breakfast?”
“I’ve slept better.”
“It’s not the Kempinski. We don’t want to make our guests comfortable.”
They chatted about nothing in particular for a few minutes, pretending it was a perfectly normal conversation. Matthews listened to Colonel Zhukov go on about life in Moscow for the duration of two puffs of his cigarette.
Matthews leaned forward. “Why am I here?”
“The better question is: Why am I here in Lubyanka at seven in the morning?” Colonel Zhukov held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, his elbow cocked, before balancing the cigarette on the edge of the scarred wood table. “I was informed that a terrible mistake was made last night.”
“Good to hear.”
“The driver of the Toyota will be held subject to further investigation, but as the passenger, you weren’t involved in the injury.”
“The car didn’t hit her.”
“Witnesses contradicted each other. The woman recanted her story, but then what people thought was a car accident turned out to be something else—serious in a different way.” Colonel Zhukov leaned forward. “The doorman said you solicited the woman.”
Matthews laughed.
“She pounded on the car’s window pleading with you. She was overheard saying she waited for you in the bar. The police were called. A file has been opened.”
Colonel Zhukov lifted his cigarette and drew on it slowly, keeping his eyes on Matthews.
“Let me give you two pieces of advice, if I may. Don’t get in a car with a careless driver, because we take traffic accidents seriously. Don’t let yourself be approached by a woman on the street. Prostitution is a serious matter in Moscow.”
Matthews considered the advice. “Why was I brought here?”
“Here? Lubyanka?”
“Traffic accidents aren’t capital crimes.”
“You’re not just anyone involved in a traffic incident, or just anyone who solicited a prostitute. You’re a prominent capitalist.”
Matthews placed his palms on the table. His voice was steady but his lips twitched indignantly to head off the false narrative of the evening. “You have it all wrong. What you think I was doing, or what someone thinks they overheard, is a mistake. That woman approached me with a question. She’s a reporter for Novaya Gazeta.”
“Drinks in your hotel room? An offer of cash?”
Matthews lurched forward. “Ask her.”
“I don’t need to. This matter is dismissed. Russia has many foreign investors like you, but you have one thing others don’t—a good Russian lawyer.”
Colonel Zhukov returned Matthews’s cell phone and wallet and presented him a small color photograph that he’d found in the wallet.
“Who is the girl?”
“My daughter.”
“Abide by our laws if you want to make sure you’ll see her again.”
“She’s dead.”
Colonel Zhukov frowned. “My condolences. Are you back in the spy business?”
“Business yes. Spying no. Investments.”
“And this?” He held up a delicate Meissen figurine of a monkey in a drummer’s uniform.
“A gift I was carrying.”
“The person must be a good friend.” He returned it to its bubble wrap. “A valuable collector’s piece.”
Matthews took the porcelain figure. “An old friend.”
* * *
A dull, gray, cold September morning met Matthews when he was escorted out of FSB headquarters onto Lubyanka Square. He’d driven past the building in his old role as CIA station chief, but he’d never been inside the Neo-Baroque building. Its distinctive yellow brick façade had been cleaned of Soviet-era soot, but the ghosts of the Cheka and KGB remained, as did the hammer and sickle etched in a stone lintel above the entrance.
Mikhail Sorkin’s Maybach S class Mercedes was parked nearby and he stood by the open rear door. He wore gloves and a scarf, but no overcoat. Upon seeing Matthews escorted from the building, he stepped forward, greeting his client with a reassuring hand on his shoulder and the obliging deference of a highly paid attorney.
“I’m fine. I need a shower. He wants to be friendly, which made our conversation a tedious game.” Matthews pointed toward Colonel Zhukov, who had accompanied Matthews and now stood by the entrance.
“So, you’re okay?”
“Yes. My basement cell had a good view. I could see all the way to Siberia.”
“You know all the old jokes. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Matthews sat in the Mercedes’s back seat and observed the two men huddled together. He was too far to overhear, but he was close enough to read their body language.
“What did he say?” Matthews asked when Sorkin slipped in the car.
“Apparatchik.” He tapped his driver’s shoulder and the car pulled away. Sorkin looked out at the heavy morning traffic and made his judgment. “There was the Cheka, then the NKVD, the KGB, and now the FSB. All the same scorpions.”
He looked at Matthews. “Zhukov apologized for the misunderstanding. That’s how things work here. They arrest you for one thing and then discover something else. In your case, it’s your old job.”
“I saw you arguing with him.”
“It wasn’t an argument.”
“Just two men in front of Lubyanka shouting at each other.” He looked at Sorkin. “Why would he ask me about the tax audit?”
Sorkin’s eyes came off the traffic. “I asked him why he cared. A tax audit comes under Directorate K, the FSB’s economic security department. Colonel Zhukov is Department M, counterintelligence.”
Sorkin pondered a moment. “Be careful of Zhukov. He works for Igor Sechin, who is close to Putin. You don’t want Trinity Capital to be this visible.” Sorkin turned to Matthews. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“There’s a lot I don’t tell you. What about the other guy? Birch.”
“He’ll be held while there is an investigation. He’s an American who speaks no Russian, driving a car with diplomatic plates. They want to know who he is. I vouched for you, but it is best that you leave Moscow for a few weeks.”
Sorkin opened the morning edition of Komsomolskaya Pravda to a middle page. A photo captured Matthews’s raised hand blocking photographers with a caption: AMERICAN FINANCIER ARRESTED.
“She took it. Her name is Olga Luchaninova. She is a part-time editor of Russian Vogue, a reporter of the new generation. She sells stories where she can and she’s big in the dissident crowd. Sometimes they’re arrested, sometimes assassinated.”
He looked at Matthews. “You need to leave Moscow to let the FSB’s interest cool and you should avoid appearing in the press again. It’s dangerous for a wealthy American investor in Russia to be in the tabloids.”
Sorkin indicated his driver, quiet, obedient, overhearing everything. “Kirill will drive you to Sheremetyevo. I booked you on an Air France flight that leaves in five hours. You have a stopover in Paris and arrive in Washington tomorrow. I will handle the tax questions.”
Sorkin showed Matthews the string of text messages on his cell phone. “Your friends are concerned.” He scrolled down and presented his phone. “Anna is sick with worry.”
Matthews saw half a dozen texts from his wife. It was nine A.M. in Moscow and past midnight in Washington. The texts had come in the middle of the night.
“She tried your phone but got no answer. She texted me thinking I knew where you were.”
Matthews turned on his cell phone and text notices popped up and his voice mailbox had a message. “Did you answer her?”
“I did this morning. Not last night.”
“Why not?”
“And say what? You’d been arrested for soliciting a prostitute?”
“That didn’t happen. You know that.”
“The police arrested you and charged you with solicitation. Should I lie?”
“It was a mistake. A ridiculous misunderstanding on a rainy night by an overly persistent woman.”
“Mistake? Maybe. You have to be careful.” He looked at Matthews. “She approached you. She was insistent. You’re a wealthy American and an obvious target for kompromat. In Moscow, any number of people might target you.”
“What she was doing and what I was doing were two very different things.”
“She invited herself to your hotel room. Didn’t she? I heard her.”
Matthews leaned back. Lack of sleep and the exhaustion and stress of the unfolding dilemma worked its way under his skin. One small favor for a former CIA colleague—a small thing, one meeting, you’re the courier. He could hear the director of central intelligence make his urgent plea for help.
“Directorate K can make life difficult for Trinity Capital. You operate here at the pleasure of men with their palms out.” Sorkin looked at Matthews. “What were you doing in the Toyota?”
“I was meeting the son of an old friend.” He added a detail to make the lie more plausible. “He’s having a hard time adjusting to embassy life as a young bachelor.”
Sorkin was skeptical. “You’re my client, but also my friend, so let me give you some advice. That woman is an opportunist. She knows how to get what she wants.”
“Don’t lecture me.”
“Moscow is safe, but an attractive woman can make it dangerous.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You have a public position with Trinity Capital. You’ve made friends, made money, but you’ve also made enemies. Your crusade for stock market transparency comes in a country where oligarchs preserve stolen wealth by hiding it.” Sorkin lifted the newspaper. “The next photo of you will be with Olga Luchaninova through a telephoto lens kissing on a hotel balcony with a blackmail note offering to tear up the photo in exchange for a sum of money deposited into a Cayman Islands bank account.”
Matthews said nothing. He knew a strenuous defense would deepen Sorkin’s suspicion.
“I didn’t mention any of this to Anna,” Sorkin said. “You can give her whatever story you like. The details of your flight are here.” He presented an envelope. “Once you’re away from Moscow, gossip will pass. It’s less likely that the newspapers will dig up the fact that you were once the CIA’s top spy in Moscow.”
“All that is behind me.”
“It’s new to someone who doesn’t know.”
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. Sorkin leaned across the seat to Matthews as he stepped out of the car. “Kirill will pick you up in an hour and drive you to the airport.” He handed Matthews a wrapped gift. “This is for your son’s birthday. Give him my regards—from his uncle Mikhail. Tell Anna we’ll plan a winter holiday on my yacht in St. Lucia.”
Matthews watched the Mercedes drive off and he looked at his cell phone. He read his wife’s texts. The first had come minutes after ten, asking if he’d be calling. While in Moscow, he called every night at ten local time to give her the news of his day and to hear her complaints about her agency interpreter’s job. They were a new couple who found a way to adjust their marriage to the demands of her job and his travel. The nightly call was a way to stay in touch, talk, and share intimate details of their day.
Her texts followed at intervals of fifteen minutes and became increasingly concerned. After the fourth text around eleven o’clock Moscow time, she left a voicemail.
“Alex, is something wrong? You’re not answering my texts. Call me.”
PART II
3 Washington, DC
The first time Alex Matthews met Anna Kuschenko he was still getting on his feet after a boating accident that killed his wife and daughter. At the time, he was part of the CIA’s Senior Intelligence Service, but he’d begun to separate himself from the agency to spend time with his son, who was the sole survivor of the accident. Well-meaning colleagues and their wives invited him to suburban barbecues and Georgetown cocktail parties to introduce him to handsome widows and single career women, but he spurned the introductions. Charm, feminine sophistication, and low-cut cerise party dresses didn’t arouse Matthews. Grief and guilt were stubborn emotions and he wore his solitude like a well-tailored suit.
* * *
Anna looked in on Matthews’s teenage son and found David in bed asleep with headphones on. The room was dark except for moonlight that came through the window facing Chesapeake Bay. She approached quietly and lowered the iPhone’s volume before removing his headphones. He was a rebellious teenager, but in sleep he had the innocence of youth. She adjusted the comforter and tucked him in.
It was Anna’s great challenge to be a stepmother to a fourteen-year-old who sorely missed his mother and stubbornly resisted Anna’s effort to bring a sense of family to the household. Nothing in her life had challenged her more than his resentment. She knew the unhappy boy’s struggle but she didn’t see it on his sleeping face. The distance between them was insurmountable, but in Matthews’s absences, they ate together, spent evenings in the same house, and shared the little surprises of everyday life. They had managed to find a tolerable common ground. David had come to grudgingly appreciate her effort to be helpful and she was mindful not to try to be a substitute mother.
Anna entered the dark master bedroom and slipped under the covers. She went to place her hand on Alex’s chest, but the bed was empty. She saw him standing at the window, silhouetted in silvery moonlight.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said, moving to his side.
Matthews acknowledged her but turned back to his view from the bay window. Blustery wind swayed tree branches along the shore, and lights strung along the dock blinked wildly. Their dock jutted into the dark cove and the moored sailboat rose and fell on the choppy swells. Clouds passed in front of the moon and somewhere off in the night wind chimes rang.
She drew close, hand on his shoulder.
