Laughter in the Shadows (24 page)

Boris needed an American doctor.

Doctor Andy

The time had come to cut Maria out of the operation. I thanked for her help with Boris and told her that she could now stop playing couch doctor and go back to just being friends with Boris.

Doctor Andrew, “Andy,” was the American embassy physician. He had helped me once with Mikolai, a Yugoslav friend who had come to my house late one night covered with blood. Mikolai was sobbing uncontrollably and it was several minutes before he calmed down enough to tell me he had just killed his wife, Jill.

I was worried about Mikolai’s bleeding and called Andy, who immediately came over. He examined Mikolai and told me that, despite being soaked with blood, my Yugoslav friend was unhurt. We concluded the blood must have come from his wife, and the three of us rushed over to Mikolai’s house. Jill lay sprawled on the patio in a pool of blood. The tiles were littered with broken glass, several shards protruding from her hair. Andy knelt down and felt her pulse. Jill was in shock but still alive, and like in one of those old westerns, Andy told Mikolai to quickly bring towels and a basin of warm water.

After Andy cleaned and bandaged her wounds, Jill began to come around. Andy told Mikolai his wife had suffered a concussion from the bottle of Campari he had smashed over her head. The Campari also accounted for most of the “blood” splattered over the patio. Mikolai sheepishly admitted his Slavic temper had gotten the better of him. Andy gave Mikolai a sedative to give his wife and told him to bring her by the embassy the next day so he could check on her condition. Andy and I then went back to my house.

I apologized to Andy for rousting him out in the middle of the night, but Andy insisted it was a welcome change from his daily routine of treating bored wives with imaginary ailments, diaper-rashed infants, and worried husbands checking for signs of gonorrhea. He said if I had any more interesting cases to give him a call.

I took Andy up on his offer sooner than expected. Going through Boris’s file, two items caught my attention: his hypochondria and the address of his apartment. Boris lived at #10 Jalan Baru, the same street Dr. Andy lived on.

I asked Andy over for dinner to thank him for helping me out with my Yugoslav friend. After dinner, I asked Andy if he could help me out again, this time with a Russian military officer. I asked him if his Hippocratic oath of confidentiality would apply in this case, which was highly sensitive. He said that secrecy was as much a part of his profession as it was of mine.

I told Andy about Boris and about his hypochondria, which would make him amenable to an approach from an American doctor. I briefed him on what we knew about Boris, his habits, and the location of his apartment. I wanted Andy to contact the Soviet, develop a friendship with him, and later introduce me.

The plan for contacting Boris was simple. We knew that Boris went for a walk every evening after he came back from work. He walked along a path by the river, stopping frequently to look at the fishing boats or the Samudran sunset. Andy should begin walking along the same path Boris took and inevitably they would meet. Andy should not acknowledge Boris the first time their paths crossed, but later he should nod to him and wish him a good evening. Later he could try to start a conversation with Boris, and eventually he could sit beside him on one of the benches on the promontory where Boris usually stopped to watch the sunset.

I gave Andy a photograph of Boris and asked him to keep me posted.

Two weeks later Andy came by my house, and I could tell he was very pleased with himself. He told me that he and Boris had already become friends. He had passed Boris several times along the path until one afternoon Boris asked Andy to sit with him on the promontory.

They didn’t talk much at first, concentrating on watching the praus. Boris commented that they were probably similar to those described by Marco Polo in his thirteenth-century journals. He seemed to be well read, and they conversed on a variety of subjects except for world affairs.

The sunset watch became almost a ritual, until one afternoon Boris didn’t arrive on the promontory. He showed up the next day later than usual complaining of stomach cramps, which he said had kept him from coming the day before. The cramps still gnawed at him, so Andy confided that he was a doctor and would bring some medicine for Boris the following afternoon, which he did. The next day Boris told Andy his cramps had disappeared, and he was so pleased he invited Andy to come to his apartment over the weekend, saying they could watch the sun go down from his terrace while drinking his own elixir of vodka and caviar.

“How’s that for Operation Hippocrates? We sit there watching the sun go down over the Jaya River and he tells me all about the sunsets over the Volga! Then he wonders if I can balance his metabolism and expunge the nasty larvae corroding his intestines. Next thing I’ll become his confessor. Now, about my fee—”

I encouraged Andy to continue the relationship. The two men soon became close, alternating “consultations” and chess at Andy’s house with vodka sunset watches at Boris’s apartment. Boris began telling Andy intimate details of his life, details he hadn’t even told Maria. When he looked over the trees at the minarets of the mosques in the distance, he told Andy how much he missed Moscow with its Orthodox cupolas and the ice-crusted Volga. For his part, Andy treated Boris’s ulcer, soothed his rheumatoid pains, and elevated his metabolism to its maximum.

It was time for Andy to introduce his “friend” to Boris. Andy wasn’t enthusiastic and made excuses about delaying the introduction. I reminded Andy of our original agreement and assured him the introduction wouldn’t affect his
friendship with Boris or tarnish his physician’s credentials. We would play it out as a “good-cop-bad-cop” routine—Andy the good friend/physician and me the “bad” bureaucrat/political officer. All I would ask of Andy, once the introduction had taken place, was to keep me advised of any feedback about “the American political officer he had met at Andy’s house.”

Andy was relieved he could be able to continue his relationship with Boris without being tainted. He was certain Boris would tell him what he thought of me, and if he suspected my motives.

We arranged for me to be at Andy’s house one night when Boris was due to come over for a game of chess. He introduced me as an embassy officer who had come by to pick up some pills. I let a couple of weeks go by, and for my second meeting, I told Andy I wanted to talk to Boris alone. When the Russian came by, I would tell him that Andy was out on a call, that he would be back shortly, and that I was just minding his office until he came back.

When Boris arrived, he seemed undecided about whether to wait for Andy or leave. I offered him a drink from Andy’s bar, assuring him the doctor would be back shortly. Boris accepted the offer of a drink and agreed to wait until Andy returned. Boris pointed to the chessboard and asked if I played. I told him the game was too complicated for me, but my son, Gray, played and often talked about the great Russian chess players. I added that I was sure he would be very excited if he could play with a Russian chess master like Boris.

It wasn’t a subtle ploy, but I wasn’t sure I’d get another crack at Boris. The chess gambit would give me an opportunity to talk to Boris without Andy being around. Boris smiled and didn’t reply.

When Andy returned, and I told him I had asked Boris to play chess with my son, Andy picked up on the cue and told Boris he ought to take me up on the invitation and inspire a future American chess champion. Andy added that he would be happy to help arrange the match. I suggested a time and date, and although I could see Boris didn’t like being pressured, he agreed and told Andy to arrange it.

The day of the proposed match, I wasn’t sure Boris would show. Andy told me it was all arranged and that he had given Boris my address, but that he knew the Russian wasn’t enthusiastic about coming to my house. Boris surprised me, arriving at the time agreed on. I introduced him to Gray, and the two sat down to play. I went to my study until the match was over and Boris got ready to leave. I offered him a drink, but he declined. He said he had enjoyed playing with Gray and they had arranged a rematch.

Boris came to the house several times afterward to play chess with Gray, but on only one occasion did he agree to stay for a drink. I tried talking to him about Russia, the competition in space, and nuclear proliferation, but Boris said he wasn’t interested in world politics.

When at one point he expressed an interest in the outdoors, I gave him some copies of the
National Geographic
, featuring the wilderness attractions of Glacier and Yellowstone Parks. I told Boris it was unfortunate the Cold War prevented us from traveling to our respective countries. Boris changed the subject and left, taking the copies of
National Geographic
with him.

After one of their chess matches, Gray had to leave quickly for a scout meeting. I told Boris this time he didn’t have any excuse for not staying, and I handed him a drink and asked him to sit down. We talked about the rigors of living in the tropics and being away from our homes for extended periods of time. I again brought up the subject of relations between the United States and the USSR, and before he could change the subject, I said that “as an air force officer,” Boris was aware of the consequences of a nuclear war, which could be set off by miscalculations or misunderstandings. I thought that mention of his air force affiliation would get a rise out of Boris, who had always passed himself off to me as a minor embassy official, but it didn’t. He said that even if I were right, he didn’t like discussing world politics, which didn’t interest him.

When Boris came for his final match with Gray, I again asked him to stay briefly so we could talk. I promised not to keep him, but there was a “confidential matter” I wanted to discuss with him. Boris agreed to stay briefly because it was the last time he would be seeing me. Adjourning to my study, I asked Boris if he had ever thought about coming to the United States. I said that since he had been kind enough to teach my son the finer points of chess, I wondered if there was something I could do for him. I said I was just “thinking out loud” but wondered if in the future Boris might take a leave of absence and spend a year or more in the United States. I was sure he could obtain a high-paid consultancy with an American aerospace firm such as Boeing or United Technologies. He could have a farm on the steppes of Nebraska, a vacation dacha in the Rockies.

Boris began to look uneasy, so before he could break off our conversation and leave, I reminded him I was just “thinking out loud.” I was surprised that, for once, Boris didn’t seem angry. I could see, however, that he was uncomfortable with the conversation.

He finished his drink and said good-bye. I asked if we could meet again to continue our discussion. He shook hands but didn’t reply.

The operation was down to the wire. I drafted a message to Headquarters asking for authorization to recruit “RUVOLGA.” The pitch would emphasize the dangers of a nuclear confrontation being triggered by false or misinformation. RUVOLGA, as a senior air force officer, was knowledgeable of Soviet nuclear plans and activities. If he could keep us advised of those plans and intentions, he would be well rewarded.

The message advised that RUVOLGA would not be pressured at this meeting. He would be given time to reflect on the proposal and another meeting would be arranged to “continue the discussion.” The message said, “If RUVOLGA agrees to another meeting, will offer him substantial cash sum to be put in escrow in a Swiss bank account. He would also be guaranteed eventual resettlement in the U.S. with his family.”

Although headquarters authorized making a recruitment pitch to RUVOLGA, the pitch didn’t work out as planned. A cable was sent to Headquarters summarizing the abortive operation.

RUVOLGA listened to the initial pitch, shaking his head and angrily scolding St. Martin for abusing their friendship. St. Martin, hoping that RUVOLGA was merely exercising his “right of first refusal,” nodded and said he understood. After calming RUVOLGA down, he asked him if they could meet one more time. RUVOLGA seemed to be mollified and agreed to a “final” meeting, saying he would call St. Martin.

When RUVOLGA called, he advised St. Martin that he was the embassy duty officer and had to remain at home by his phone. He suggested St. Martin come by his apartment and they could discuss “the matter in question” further.

Checkmate

I’d lived a long enough life to learn my lessons on the awful and frightful ways this world can be, [but] I had at least one more lesson ahead.

—J. BROWN,
Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery

The cable went on to describe St. Martin’s recollection of the subsequent turn of events.

Although I was disturbed by the proposed change of venue, I told the chief I believed I had to go through with the meeting to find out what RUVOLGA’s final decision was. The operation was down to the wire, and I wanted to find out if RUVOLGA had accepted the pitch and if not to terminate the operation.

When I arrived at RUVOLGA’s apartment, a Soviet whom I had never seen before opened the door and led me inside. RUVOLGA was nowhere to be seen. Sitting behind a table in the middle of the room, another Soviet was thumbing through a dossier. He looked up and said, “Yours is an interesting file, St. Martin. Even though you have a history of running
provocative operations against Soviet citizens, I commend your aggressive style, including your attempt to recruit RUVOLGA.

“Now I have a proposition for you. You will ostensibly be allowed to recruit RUVOLGA and we will even permit him to sign a contract to that effect. In exchange, you will agree to cooperate with us and provide information on American intelligence activities in Southeast Asia.