“Not true,” Steve reddened. “Why do you think I’m back here? I’m going to get you out of the country. You and the children.”
“You’ve already broken too many promises,” she said.
“I am getting you and your kids – our kids – out of here,” he repeated.
“And my mother,” she added. “I will not leave without her.”
“And your mother,” said Steve.
Since the Soviet Union ended, Russians no longer needed special exit visas to leave the country, but being an army major with top security clearance was something else. “I cannot just buy tickets and leave,” said Maya. “I would be immediately challenged at any border.”
“I know the rules,” said Steve. “Someone will have to give you a special exit permit.”
“How much time do we have?” she asked.
“We’re seven hours ahead of Washington,” said Steve. “So if the CIA director gets the information about you at 9:00 a.m. Washington time, that’s 4:00 p.m. here. It’s a Saturday, so assume it takes the director another hour to turn it over to the president and the president to transmit that information to Kozlov. Kozlov then has to put word out to the FSB and all border posts. Add an hour for that, assuming everyone is much more efficient than they actually are, that’s 6:00 p.m. here. By that time, you and your family have to have passed through any government checkpoint.” He looked at his watch, “It’s now 7:30 a.m.,” he said.
“That gives us about ten hours,” she said.
“As I see it,” said Steve. “Our only option is General Borovik.”
“Borovik?” Maya paused, “Maybe. He was very close to my father.”
“How?”
“They were with the same unit in Afghanistan. They got ambushed by the mujahidin. My father and three others volunteered to stay behind to cover their retreat. The other three were killed. My father was wounded and finally captured and beheaded. Borovik went back that night and found the body. He told me he’d never forget the sight.”
“He certainly has the power to return the favor now,” said Steve
“But it would be very risky – even for him. How could I ask him to do it?”
“He’s an adult. He’s survived all his life in this system. If he thinks it’s too dangerous to help you, he won’t. But, unless you’ve got some other idea, I think he’s your only way out.”
She continued staring at Steve.
“Maya, you don’t have time to waste. Give him a call. All Borovik can say is no.”
“It’s Saturday,” she said “He’s probably at his dacha. I’ve got the number. But his line is certainly monitored.”
“So you’re going to have to call with some kind of excuse that will sound reasonable to anyone listening in.”
She paused again, and placed her hand on her forehead. Then she nodded as if to herself, picked up her mobile, and keyed in a number. The general answered immediately. She identified herself and put on the speakerphone. “I apologize for calling so early on a Saturday,” she said.
“Nonsense,” said Borovik brusquely, “I’ve been up working in the garden for more than an hour.”
“I thought you might be at your dacha,” she said, nervously twisting the doily in her fingers. “I just dug up an old album of papa with some rather amusing pictures of the two of you together in military school and then in East Berlin with a couple of charming-looking young women. You don’t look much more than twenty.”
“We weren’t,” the general chuckled.
“I’d like to give it to you,” she said.
Steve applauded silently from the other side of the table.
“I’d be delighted to have it,” said Borovik. “These days it’s much more pleasant looking back at the past, than contemplating the present and never mind the future.”
“I was planning to drive out your way this morning with the children; I could stop by with the album.”
“Always a pleasure to see you and your family,” said the general. “I have a memorial service for another old friend later this afternoon, but if you come by this morning, we will have a few minutes to talk. You can also try some of Katya’s crab apple preserve. So I will see you shortly.”
Maya ended the call and placed the mobile back on the table. The doily she’d been twisting was now hopelessly knotted.
“You were brilliant,” said Steve.
“But all that does is get us in the front door,” said Maya.
It took them almost two hours in Moscow’s heavy Saturday morning traffic to cross the city and take the western road. There was little room to spare in her gray four-door Lada. Maya and her mother sat in the front; Steve and the two children squeezed in the back. There was no complaining from the children, however. An excursion to the countryside was always preferable to a morning in school.
Steve recalled his own trip to the general’s dacha just a few days before, under very different circumstances: handcuffed and blindfolded and sandwiched between two burly officials. Of course, that would be the real fate awaiting him if Russian intelligence seized him this time around.
For part of the trip, they discussed what Maya should say to the general. That decided, Steve turned his attention to the children. Sonya, playing the shy fifteen-year-old, was reticent when Steve tried to draw her out, but Evgeny was openly fascinated by Steve. “Are you really an American?” he asked.
“I really am,” said Steve.
“Where do you live?”
“Near Washington, D.C. Do you know where that is?”
“Of course, it is where the Capitals are.”
The young boy, it turned out was an ice hockey player and an avid fan of the National Hockey League. He peppered Steve with questions about the top teams and star players. Luckily, Steve himself had played hockey as a kid. His Russian grandfather had taught him. He was also a fan of the Washington Capitals and was able to answer the barrage of Evgeny’s questions convincingly enough to bond as a fellow expert.
Shortly after ten, they pulled onto the gravel lane in front of the general’s two-story wood frame cottage. Borovik was gardening in the front lawn. “So much work at this time of the year,” he said, kissing Maya on both cheeks, then her mother and the two children. “You’re almost ready for the army,” he said to Sonya, who blushed.
Maya glanced at the black mourning band on his sleeve. “My oldest friend,” he said, “Sergei Petrov, one of the last honorable military men around,” he shook his head. “Passed two days ago. Cancer. He also knew your father well.”
Then Borovik saw Steve and scowled. “You are already back? I thought I told you to disappear.”
“I had to come back,” said Steve.
“What happened to the famous broadcast you were going to do? The one I gave you the information for?”
Maya stepped forward, “Can we talk about this inside?” she said.
“So the visit is not about an old photo album,” said Borovik. “Come,” he said gesturing towards the front door.
“You kids go play in the garden with Mama,” said Maya.
Wearing a large white apron, Borovik’s plump wife Ekaterina bustled out of the kitchen to greet Maya, “I am just drying the mushrooms,” she said. “You’ll take some with you. I am dying to look at the photos you found.”
“So am I,” said Borovik drily. “Bring us some tea, Katya,” he said. “Then give us a few minutes alone. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling we have some serious business to discuss.” He ushered Maya and Steve into the cozy, wood-paneled living room. A large stone fireplace stood at one end, filled with birch logs, and the polished wooden floor was covered with brightly colored kilims the general had collected during service in the Caucasus. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to an old leather-covered sofa. He took an armchair facing them.