April 25, 1993: Headed for New York on Amtrak’s express train, then by taxi from Pennsylvania Station to JFK International Airport to meet up with Valentin Aksilenko and an unknown individual named Yuri Shvets, who are supposed to be arriving from Moscow. A car and driver, sent by the literary agent John Brockman, would be waiting at the airport for us. We were all to spend the night with the Brockman family at their Connecticut home, and then to go into New York City the following morning to meet with prospective publishers. It had all been very efficiently arranged . . . assuming the two men had actually gotten onto that plane.

Despite the fact that I was not, and never had been, employed by the U.S. (or any other) government; nor did I have a consultancy or any other sort of contract with any government agency; yet, over the past two months I had become an instrument by which they were . . . well, I didn’t know what they were doing, to be honest. I only knew that the two Russians were of obvious importance.

I arrived at JFK in plenty of time; but the cab driver dropped me off at the wrong terminal, and it was just by some act of divine providence — or perhaps by design — that a Good Samaritan came along to escort me to the right place. I was running late by then, and was too frazzled to question it.

And there I found Aksilenko, standing with the driver who was carrying a sign with my name and looking very worried until he saw me running into the building. As we greeted each other, a slightly-built, well-dressed man emerged from a corner, where he appeared to have been trying to blend into the woodwork. This, then, must be the mysterious Yuri Shvets.

And I took an immediate dislike to him.

Exuding arrogance, pomposity and cockiness, he was the total opposite of the modest, gentlemanly Aksilenko. My first thought was to wonder how such a strutting peacock had managed to carve out a career as a spy. Weren’t they supposed to be nondescript?

In any event, it wasn’t my job to like him . . . merely to help him sell his book, and get them both back to D.C., where I knew — but obviously couldn’t let on — that the FBI would be waiting for them.

Despite the internal stress, I found myself thoroughly enjoying an evening of spirited conversation, a tour of the Brockmans’ historic property, and an excellent dinner. I didn’t sleep much that night — I hadn’t expected to — but was up bright and early for breakfast and a ride into the city.

After meetings with three publishers, the book was quickly bought by Simon & Schuster, with a generous advance paid to the authors (Aksilenko now being named as co-author). Then a nice lunch in an expensive, sky-high restaurant overlooking Central Park, a quick stop at Brockman’s office to sign the requisite contract, and I was off to Penn Station with my two charges in tow. Mission accomplished.

Well . . . almost.

It had been a jam-packed couple of days, but the fun wasn’t over yet. I had left my car in the garage at Washington’s Union Station, and from there I drove the two now-exhausted travelers to the hotel in suburban Alexandria, Virginia, where I had been instructed (by you-know-who) to reserve rooms for them. Checking them in, I knew we were being watched, and it wasn’t easy to keep from looking around. I saw the two men to their rooms, made sure everything was satisfactory, and said good night. They were to call me when they woke up in the morning.

It was late in the evening by now, and as I headed for my car in the outdoor parking lot, I could feel my body beginning to sag under the weight of 36 hours of constant tension and sleeplessness. I couldn’t wait to get home to the comfort of my apartment and my bed. I reached for the car door handle . . . and nearly jumped out of my skin as a man came up behind me and asked, “How are you doing?”

It was one of the FBI agents, who — true to his training — had remained invisible until that moment. Apparently, I had done too good a job of not looking around.

He wanted to be sure I was all right, to assure me that they had everything under control, and to find out whether there was anything I needed to tell them from the events of the past two days. In fact, I was too damned tired to think about it, and told him I was fine and would talk to him the next day.

I somehow managed to drive the few miles home without running the car off the road, picked up my mail, and went upstairs to my apartment, where I did something I rarely do: poured myself a big glass of wine, flopped down on the sofa in the den, turned on the TV, and at some point fell asleep and spent the night there, fully dressed.

It was the best sleep I’d had in a long while.

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To be continued . . .

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Brendochka
1/8/25