Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Well, I wish them all the luck in the world. They won’t find the types of apartments that will fill the bill,” I puffed with resentment.

“They are going about it all a bit differently. He and his ‘investors’ have bought up a small apartment building in the old town and are, as we speak, renovating the entire building up to standard. There will be a compound with full security and full lock down capabilities. They will provide car and drivers for the residents, one driver and car for each three apartments. It sounds like they’ve got the right idea. Just don’t know from where they are getting the financing,” Del speculated

“Del, there is so much black money flowing under this city, I’m surprised it hasn’t come up through the toilets and the plumbing yet,” I hissed emphatically over the table.

“Keep your shirt on, kid, keep your shirt on.” Del didn’t want our conversation to look too secret. He scanned the hall for people standing about looking our direction. Not finding any his eyes came back to me. “It’s important that you and Misha stop looking for any further apartments until I get back from Moscow next Thursday night. If you are being followed, somebody will get word that the two of you, known to be associated with me, are searching for apartments. It could set off alarm bells. Until I know who is financing those apartments we had better keep our heads down. Get it?”

“Is it time for me to get out of town, Del?” I asked concerned.

“Not unless you want to. Just be a student having fun during the holidays and don’t give anybody a reason to think you’re researching anything further from your interview with Mr. P. It could be real trouble for you if you do. It goes deeper than you think,” he warned.

“Yes, I figured that out with the FSB showed up on Sunday night at my door,” I offered.

“What? Did you say KGB at your door? Why? What did they want?” Del was taken off guard by this revelation. He gave Els a concerned look. She looked at me.

“They said they wanted my landlord for questioning. Tax evasion,” I replied.

“That’s bullshit, kid. That was a recon visit. They were establishing that you were still living in that apartment and you can bet that they are watching your every move. Do you think you were followed here?” Del’s eyes starting darting around the train station again and he sat up straight in his chair startled at this news.

“No, I lost my tag in the old city by sneaking out of the faculty through the basement. They have an idiot following me in white sneakers. He’s an idiot.” I brushed off the idea that I had been followed to the station.

“No kid, that’s Mr. P.’s goon. Counter intelligence in this country doesn’t work like that. They have radios and people all over town watching in traffic check points and whatnot. You lose one and they will see you seven minutes later at a different location. Never the same person for more than five minutes. You’ll never know you’re being watched if they don’t want you to know it. They’re really good! It’s just about as good as a helicopter in the sky,” he chided me for my ignorance.

“Either way, they think I’m still in lectures as I left by a completely different entrance and nobody knows I am on the move.” I tried to sound smart but knew I was in over my head.

“Not so sure about that, kid,” Del said looking over my shoulder again, “but I think it’s time for me and Els to be on a train.

“Should Peter not come with us now to Moscow?” Els suggested. Del chewed on this question for a few moments, shifting his jaw back and forth.

“We would need a good cover story if we did that. We aren’t prepared for it. It would create a dangerous situation for everybody, especially if he is being watched by two groups. Somebody will sound the alarm that he is gone,” Del concluded.

“Kid, you need to start getting real obvious. Do very obvious things that make it look like you are preparing to leave. Pack up your apartment real slow so that anybody watching or letting themselves in on a regular basis can see you are slowly, deliberately getting ready to leave. Go to the Aeroflot office in town and book a ticket back to the States. Make sure everybody knows about it. Don’t do anything too fast or somebody will swoop in and grab you. Understood? Don’t do anything dumb and don’t try to lose your tag again. Keep everything you do visible. You need to make sure everybody stays bored by you being very predictable.

“Yes, I like boring at this point!” I agreed.

On Wednesday, I wore a bright orange rain jacket to protect me from a rainy day and to make sure that everybody who wanted to follow me could spot me a mile away. I went to all my lectures that day and walked between the lectures via Pokrovka, stopping along the way to purchase lavash, waiting in line with the ‘British Knight’ four people behind me in the line at the hole in the wall. I bought a bottle of Pepsi from a café and sat and drank it in the sun as the clouds started to dissipate around lunch time. I stopped and chatted up some girls I knew well. I could see that my shadow was getting very bored and was starting to lose interest in my movements.

After my literature lecture with Professor Dashkova, I went back to the Telephone and Telegraph building on Gorkiy Square and scheduled a telephone call home to the United States. It was the very early morning at my parents’ home. I woke them up with some alarm and went on to tell them that I was just having a very difficult time in Nizhniy and was thinking about coming home in a week or two. My father sounded more concerned than I had hoped to make him. I tried to reassure him it was just a matter of being tired and a bit lonely, maybe some culture fatigue, but nothing to worry about. I put on some false emotion for those who were listening to my call. I hoped that my parents would go back to sleep and forget I even called, but I had to go on record with the FSB as actively planning to leave soon and this was the best way to make it public knowledge.

After I finished upsetting my parents at four in the morning I stepped outside to the bank of public telephones on the porch of the Post Office and called Yulia’s home. This time she picked up the phone.

“Hi, it’s Peter!” I announced in Russian this time.

“Where are you?” Yulia seemed taken aback. I always spoke English with her on the phone.

“I’m on Pokrovka. Just finished speaking with my parents in America.” I was speaking loudly.

“Are they alright? Why would you call them in the middle of the night there?” she was very puzzled.

“Listen, I need to come by and pick up my plane ticket from you. I need to schedule my flight to the USA for the summer break.” I continued to be as obvious as possible.

“I thought we would go on the trip together, remember?” she was getting worried at this point.

“Can I come by on my way home for tea and get my ticket, please?” I continued with my story line.

“Yes, of course. We can talk when you are here. See you soon,” and she hung up the telephone.

As I got on the bus at Gorkiy Square to head across the Oka to the Zarechnaya district, I noticed that the ‘British Knight’ didn’t get on the bus with me. Instead, he stepped into a car, one I didn’t recognize and they drove off in another direction down Gorkiy street and out of sight. Perhaps they figured that I can’t do any harm at home since I didn’t have a telephone in my apartment and nobody of any consequence lives on that side of the city.

After I dragged myself to the top of the five flights of stairs to Yulia’s door, I paused a moment to catch my breath. I debated for a split second whether I should tell her everything that was going on. It has been almost six weeks since I had actually told the truth about anything I was up to. Our discussions had only been light, based on fairy-tales about the coming summer cruise, last summer and her graduating from her college in June. I had revealed nothing about my conversations with Del, my work with Misha, the interview with Mr. P, the people following me, the FSB. I decided it was all too much to put on her. I knocked on the steel door. Gung, gung, gung.