Dimka looked thoughtful. ‘We must make the most of this opportunity. I have a meeting tomorrow with some people from the US Embassy. I wonder if I can use that . . .’
* * *
Dimka had changed. The invasion of Czechoslovakia had done it. Until that moment he had clung stubbornly to the belief that Communism could be reformed. But he had seen, in 1968, that as soon as a few people began to make progress in changing the nature of Communist government, their efforts would be crushed by those who had a stake in keeping things just the same. Men such as Brezhnev and Andropov enjoyed power, status and privilege: why would they risk all that? Dimka now agreed with his sister: Communism’s biggest problem was that the all-embracing authority of the Party always stifled change. The Soviet system was helplessly frozen in a terrified conservatism, just as the regime of the tsars had been sixty years earlier, when his grandfather had been a foreman at the Putilov Machine Works in St Petersburg.
How ironic that was, Dimka reflected, when the first philosopher to explain the phenomenon of social change had been Karl Marx.
Next day Dimka chaired another in a long series of discussions about Nixon’s visit to Moscow. Natalya was there, but unfortunately so was Yevgeny Filipov. The American team was led by Ed Markham, a middle-aged career diplomat. Everyone spoke through interpreters.
Nixon and Brezhnev would sign two arms limitation treaties and an environmental protection agreement. ‘The environment’ was not an issue in Soviet politics, but apparently Nixon felt strongly about it, and had promoted pioneering legislation in the States. Those three documents would be sufficient to guarantee that the visit would be hailed as an historic triumph, and go a long way towards guarding against the dangers of a Chinese-American alliance. Mrs Nixon would visit schools and hospitals. Nixon was insisting on having a meeting with a dissident poet, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, whom he had met previously in Washington.
At today’s meeting the Soviets and the Americans discussed security and protocol, as always. In the middle of the meeting Natalya said the words she had previously agreed with Dimka. Speaking in a casual tone to the Americans, she said: ‘We have been carefully considering your demand that we release a large number of so-called political prisoners, as a token gesture towards what you call human rights.’
Ed Markham threw a startled look at Dimka, who was chair of the meeting. Markham knew nothing of this. That was because the Americans had made no such demand. Dimka made a quick, surreptitious brushing-away gesture, indicating that Markham should keep quiet. A skilled and experienced negotiator, the American said nothing.
Filipov was equally surprised. ‘I have no knowledge of any such—’
Dimka raised his voice. ‘Please, Yevgeny Davidovitch, do not interrupt Comrade Smotrov! I insist that one person speaks at a time.’
Filipov looked furious, but his Communist Party training forced him to follow the rules.
Natalya went on: ‘We have no political prisoners in the Soviet Union, and we cannot see the logic of releasing criminals on to the streets to coincide with the visit of a foreign head of state.’
‘Quite,’ said Dimka.
Markham was clearly mystified. Why raise a fictitious demand only to refuse it? But he waited in silence to see where Natalya was going. Meanwhile Filipov drummed his fingers on his writing-pad in frustration.
Natalya said: ‘However, a small number of persons are denied internal travel visas because of connections with antisocial groups and troublemakers.’
That was precisely the situation of Tania’s friend Vasili. Dimka had tried once before to get him released, but had failed. Perhaps he would have more luck this time.
Dimka watched Markham intently. Would he realize what was going on and play his part? Dimka needed the Americans to pretend that they had made demands about releasing dissidents. He could then go back to the Kremlin and say that the US was insisting on this as a precondition of Nixon’s visit. At that point any objections from the KGB or any other group would fall away, for everyone in the Kremlin was desperate to get Nixon here and woo him way from the hated Chinese.
Natalya went on: ‘As these people have not actually been sentenced by the courts, there is no legal bar to action by the government, so we offer to ease the restraints, permitting them to travel, as a gesture of goodwill.’
Dimka said to the Americans: ‘Would that action on our part satisfy your President?’
Markham’s face had cleared, and he had now understood the game Natalya and Dimka were playing. He was happy to be used this way, and he said: ‘Yes, I think that might be sufficient.’
‘That’s agreed, then,’ said Dimka, and sat back in his chair with a profound sense of accomplishment.
* * *
President Nixon came to Moscow in May, when the snow had thawed and the sun shone.
Tania had been hoping to see a large-scale release of political prisoners to coincide with the visit, but she had been disappointed. This was the best chance in years to get Vasili out of his hovel in Siberia and back to Moscow. Tania knew that her brother had tried, but it seemed he had failed. It made her want to weep.
Her boss, Daniil Antonov, said: ‘Follow the President’s wife around today, please, Tania.’
‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to do stories about women all the time.’
Throughout her career Tania had fought against being given ‘feminine’ assignments. Sometimes she won, sometimes she lost.
Today she lost.
Daniil was a good guy, but he was not a pushover. ‘I’m not asking you to cover women all the time, and I never have, so don’t talk shit. I’m asking you to cover Pat Nixon today. Now just do as you’re told.’
Daniil was actually a great boss. Tania gave in.
Today Pat Nixon was taken to Moscow State University, a thirty-two-storey yellow stone building with thousands of rooms. It seemed mostly empty.
Mrs Nixon said: ‘Where are all the students?’
The rector of the university, speaking through interpreters, said: ‘It’s exam time, they’re all revising.’
‘I’m not getting to meet the Russian people,’ Mrs Nixon complained.
Tania wanted to say
You bet you’re not meeting the people – they might tell you the truth.
Mrs Nixon looked conservative even by Moscow standards. Her hair was piled high and sprayed rigid, like a Viking helmet and almost as hard. She wore clothes that were too young-looking for her and at the same time out of fashion. She had a fixed smile that rarely faltered, even when the press corps following her became unruly.
She was taken into a study room where three students sat at tables. They seemed surprised to see her and clearly did not know who she was. It was evident they did not want to meet her.
Poor Mrs Nixon probably had no idea that any contact with Westerners was dangerous for ordinary Soviet citizens. They were liable to be arrested afterwards and interrogated about what was said and whether the meeting was prearranged. Only the most foolhardy Muscovites wanted to exchange words with foreign visitors.
Tania composed her article in her head while she followed the visitor around.
Mrs Nixon was clearly impressed by the new modern Moscow State University. The USA does not have a university building of comparable size.
The real story was in the Kremlin, which was why Tania had been bad-tempered with Daniil. Nixon and Brezhnev were signing treaties that would make the world a safer place. That was the story Tania wanted to cover.
She knew from reading the foreign press that Nixon’s China visit and this Moscow trip had transformed his prospects in the November presidential election. From a January low, his approval rating had soared. He now had a strong chance of getting re-elected.
Mrs Nixon was dressed in a two-piece check suit with a short jacket and discreetly below-the-knee skirt. Her white shoes had a low heel. A chiffon neck scarf completed her outfit.
Tania hated doing fashion. She had covered the Cuban missile crisis, for God’s sake – from Cuba!
At last the First Lady was whisked away in a Chrysler LeBaron limousine, and the press pack dispersed.
In the car park Tania saw a tall man wearing a long, threadbare coat in the spring sunshine. He had unkempt iron-grey hair, and his lined face looked as if it might once have been handsome.
It was Vasili.
She stuffed her fist into her mouth and bit her hand to suppress the scream that bubbled up in her throat.
He saw that she had recognized him, and he smiled, showing gaps where he had lost teeth.
She walked slowly over to where he stood, hands in the pockets of his coat. He had no hat, and he squinted because of the sun.
‘They let you out,’ Tania said.
‘To please the American President,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Dick Nixon.’
He should have thanked Dimka Dvorkin. But it was probably better not to tell anyone that, not even Vasili.
She looked around warily, but there was no one else in sight.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vasili. ‘For two weeks this place has been crawling with security police, but they all left five minutes ago.’
She could restrain herself no longer, and threw herself into his arms. He patted her back as if to comfort her. She hugged him hard.
‘My,’ he said, ‘you smell good.’
She broke the embrace. She was bursting with a hundred questions and had to restrain her enthusiasm and pick one. ‘Where are you living?’
‘They gave me a Stalin apartment – old, but nice.’
Apartments from the Stalin era had bigger rooms and higher ceilings than the more compact flats built in the late fifties and sixties.
She was overflowing with exhilaration. ‘Shall I visit you there?’
‘Not yet. Let’s find out how closely they’re watching me.’
‘Do you have work?’ It was a favourite trick of the Communists to make sure a man could not get a job, then accuse him of being a social parasite.
‘I’m at the Agriculture Ministry. I write pamphlets for peasants explaining new farming techniques. Don’t pity me: it’s important work, and I’m good at it.’
‘And your health?’
‘I’m fat!’ He opened his coat to show her.
She laughed happily. He was not fat, but perhaps he was not as thin as he had been. ‘You’re wearing the sweater I sent you. I’m amazed it reached you.’ It was the one Anna Murray had bought in Vienna. Tania would now have to explain all that to him. She did not know where to start.
‘I’ve hardly taken this off for four years. I don’t need it, in Moscow in May, but it’s hard to get used to the idea that the weather is not always freezing.’
‘I can get you another sweater.’
‘You must be making big money!’
‘No, I’m not,’ she said with a wide smile. ‘But you are.’
He frowned, puzzled. ‘How come?’
‘Let’s go to a bar,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘I’ve got such a lot to tell you.’
* * *
The front page of the
Washington Post
carried an odd story on the morning of Sunday 18 June. To most readers it was a bit baffling. To a handful it was utterly unnerving.
5 HELD IN PLOT TO BUG DEMOCRATS’ OFFICE HERE
By Alfred E. Lewis
Washington Post
Staff Writer
Five men, one of whom said he is a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, were arrested at 2:30 a.m. yesterday in what authorities described as an elaborate plot to bug the offices of the Democratic National Committee here.
Three of the men were native-born Cubans and another was said to have trained Cuban exiles for guerrilla activity after the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion.
They were surprised at gunpoint by three plain-clothes officers of the metropolitan police department in a sixth-floor office at the plush Watergate, 2600 Virginia Ave., NW, where the Democratic National Committee occupies the entire floor.
There was no immediate explanation as to why the five suspects would want to bug the Democratic National Committee offices or whether or not they were working for any other individuals or organizations.
Cameron Dewar read the story and said: ‘Oh, shit.’
He pushed away his cornflakes, too tense now to eat. He knew exactly what this was about, and it presented a terrible threat to President Nixon. If people knew or believed that the law-and-order President had ordered a burglary, it could even derail his re-election.
Cam scanned the paragraphs until he came to the names of the accused men. He feared that Tim Tedder would be among them. To Cam’s relief, Tedder was not mentioned.
But most of the men named were Tedder’s friends and associates.
Tedder and a group of former FBI and CIA agents formed the White House Special Investigations Unit. They had a high-security office on the ground floor of the Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House. Taped to their door was a piece of paper marked: ‘Plumbers’. It was a joke: their job was to stop leaks.
Cam had not known they planned to bug the Democrats’ offices. However, he was not surprised: it was quite a good idea, and might lead to information about sources of leaks.
But the stupid idiots were not supposed to get themselves arrested by the Washington fucking police.
The President was in the Bahamas, due back tomorrow.
Cam called the Plumbers’ office. Tim Tedder answered. ‘What are you doing?’ Cam said.
‘Weeding files.’
In the background, Cam heard the whine of a shredder. ‘Good,’ he said.
Then he got dressed and went to the White House.
At first it seemed that none of the burglars had any direct connection with the President, and throughout Sunday Cam thought the scandal might be managed. Then it turned out that one of them had given a false name. ‘Edward Martin’ was in fact James McCord, a retired CIA agent employed full-time by CREEP, the Committee to Re-Elect the President.
‘That does it,’ Cam said. He felt crushed and devastated. This was terrible.