(Continued from Chapter 24):

February 1994: If you’ve never been in Washington when it snowed . . . count your blessings. It’s a total nightmare. Sure, the city looks beautiful blanketed in the clean white stuff — if you’re indoors, looking out. But if you’re trying to get home from work — or anywhere, for that matter — you had better have a full tank of gas, an emergency survival kit, and a strong bladder. Because, depending on how far you have to travel, it can take as much as twelve hours to get there. And that is not an exaggeration. I recall that during one blizzard, some of the people I worked with actually were on the road for between eight and twelve hours trying to make it home to the suburbs. And it doesn’t even take a blizzard to screw things up — the slightest dusting will do it. My eight-mile commute once took me three hours.

But now here I was, facing the prospect of a treacherous 23-mile cab ride to Dulles Airport on the frozen suburban Virginia roads, not knowing whether my flight to Italy would even be able to take off. So I checked with the airline, found that I could book the same flights one day later, and decided to play it safe. I changed my reservations, called the conference coordinator in Malta, faxed Olga in Moscow, and settled down with a cup of cocoa and a good book — my favorite thing to do on a snowy day at home.

Then I remembered to call Eric, just to keep him informed of my whereabouts; this trip actually had nothing to do with Aksilenko, Shvets, or the FBI. But then, why did he react as though I’d just asked him for a divorce?

No, seriously — he was clearly not happy. He even tried to talk me into changing my mind, and said he would drive me to the airport himself. But it was too late — there wasn’t time to reverse what had already been done. And he finally, somewhat grudgingly, acknowledged that I was probably smart not to take the risk; but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on that I wasn’t aware of.

By the next day, it had stopped snowing, the main roads had been cleared, and I was on my way to sunny Malta at last. As I usually do, I left home a little earlier than necessary, and had time to spare at the airport. I checked in, made my way through security to the boarding area, and found a spot to sit and read while I waited for the announcement of my flight.

Then I noticed him: a man, sitting a little distance away and periodically looking over at me as though he might have known me. I asked myself if I recognized him from somewhere. No, not that I could recall. Did he seem to be flirting? Well, when he caught me looking at him, he quickly looked away, so . . . no, definitely not that. Was there something wrong with my appearance, like one of those dreams where you’re naked in public? Again, no . . . not naked. Or was I most likely imagining things? That had to be it. So I ignored him as best I could, and got up to board my flight when it was called.

The flight itself was uneventful, though the hassle of going through security in Milan was a royal pain. But we made it to Rome, where I had to switch to a smaller plane for the short hop to Malta . . . which was when I ran into a problem. Checking in for the second flight, I was told they had no reservation for me. I didn’t exist. I explained to the agent that I had rescheduled my reservation from the day before, and she still couldn’t find me in her computer. I asked if she could just get me onto the flight — that I would pay the additional cost — but was told that was not possible. And that’s when another good Samaritan came into my life, seemingly out of nowhere. This was beginning to feel like JFK Airport in April of ‘93 again, only in Italy this time. Did these guys just hang around airports waiting to rescue people, or what?

This one was also an attractive, well-dressed man. Apparently having heard my exchange with the agent, he simply nodded at me, walked up to the counter, quietly said a few words to her in Italian — which of course I did not understand — and suddenly I was no longer a non-person. In a couple of minutes, I was ticketed and wished “Buon viaggio, signora.” Even I understood that. What I didn’t understand was how my name had suddenly managed to appear on their computer. But my mysterious benefactor had already vanished, and I hadn’t had a chance to ask, or to thank him. And there was no time to think about it now — I had a plane to catch. So off I went, leaving one more mystery behind me.

*. *. *

Valletta, the capital city of Malta, was breathtakingly beautiful, with its blue Mediterranean harbour, ancient multi-cultural architecture, stone-paved streets, and an endless array of wonderful shops and restaurants. The mild spring weather was a delightful break from the snow and ice I’d left behind, and all of my free time was spent wandering and discovering charming little neighborhoods, shops and magnificent churches. And eating. With a group of fellow foodies from the conference, I was introduced to the best Italian food I had ever tasted.

The conference itself was mildly interesting, and included a reception at the Russian Embassy. I did learn a great deal about the emergence of Malta as a second Cyprus in terms of doing business and hiding assets. But otherwise, I can’t say there was anything meaningful to take home from the conference sessions. If it hadn’t been for the idyllic setting and the free time spent enjoying the surroundings, it would have been something of a waste. The Russian participants seemed most interested in eating, drinking, sightseeing, shopping, and altogether enjoying the respite away from their frigid homeland, and I can’t say I blamed them. It was a wonderful little vacation, and I highly recommend it as a destination for all you travel buffs out there.

But the coming week in Moscow, I was sure, would make the whole trip worthwhile. And I was right . . . though not exactly in the way I had expected.

*. *. *

Vitold was waiting for me at the now-familiar Sheremetyevo Airport, this time with his own car and not the borrowed truck from last summer — which I felt sure had long since been sold for parts, or should have been. I was once again in the bitter cold and snow, but unlike Washington, nothing stops for the winter weather in Moscow. I had a wonderful, heartfelt reunion at the office with my “besties” Olga, Lena, Maya and Tamara, who had all taken great pains to make sure I had my favorite foods in the kitchen, fresh linens in my old bedroom, and anything else I might need during that week. I was back in my second home.

There was just one string attached to my use of the Foundation’s apartment: Gil Robinson had asked me to meet with our old friends from Petrovka 38 on his behalf. So on the Tuesday after my arrival, my buddy from the previous summer, the KGB’s own Vladimir Bragin, dropped by to welcome me back and provide transportation once again. There he was, in my living room, greeting me with a big smile and a handshake — not just to drive me to Petrovka that day, but with an “offer” (the kind you can’t refuse) to escort me back to the airport on my departure date. It was deja vu all over again.

Earlier that morning, while getting ready to head out to the Petrovka meeting, I had turned on the satellite TV to catch the news on CNN and learned that an American CIA agent had been arrested near his home in Virginia the previous day on charges of espionage. He had allegedly been selling secrets to the Soviet Union, and then to the Russian government, for nine years. His name was Aldrich Ames. I had never heard of him, of course, and my immediate thought was how sad it was that our two countries were still playing those “silly spy games.” Then I put it out of my mind and went about the business of the day. It had nothing to do with me.

But the week was not yet over. I still had Yuri Shvets’ mother to deal with, and had purposely put that off to the very end of my stay. I arranged to meet her on my next-to-last day in Moscow at the most public indoor place I could think of where we could sit and talk: my old haunt, the Radisson Hotel. I was waiting in the lobby when a small, elderly lady, dressed in a plain cloth coat and “babushka” head scarf, walked uncertainly through the door, clearly out of place in a hotel frequented by foreign businessmen and women. I approached her and asked if she was Mrs. Shvets, which she said she was.

It was my plan to take her up to the business center on the mezzanine level where we could talk quietly, but she had other ideas. In a voice that could shatter glass, she insisted that we sit right there, in the lobby, directly across from the concierge desk. There were dozens of people milling around, and I was not comfortable with the setting; but that “simple Russian grandmother” was pushy and would not be refused.

As we sat there, I gave her the few little gifts I had brought from Yuri, along with his letter and some snapshots. She looked closely at the pictures and loudly exclaimed over each one, calling out his name, where he lived, the names of his wife and children — everything but his phone number. “Oh, look — there’s Yuri.” “And Zhenya.” “Is that their beautiful house in Virginia?” And on, and on, as I kept trying, unsuccessfully, to shush her.

Then — still as loudly and visibly as possible — she capped it off by pulling out of her purse some things for me to take back to him, naming each item as she handed them to me: a letter for Yuri; $3,000 in cash, allegedly from the rental of his Moscow apartment; and . . . wait for it . . . her younger grandson’s new Russian passport.

Are you freakin’ kidding me??!!!

First, about the money. It was the law in Russia at that time (and probably still is) that visitors could not take more hard currency out of the country than the amount they had declared to Customs on arrival, so as to prevent a currency drain. And I had brought nowhere near $3,000 in cash with me, so that was out of the question. Then there was the passport. Did she and her son really think I was stupid enough to try to carry someone else’s Russian passport across international borders — someone who wasn’t supposed to be out of Russia in the first place — without written authorization? Did I look as though I wanted to spend the next few years in some foreign prison? What was going on here?

So I explained to her about the currency, and told her she could take it to an American Express office — I even gave her the location of one that I knew of — to be safely transferred to him. And as for the passport, I said there was a FedEx counter right upstairs in the business center, and I would help her send it to him from there; she could pay for it out of the $3,000. She tried hard to convince me — still at the top of her lungs, and with gestures — that I could just hide it all among the clothes in my suitcase; but her loud protestations fell on deaf ears this time. My deaf ears, that is — everyone else in the lobby heard her quite well.

Seeing that I wasn’t going to budge, she finally gave in, and we went upstairs to FedEx, where I addressed the envelope to Yuri, sealed the passport inside, and took $40 from her for the shipping costs. The remaining $2,960 went back into her purse. Then I hustled her out of the hotel as quickly as possible, hoping she wouldn’t be mugged on her way home, and headed into the coffee shop for a cup of tea to calm my nerves. Unfortunately, it was too early in the day for vodka.

*. *. *

That evening, I said goodbye to my friends yet again, wondering whether it would be the last time I would ever see them. I had filled the days with back-to-back meetings that week, and evenings had been set aside for get-togethers with friends. Somehow, in all the rush, I had completely forgotten to pay my usual good-luck visit to Red Square. And with Bragin driving me to the airport via the beltway, there would be no way to detour into the city before leaving.

The following morning, true to his word, Bragin again showed up on time, and I headed back to Washington once more. As I left the apartment, I somehow felt that another, even bigger door was closing behind me.

That was 29 years and 3 months ago.

I never saw Moscow again.

But the story doesn’t end here . . .

Brendochka
5/22/23 (re-posted 9/15/24)