A: Then what is?
Q: Did he mention any attempts on his life?
A: Only in theory.
Q: Did he think the US was trying to kill him?
A: He gave me that impression.
Q: Why do you think he thought that?
A: Because he might have been right. I don’t know.
Q: How was his health?
A: It seemed pretty good, even though he drank a lot and smoked a lot. But I’m not a doctor.
Q: By the way, what is Federov?
A: What do you mean, “what is he”?
Q: Russian? Ukrainian?
A: Don’t you read your own files?
Q: I’m asking you. Set me straight.
A: [impatience noted:] The difference between being Ukrainian and Russian in Ukraine is one of ethnic identity. In the eastern provinces, everyone, Russians and Ukrainians alike, speaks Russian and the people live intermingled. But of two neighboring families, if one is ethnically Ukrainian and the other ethnically Russian they know it. That doesn’t mean they can’t be friends or intermarry. In Soviet times people had to carry “internal passports” and these listed one’s ethnic nationality. I don’t think this is listed on Ukrainian ID cards, but I’m not sure. So Federov would be an ethnic Russian but Ukrainian citizen.
Q: That’s how he would describe himself?
A: Why don’t you find him and ask him?
Q: You’re making this more difficult. Why are you hostile to questions about Federov?
A: I’m not.
Q: Then answer mine.
A: How he would describe himself would depend on the circumstances of the question. If a foreigner asked, “Where are you from?” Federov would probably say, “I’m from Ukraine.” If he wanted to stress his ties to Ukraine he might say, “I’m a Ukrainian.” Presumably he would be aware that the answer, “I’m Russian” without more ado would mislead the interlocutor into thinking he was a Russian citizen. If the question was ethnically focused, “I understand there are Russians and Ukrainians in Ukraine, Mr. Federov. Which are you?” he would presumably say, “I’m Russian, though a Ukrainian citizen.”
Q: So even you aren’t sure which he is?
A: [pause, angrily] That’s my answer.
Q: I’ll note that you didn’t answer the question and we’ll move on…
And so it went, the logic of the questions elliptical and constantly turning back upon itself, Alex’s patience a thing of memory.
Lee pressed further on the subject of Anatoli and Kaspar. Who were these two associates who had turned up at her embassy meetings with Federov? Any unusual mannerisms? Were they cleared-eyed gunmen, or did they hide behind dark glasses? How did they sound? Like Russians? Ukrainians? Something of other origin?
She had no idea. Federov’s humanoid bookends barely grunted, much less spoke, and aside from the fact that one seemed blinky from the dry air in the embassy, they seemed to see as well as anyone.
Who had she seen at the nightclub? What were the women like? Did they carry weapons to go with their Donna Karan suits and their Jimmy Choo shoes? By chance, had Alex gone to the ladies room and seen anything there of note?
No, Alex answered with an increasing edge, there was nothing special in the ladies’ pissoirs unless unusually located tattoos or the latest in European lingerie was of interest to the interrogator. Or how about the fact that the ladies’ room was dim and stank of Lysol? And as far as the clientele of the club, it was as unremarkable as that to be found at any other velvet-roped mob joint.
Was it a sex club? Lee wanted to know. Dancers? Topless?
It was nothing of the sort, Alex answered sharply. It was music, dining, and drinking, not necessarily in that order. Topless in this joint meant some Slavic wise guy wasn’t wearing a shoulder holster.
“Did Federov try to seduce you?” Lee asked.
“Is the pope German?” she answered.
Could she look through some surveillance photos taken by contacts in Kiev?
She could and did.
Did she recognize anyone?
She didn’t.
Not even Kaspar and Anatoli, Federov’s two bodyguards?
Not even them.
Did she have last names on the bodyguards? Anything extra she might remember?
Nothing.
Did she see them the day of the RPG attacks?
No.
“So Federov would have been out without his bodyguards that day?” Lee pressed. “That seems strange.”
“I can’t say that I saw his two hoods that day,” she retorted. “They might have been there, they might not have been. They may have been part of the attack, but so might have two million other people in Kiev. Why do we keep going over this? You’ve asked me the same question seven times! What is it with these two guys that you keep harping on?”
Lee declined to answer. Instead, he wanted to know her theory about the RPG attacks. Who had been behind them?
She had no special theory to accompany her, no special knowledge.
“Did Federov ever mention anything about an American couple named Peter Glick and Edythe Osuna?” Lee asked out of the blue late one afternoon.
The reference startled Alex.
“Yes. I think he did,” she said after a moment’s thought.
“You think? Either he did or he didn’t.”
“He did,” she said. “He said they were a pair of American spies.”
“What else did he say about them?”
She searched her mind. She had many memories of the night club in Kiev and could recall much of the conversation. But she was drawing a blank here. “They were assigned to kill him?” she asked.
“He might have thought so. What else did he say about them?” Lee pressed.
“Honestly, it was a boozy evening. I’m not remembering.”
“Do you know who they are? Or who they were?”
“He said they were spies. I took everything Federov said with a few pounds of salt,” Alex said, “but looking back, I haven’t caught him in too many mistruths. If he said they were spies, my guess is they probably were.”
Lee’s finger was tapping lightly on the table, a little tic. “All right,” he said quietly. Then he moved on. Why did she suppose Federov had tried to move her position in the final seconds before the attacks? Was he sweet on her and trying to get her out of harm’s way? Or might he have been trying to move her into harm’s way for maybe the same reason?
She had no idea and told her interrogators exactly that.
The questions drove her into the ground.
The sessions were relentless.
Remorseless. Didactic. Unapologetic. Endless.
The direction of the inquiries always seemed to point in one direction. The official policy of the United States was to find the people responsible for the RPG attacks and bring them to some sort of justice. If official help was not forthcoming or significant enough from Ukraine, justice would be sought in the back alleys of the world. In fact, Alex sensed that this was the real way questions were pointing, the desired way of American officials to address their issues.
The sessions went on nonstop each day and continued until, with no explanation, they stopped completely. That was how things worked in Washington. Truth was like the smile of the mythical Cheshire cat. It receded as one approached it.
She went to trauma counseling with a top Washington shrink three times the first week back. Then she stopped. It was her feeling that the visits to the doc only made things worse.
FORTY-SEVEN
Alex officially returned to her job at Treasury on Monday, March 2. She was offered a further paid leave of absence by her boss, Mike Gamburian. She declined it and tried to bury herself in Internet frauds.
Gamburian gave her a handful of new cases. Easy stuff. But nothing made sense.
Her focus was shot.
She would be driving and couldn’t breathe. She would pull off the highway and gasp for breath. For a month, she couldn’t sleep at night. But during the day, walking, in the office, in a supermarket, in a park, she would fall asleep on her feet. Twice she fell, helped up once by a passerby, another time by a suspicious cop who suspected she was a closet junkie.