August 1993: It’s disorienting, waking up in a different place and not being able to remember where on the globe you are today. I don’t know how the frequent flyers ever get used to it. When I opened my eyes that first morning at home in Virginia, it took a moment to realize that I was no longer in Moscow. And, quite frankly, I was a little disappointed. I had grown quite fond of that extraordinary, exciting place and its people, and being home seemed a bit of a letdown.

But it took just one phone call to snap me out of my fog. The call was from Frank — FBI Frank — who was looking forward to receiving a first-hand report on my summer in Moscow, since all he had heard from me during those months was that I was alive and well. “How about lunch?” he offered. The unpacking would have to wait another day, but I was in no hurry to attack that anyway. And I hadn’t been to the grocery store for provisions yet, so lunch actually sounded pretty good.

And thus began a period of frenzied activity, bouncing back and forth between my own business interests and Shvets’ book chapters being shuttled from Moscow to me to translator, back to me and on to the publishers. There were meetings with Natalya at the Russian Embassy, phone calls and faxes to and from my potential partners in Moscow, correspondence and meetings with possible sources of funding, and all the while double-checking the translations of Shvets’ chapters, and somehow finding time to keep Frank up to speed on all of it. It soon became obvious that my early return from Moscow had actually been fortuitous — there was just too much to do here at home.

Then I received word from Shvets’ literary agent, John Brockman, that he was about to issue invitations to both Shvets and Aksilenko to return to the United States for further meetings with the publishers. Really? Did they seriously expect to be able to leave Moscow again, so soon — less than four months since their last visit? I didn’t know what cover story they had cooked up as their reason for another trip, but I hoped it was a good one, for their sakes. In any event, I was relieved that I hadn’t been asked to send the invitations.

By this time, I was becoming less and less involved with the publishing venture, which was to be expected. After all, they had a literary agent working for them. My work with them was winding down. Soon I would be able to just back out completely, wait for the book to be finished and released, and collect my small share of the royalties.

But once again, what had seemed impossible became a reality. Before I knew it, it was fall, and Valentin Aksilenko had arrived — this time with his wife. Not long afterward, Yuri Shvets managed to find his way back to the States; his wife and two sons were to come later.

Wait . . . WHAT???!!! The wives and kids were invited? That was news to me. But Shvets had left Moscow without his family, and assumed they would be able to join him later. Was he insane . . . or just colossally stupid? No — not for one moment did I believe he was either of those things. There had to be another answer to all of it, and I was being kept out of the loop.

To begin with, the two men found nice furnished apartments in Alexandria, Virginia, that offered short-term rentals. And when they asked for my assistance with things like car shopping, applying for Social Security cards and such, it became blatantly obvious that they had no intention of returning to Russia. They were defecting, plain and simple — though they later defined their situation as “seeking asylum.”

Defection, asylum . . . Potato, potahto . . . Semantics.

Back in Moscow — and throughout Russia — new passports were being issued to all citizens by the government of the young Russian Federation to replace the old Soviet documents. But it was slow going, and Shvets’ younger son had not yet received his. This was the explanation I was given for the delay in the departure of the rest of the family. Finally, though, they decided to leave anyway, with the boy using his old passport, and were somehow able to board a flight for the U.S. — despite Yuri’s already being listed among the “missing” at home.

Don’t ask me — I don’t know. I never knew. And I still don’t have a clue as to how it all came together. As I said, I was being largely sidelined. I only know they made it, and by the end of 1993, the two families had moved into town houses in Virginia, in a lovely suburban area farther away from Washington. If you’re interested in Shvets’ telling of the story, you might read his book, Washington Station . . . Oh, wait, you probably can’t. It’s no longer available. Hasn’t been since shortly after its release, except for a few used copies on Amazon and such. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

*. *. *

Soon, as seems to happen every twelve months, we slid into a new year. What would 1994 bring? If I had been able to look into the future . . . well, let me just say that it’s a good thing I’m not prone to bouts of depression. At first, though, the year seemed to be going pretty well. After some unexplained delays, Washington Station was nearly ready to be released — though not for another few weeks. And I had plenty of work to keep me occupied.

Then one day, at a meeting with Natalya at the Embassy, she showed me a brochure for an upcoming conference on doing business in Russia, to be held on the island of Malta in the Mediterranean in mid-February, and suggested that it might be of interest to me. Hmm . . . let me see now: a Mediterranean isle, a lovely hotel, delicious food, new people, business opportunities, and let’s not forget the world-class shopping. Yes, I could probably be convinced. I took the brochure and told her I’d look into it.

Since I was still in contact with Aksilenko and Shvets, though, and since the conference would be putting me in touch with Russian officials and entrepreneurs, I thought I’d run the plan past Eric — the newly assigned agent at the FBI following Frank’s recent retirement. I had also checked plane fares, and found that for just $300 additional, I could fly round-trip between Rome and Moscow, giving me the opportunity to touch base with my friends and business contacts there as long as I was already going to be on that side of the Atlantic. And a call to Gil Robinson confirmed that I would be able to stay in the Foundation’s apartment — my old home-away-from-home — for free. (I figured he owed me at least that much.) It seemed there was no downside to the plan, and Eric agreed that it appeared to be a good opportunity for me. I quickly registered for the conference, made my travel reservations, set up some meetings in Moscow for the second week, and let Olga and Lena know I was coming. I was about to hit the road again.

When I told Shvets and Aksilenko about my travel plans, Shvets — ever the opportunist — immediately said he’d like me to take a few gifts to his mother, whom he had left behind in Moscow. I had had no direct contact with him during the previous summer, and certainly had never met his mother. In fact, I didn’t even know he still had one. And I was frankly not thrilled at the prospect of meeting the woman he described as a “simple Russian grandmother” who spoke no English, but who I suspected was anything but simple. After all, look at the son she had spawned. Also, because I was to spend one week in the springtime weather of Malta, and a second week in the frigid winter weather of yet another Moscow February, I would have to bring clothes for both seasons, in addition to the planned gifts for my own friends. I already had as much as I could handle.

But I told him I would try to find room for just a couple of small items, and before my departure date, he came to my apartment carrying . . . seriously??!!! . . . a shopping bag filled with clothes, photographs and other items that couldn’t possibly fit into my airline allotment of one large suitcase and one carry-on. He was not amused when I told him I would do my best, but that I could probably only take a couple of things and he would have to send the rest to her later by international courier. So I chose what seemed to be the most important items, and left at home the bulk of what he had brought in the bag, to be returned to him later. But if he was unhappy that day, it was nothing compared to the way he was going to feel when I got back.

Traveling from Dulles Airport to Malta would turn out to be a little more complicated than I had anticipated. There was a change of planes in Rome, which I knew. But on top of that, the flights in and out of Rome first went through Milan, where all of the passengers had to disembark with their carry-on bags, claim their checked bags, go through Security in a distant part of the terminal, re-check their checked bags, and re-board the same plane with their carry-ons. Boot camp would have been easier. But I didn’t know all of that in advance. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

So all of my reservations were made and confirmed, and I was scheduled to leave on February 10th, arriving in sunny Malta in plenty of time for the first day of the conference.

And then . . . as it tends to do in Washington in February . . . it snowed. And sleeted. And snowed some more. And the entire D.C. metropolitan area went into panic mode.

To be continued . . .

Brendochka
5/18/23 (re-posted 9/12/24)