The Man from Leningrad Page 3

  “We were hoping you might be able to share some of your company’s designs with us, perhaps some that we could slightly modify,” Romanov said. “We aren’t completely devoid of engineering minds as we have several students still studying that discipline at the university. Perhaps they could assist us in making some changes to our current design.”

  “That would help,” Maddux said. “But before we start sending those to you, let’s talk about your marketing plans. The greatest looking cars in the world won’t do you any good if you don’t know how to sell them.”

  Maddux opened the packet he had prepared for the group, including translating the material into Russian. He surveyed all the men seated at the table and briefly locked eyes with one of them. He looked hauntingly familiar, giving Maddux the chills.

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, the meeting concluded and Maddux was offered a tour of the facility. Romanov provided colorful commentary as they strolled along a catwalk high above the manufacturing floor. Yet as they went along, the conversation became quite sobering.

  “Is it possible that you could hire an engineer to work for you at night, perhaps when they aren’t working for the government?” Maddux asked in a hushed tone. “With an updated body style, you could own the car market here.”

  “You could be right, but most people here are more concerned with safety from the U.S., not what their car looks like.”

  “What are they afraid of?”

  “An attack, the kind that they won’t be able to recover from. It was a long time ago, but everyone here knows about what drew Japan into negotiations at the end of the war.”

  “But we’re not at war right now?”

  “Not now, but possibly soon. All it takes is one person from either side to ignite the fire, and then . . .”

  “And that is what keeps you from secretly hiring engineers?”

  Romanov stopped and leaned in close, speaking just barely above a whisper, “We have a saying here in Russia, Mr. Maddux. It goes like this: ‘Vorona ne klyuyet chuzhogo vorona.’ That means ‘A crow is not pecking at another crow’s eyes.’ In other words, we might not necessarily like what is happening to our business, but we certainly aren’t going to undermine what our government is attempting to do.”

  Maddux nodded knowingly and continued following Romanov until they had descended from the catwalk and reached a long empty corridor. Romanov abruptly stopped before speaking.

  “Be careful what you suggest, Mr. Maddux. The walls have ears in Russia.”

  They went a little farther down the hallway before Maddux poked his head inside one room that was strewn with spare parts. He glanced down at one box that was addressed to the infamous Kresty Prison in Leningrad.

  “My boss mentioned that you are interested in setting up an arrangement to acquire parts from us as well,” Maddux said. “However, it appears as though you are sufficiently stocked in that regard. And I’m not sure if that is the best idea, especially when our parts will likely be more expensive than the ones you are getting from your current supplier.”

  “Our relationship with our supplier in Japan is a tenuous one,” Romanov replied. “However, there are other reasons why we might want to have an additional partner.”

  Romanov stopped as if his explanation was sufficient enough. But Maddux decided to continue his portrayal as nothing more than an ignorant automobile executive.

  “And what might those reasons be?”

  Romanov took a deep breath before glancing in both directions down the hallway.“Sometimes we are required to give our parts to the government. They merely reimburse us, but it can put a strain on our production at times.”

  Maddux pointed at the box lying near the doorway.“Do you send parts to the prison on a regular basis?”

  “I think we need to resume our tour,” Romanov said. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for your chess match this evening.”

  * * *

  MADDUX HAD DEVELOPED a love for the game of chess as a young child when his father insisted on teaching Maddux how to play. At first, learning the intricacies of such a deeply strategic game was laborious. But eventually, he began to appreciate the intricacies and how it forced him to always think ahead. However, Maddux found it difficult to find others in the U.S. who were as interested in the game as he was.

  Yet when Maddux learned that he would be traveling to Leningrad, he immediately attempted to arrange a match against someone from the famed Leningrad Chess Club. He asked someone at Protek if they could arrange a game the evening of Maddux’s arrival—and his desire became a reality. Yet, a sense of nostalgia wasn’t the only factor driving Maddux’s request to play a match.

  One of Will Logan’s reports on Alexsandr Zhirkov detailed the asset’s love for chess and mentioned his membership at the club. According to Logan, Zhirkov rarely missed free play nights and always competed in interclub tournaments. Maddux figured that if Zhirkov was still in Leningrad, perhaps someone at the club would know of his whereabouts.

  Romanov led Maddux into the Belmond Grand Hotel, the venue for the evening matches. After stopping at a table to check in, Romanov wished Maddux good luck and left. Maddux ambled over to the table with the corresponding number and awaited his opponent. A player at the adjacent table cocked his head to the side and looked inquisitively at Maddux.

  “Are you new to the club?” the man asked in Russian. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

  “No, I’m just visiting and arranged for a friendly match,” Maddux replied, speaking in competent enough Russian that the man didn’t ask a question about where Maddux was from.

  The man laughed. “This is the Leningrad Chess Club. There’s no such thing as a friendly match. With an attitude like that, your opponent won’t need more than twenty moves to beat you.”

  Maddux forced a smile.“We’ll see.”

  After a few moments of awkward silence, the man turned toward Maddux again.“To get a match at the club, you must know someone who is a member.”

  Maddux nodded.“I set this match up several months ago through a friend of mine from university. Alexsandr Zhirkov—do you know him?”

  The man withdrew and remained tight lipped.

  Maddux continued.“I only ask because I have not heard from him in quite some time, and I was hoping to meet him while here on my business trip.”

  The man shrugged.“I can’t say. He hasn’t been seen around here in a few weeks.”

  “That seems unusual. Alexsandr loves to play.”

  “Perhaps he’s busy.”

  The two men returned to looking straight across at the empty seat at their respective tables. Maddux’s distant stare was broken when a club official put a hand on his back.

  “I’m sorry, comrade,” the official began, “but it seems that your opponent has canceled for this evening. However, we believe we still might be able to accommodate you.”

  “Excellent,” Maddux said.

  At the neighboring table, the opponent sat down, and their match began almost immediately. Maddux watched their moves and swallowed hard. In a matter of minutes, he could tell he had waded into a club whose quality of play was far beyond his ability.

  Maybe I’ll get a new member who isn’t all that good.

  Seconds later, Maddux was interrupted with a tap on his back.

  “We found you an opponent,” the official said as Maddux looked up. “This is Ivan Hambrick.”

  Ivan Hambrick? Ivan is the Russian name for—it can’t be.

  Maddux fixed his gaze on his opponent who removed his coat and settled into the chair across the table. Beneath his well-kempt beard and wire-rimmed spectacles, Maddux could still see those familiar kind eyes. For several years, Maddux had dreamed of this moment, but he had to remain calm, as if he had no clue of who the man was seated on the other side of the board.

  It’s not at all how Maddux imagined his reunion with his father.

  Chapter V

  Kresty Prison

 
Leningrad, Russia

  ALEXSANDR ZHIRKOV CLASPED his hands, setting them gently on the wooden table in front of him. Seated on the other side was Victor Frolov, the KGB agent tasked with interrogating Zhirkov. While looking at the prisoner, Frolov narrowed his eyes, adding to his already intimidating biceps that struggled to be constrained inside his white dress shirt. Frolov glanced down at a file folder and then back up at Zhirkov, maintaining a steely stare the entire time.

  “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Frolov said, tapping the table with his forefinger for emphasis.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Zhirkov said. “I’ve already told you that I know nothing. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “You know exactly why you’re here. With all the classified information you’re privy to, you have decided to share it with the Americans.”

  “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Frolov leapt to his feet and pushed his chair behind him with a strong kick from his right foot.“I don’t like playing games, comrade. And I don’t have much patience either.”

  “Fortunately, I don’t like playing games either. And if you consider that I don’t know what you’re talking about, we can both end this right now.”

  Frolov paced around the room, circling the table as he cracked his knuckles.“This interrogation won’t end until you tell me the truth. But let me assure you that right now this is very tame compared to where we will go if you don’t acknowledge your role in sharing state secrets.”

  “I would never do such a thing,” Zhirkov replied indignantly. “I am a patriot. I love my country. Why would I tell the Americans anything?”

  “I’m not an expert on motives, but I am an expert in determining if someone is lying to me or not. If you apply enough pressure, people will admit to the truth.”

  “If you apply enough pressure, people will say anything to make it stop.”

  Frolov bank handed Zhirkov, which stung his face. He felt the corners of his mouth with his tongue and determined the left side was bleeding. Zhirkov spit out some of the blood onto the floor.

  “I’ve worked with several American defectors who have taught me one of their more curious sayings: ‘You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.’ And though it might sound strange, the meaning is clear: You can’t get something out that isn’t inside. Or in your case, you can’t get a confession where there’s nothing to confess.”

  With a single hand, Frolov forcefully grabbed Zhirkov’s face and squeezed. The pain was searing, yet Zhirkov refused to let on that he was hurting.

  “Don’t ever disrespect me like that again,” Frolov said. “If you think this hurts, just wait until you see what I do to you when I have you tossed into the truth chamber.”

  “You don’t want the truth,” Zhirkov said. “You only want me to confess to a crime. However, I won’t because I didn’t commit one.”

  Frolov uncoiled another vicious slap across Zhirkov’s jaw. He wanted to withdraw and plot his revenge. But he couldn’t. Anchored to the chair and with his hands bound, he could do little more than cringe as he anticipated another slew of hits.

  A wave of punches landed on Zhirkov’s face made him reconsider his position for a moment. He would say anything to make the pain stop but recognized that there was something else greater at stake. With his faculties failing him, he needed to come up with a solution before he passed out.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll talk—but not until I speak with my sister.”

  Frolov chuckled and circled Zhirkov.“You think I’m going to let you speak with anyone? You are dumber than you look.”

  Frolov hit Zhirkov with two more quick jabs, forcing him to double over in pain.

  “I know how this works,” Zhirkov said. “You want to get a confession. And I’ll give it to you—but only after I get a chance to talk with Darya.”

  Frolov recoiled before unleashing another vicious shot to Zhirkov’s face. That was the last thing he remembered before the room turned black.

  * * *

  ZHIRKOV AWOKE WITH a searing headache, lying on his back on the grimy floor of his cell. He squinted as he attempted to open his eyes, the light flooding into his vision bringing him more pain.

  “He’s awake,” his cellmate yelled down the corridor.

  In less than a minute, several guards rushed inside the cell and helped Zhirkov to his feet. They carried him out, rushing him toward a visitation room.

  Still handcuffed, Zhirkov was placed in a chair and told to wait. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since his encounter with the KGB agent, but Zhirkov could feel the wounds on his face still oozing blood.

  After a few minutes, a Soviet officer strode into the room. He looked Zhirkov up and down before standing across the table from him.

  “Do you remember me, Alexsandr?” the officer asked.

  Zhirkov’s eyes had adjusted, but his right eye was swollen shut from the beating, and his left eye was still blurry. After shaking his head, Zhirkov looked downward.

  “Are you sure?” the man asked, moving around the table. He grabbed Zhirkov’s jaw, forcing him to look upward.

  “Take all the time you need to jolt your memory,” the officer said.

  Zhirkov shook his head.“You could be my ex-wife with a deep voice for all I know,” he said. “I can hardly see, much less make out who you are.”

  “It’s me, Nikolay. Are you sure you don’t recall?”

  Zhirkov slumped downward, his gaze still fixated on the ground. Making an effort would only serve to further humiliate the officer, who was desperate to be remembered. But Zhirkov couldn’t place the officer, let alone remember where they met—if that were even true. Working with Soviet military officers over the years, Zhirkov learned all about their mind games and tricks. They would do anything to get a desired result, even if it weren’t true. The ends always justified the means. But in this case, the means was just as warped as the means Frolov hoped for. Nikolay, whoever he was, played the interrogation game well, just not well enough to fool Zhirkov.

  “Your voice sounds familiar,” Zhirkov said. “Were we in military training together?”

  “Yes,” Nikolay said. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten me. And it’s only because of our prior friendship that I am letting you speak with your sister as you requested.”

  Zhirkov saw right through the KGB’s effort. He understood how they operated, manipulating every potential witness and herding them all toward a particular confession. But even with a cloudy head, Zhirkov decided to play along, figuring he might be able to thwart their plans in a much more underhanded way than he’d ever imagined.

  “Darya will be here momentarily,” Nikolay said.

  “You’re letting me speak to my sister?” Zhirkov asked, his eyes widening.

  What a costly mistake they’re making.

  But Zhirkov didn’t care. Someone among the KGB’s ranks had underestimated Zhirkov, and he was going to do what he set out to do, even if it was his final act on Earth. He needed to sound the alarm bell and let the Americans know all the sordid details. Darya just so happened to be the key to making that all happen.

  Nikolay nodded as he sat down across from Zhirkov.

  “Yes, we’re letting you speak with Darya,” Nikolay said, sliding a document across the table in front of Zhirkov. “And we’re letting you do it in exchange for your confession.”

  “I will only do it after I know she is gone and safe.”

  “You have my word,” Nikolay said. “I will personally look after her and make sure that nothing happens to her.”

  To Zhirkov, Nikolay’s statement almost sounded like a threat more than it did a compassionate gesture.

  “I’ll do what you ask—after I speak with her,” Zhirkov said.

  “I know you’re a man of your word,” Nikolay said. “I’ll allow it.”

  He walked over to the door and rapped on it a few times before it swung open. Moments later, Dary
a entered the room.

  Zhirkov’s vision had started to clear, and he could tell she was frightened.

  “What’s going on, Alexsandr?” she asked.

  “It’s not what it seems,” he said, forcing a chuckle.

  “What did you do?”

  “It’s not what I did, but what they say I did—and I promise you that I didn’t do it, no matter what comes out about my arrest in the news.”

  She nodded.“I’ll believe you. Just tell me what you’re doing in here.”

  “I’m being accused of selling secrets to the Americans. And you know me. You know I would never do anything like that.”

  “Yet, here you are,” she said.

  “Here I am,” he muttered as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Are they treating you well?” she asked

  “What does it look like?” Zhirkov asked. “They used my face as a piñata last night or maybe a few hours ago. I don’t even know any more. I just wish I could read A Hero for Our Time again. Anything to help me survive the boredom.”

  Zhirkov knew the KGB was listening to every word they were saying, even if they were in a private location. He needed to give them a show, one that would distract them from the task at hand.

  After Darya finally arose from her chair after their fifteen-minute conversation, she headed toward the door.

  “You’ve always been a great sister to me,” he said.

  She gave him a hug and whispered.”I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  DARYA KNEW TO KEEP her mouth shut when it came to expressing her feelings regarding the communist regime. In the back of bars through stories told in hushed tones, she’d heard elderly men describe what Russia used to be like—one where people were truly proud of their nation, one where there was hope. But the only hope Darya had now was that someone would topple her country’s oppressive government.

  Darya watched the burden of poverty crush her parents, both of them dying in their fifties. And she witnessed one of her best friends get yanked off the street by the KGB after participating in a protest. Since then, she’d kept her opinions to herself while eking out a meager existence working as a secretary at a manufacturing plant. The only person who knew how she really felt was her brother.