Honeytrap Page 3

  “Yes,” Matskevich agreed. “That is something our countries have in common.”

  ***

  The folding tables lining the walls of the church basement fairly bowed under heaping bowls of coleslaw and potato salad, pans of baked beans, meatloaves slathered in ketchup, baskets of biscuits and plates topped with wiggling Jell-Os – and that was just the dinner. Dessert covered two tables of its own: pies of all kinds, a layer cake decorated in a pattern of wheat sheaves, chocolate chip cookies and caramel popcorn balls.

  Matskevich stared, wide-eyed. “It’s all free,” Daniel told him.

  “Free?”

  “These church suppers are meant to promote good fellowship. Anyone can come and eat.”

  They worked their way around the tables together. Daniel, who had been to about a thousand of these things in his life, partook sparingly, but Matskevich loaded up, his face alight.

  At least till they reached the Jell-Os. These he eyed doubtfully, finally lifting a serving spoon to prod a carrot- and cabbage-flecked lump of yellow Jell-O. “What is this?”

  “Perfection salad,” Daniel said. “I’ve never seen it with cabbage before.”

  “But what is it?” Matskevich persisted. “What is the…” He prodded it with his fork. “The wiggly part.”

  Daniel’s mouth twitched. “Lemon Jell-O,” he answered gravely. But he couldn’t resist asking: “What did you think it was?”

  “Zalivnoye – how do you say – meat jelly.”

  “Aspic,” Daniel said, and muffled a guffaw behind his hand so the good church ladies wouldn’t see him laughing. Matskevich looked disapproving enough on his own.

  But he took a small spoonful of perfection salad. Daniel looked at him in surprise, and Matskevich shrugged. “Well, why not? Try everything. You never know what is good.”

  “I can tell you right now that perfection salad is not,” Daniel told him. “My aunt Rebecca likes to make it, and it’s terrible.”

  “Perhaps it is better with cabbage,” Matskevich said, and levered it into his mouth. He didn’t spit it back, but after chewing it for about two seconds, he grimaced and swallowed it whole, like a python. “When do they bring out the beer?”

  “I don’t think they do,” Daniel said. “They’re Methodists.” Matskevich looked incredulous, and Daniel couldn’t resist expanding, “In fact, I think the whole county may be dry.”

  The incredulous look morphed into an expression of fascinated pity. Daniel almost laughed. “How do they live?” Matskevich asked.

  “Probably they drive to the next county over and tote back beer in secret.”

  “Ah!” Matskevich smiled. “People are the same everywhere.”

  Daniel felt that he had misrepresented the good teetotalers of Honeygold. “Not everyone,” he said. “Just the reprobates.”

  Matskevich mouthed the word reprobates, and then said, “I will go in search of these reprobates, then. And you will talk to the upstanding citizens?”

  “Fair enough.” The reprobates were more likely to know if someone had sneaked off on the day of Khrushchev’s visit – and far more likely to share that knowledge with someone who joined in as they passed around a bottle of whiskey.

  Daniel ambled in the general direction of Reverend Johnson, and soon enough found himself introduced to at least half of the worthy citizens the reverend had mentioned that afternoon. He was chatting with Milly Douglas, the editor of the Honeygold Courier (“What would be a good time to drop by and look at your photographs from Khrushchev’s visit? Tomorrow? Excellent.”), when he saw, to his horror, that Matskevich had drawn a crowd.

  Had he blown his cover? Daniel felt a chill down his back: God knew what these good Iowans would do if they discovered a genuine Soviet agent in their midst. A lynching wasn’t out of the question.

  But as Daniel edged in that general direction, he saw that it wasn’t that kind of crowd. These people weren’t angry: they were listening, almost literally with baited breath, as Matskevich told a story.

  “I had come all this way from Poland,” Matskevich was saying. “Deep in East Germany, without the proper papers, without a word of German, trapped in the glare of this German policeman’s flashlight – this light that was so blinding that I could not even see the man who held it. He shouted something in German, and I thought in the next moment they would have me, and then it would be a beating and a slow train to Siberia.”

  Matskevich paused. Daniel found himself holding his breath with everyone else, even though he knew perfectly well that this story had to be made up. Then Matskevich went on: “But instead – they left. He must have told them he found no one.”

  There was a collective exhale. “But why?” asked Mrs. Wright.

  “Who can say? I never even saw his face.” Matskevich took a bite of meatloaf and chewed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it was mercy; perhaps he did not want to do the paperwork. People say that the motives of evil are inscrutable, but it seems to me that goodness is more mysterious. Why should he do this thing that brought him no benefit, indeed put him in danger?”

  The crowd began drift away at the edges, now that the exciting part was over, and Daniel slipped closer. Matskevich’s voice dropped to a normal volume as his audience left: Daniel saw that he was speaking to Reverend Johnson. “That is the end of the story, really,” Matskevich said. “I reached West Berlin the next night, and found a job washing dishes not long after. And after some time I managed to contact my aunt who had emigrated before the war, and she sent me the money to come to America…”

  Daniel listened, fascinated. The whole story was poppycock, of course, but still, it was…

  Well, it was interesting that Matskevich could tell such a vivid story about someone escaping the USSR. Daniel would mention it in his weekly report.

  ***

  Matskevich must have found his reprobates, because Daniel lost track of him after that. Once the crowd dwindled to just a few scattered groups, Daniel went in search of him.

  When Daniel was growing up, the reprobates tended to congregate out back under the lilac bushes. (Daniel, a goody-two-shoes, had been genuinely shocked when he stumbled upon them passing around a bottle of gin and a pornographic blue-bible). He figured it would be about the same at the Honeygold Methodist Church.

  And indeed, he found Matskevich sitting on the back steps with a pie tin on his lap, watching the dusk creep over the cornfields. “Hawthorne,” Matskevich greeted him.

  The faint scent of peppermint schnapps on his breath made Daniel flinch. “I can smell that you found the reprobates. Was the famous Eddy Wright there?”

  Matskevich had taken a bite of pie, but he swallowed it almost unchewed and answered, “Yes. They all teased him very much when I asked about Khrushchev’s visit: he had sworn he would not see Khrushchev when he came, but at the last minute he got in the car and went along with everyone else. They thought all the other young people went, except, oh, not Mary Lou; but they did not remember this for a long time, although she was sitting right there.”

  “Maybe Mary Lou tried to assassinate Khrushchev,” Daniel joked.

  “Why not? Women assassinated tsarist officials. And in the war, we had women fighter pilots, women bombers, women snipers…”

  “Yes, yes. All right. It’s certainly possible. So let’s say… Mary Lou walks out to the blind by the railroad tracks – which we ought to do ourselves, by the way.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “She smokes of pack of Marlboros. Those are usually a men’s cigarette brand…”

  “There are different cigarettes for men and women?”

  “Oh yeah. Market diversification. It makes it easier to sell more product. So Mary Lou is on the hillock, smoking a whole pack of men’s cigarettes, reading a pamphlet about God’s blessings on the agrarian way of life and holding her Mauser pistol in her lap – do you think she just didn’t realize a pistol isn’t a good long-range weapon?”

  “Hmm.”

  “All while wearing he
r size 14 men’s boots,” Daniel finished.

  “Some women have large feet,” Matskevich said. He stubbed his cigarette on the concrete step. “But not Mary Lou. Tiny fairy feet.” He held out his hands to show the size, then took up his fork again and poked at the last sliver of pie.

  “Did you steal someone’s pie pan?” Daniel asked. “Did you eat an entire pie?”

  “There was only half of it left, and Mrs. Land gave it to me.” Matskevich widened his eyes and sucked in his cheeks in an exaggerated starving waif look. “I am supposed to return the tin tomorrow. She has promised that her husband will show me his war memorabilia. He has a gun he brought back from the war, she thinks perhaps a Mauser, but she is not sure.”

  “Oh, good thinking. Do you want to take point on the Mausers? It’d look odd if we’re both asking about them, but if it’s just you…”

  “Yes. Then they will just think I am fascinated by war trophies.” Matskevich shrugged. “I do not think much will come of this one: Mr. Land fought in Italy. Still, there were Germans there, so perhaps.” He held out the pie tin. “Do you want a bite?”

  “Sure.” Daniel was stuffed, but he could fit in another bite or two. “Oh, you got the rest of the chocolate pie. It’s good.”

  Matskevich lit another cigarette. He leaned back on the steps and blew a stream of smoke toward the darkening sky, then lifted his flask. “Drink?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Can’t stand schnapps. Sorry.”

  Matskevich looked up at him, his face indecipherable, and Daniel wondered if he shouldn’t have tried to choke the schnapps down in the name of friendship between nations, after all.

  But then Matskevich shrugged and took a swig himself. “A very bad habit, drinking.”

  The sharp peppermint scent of the schnapps filled the air. Daniel heaved himself to his feet. “I’m going to head on back to Mrs. Wright’s. Are you coming?”

  Matskevich lifted his cigarette. “I will finish my cigarette first,” he said. “You go ahead. I want to sit and think.”

  Chapter 3

  As a matter of fact, Hawthorne’s drinking habits – or non-drinking habits, more precisely – seemed liable to undermine Gennady’s mission, and he considered this fact as he watched the dusk sink toward darkness.

  Oh, not his official mission: not the investigation into the assassination attempt on Khrushchev. No one expected that to be successful anyway. “Now listen, Gennady, it’s obvious what actually happened,” Stepan Pavlovich had said. “Clearly the Americans tried to assassinate our Nikita Sergeyevich but failed through poor marksmanship, and now they’re trying to cover it up.”

  Gennady did not think this was at all the obvious explanation. Surely the Americans weren’t so sanguine about their chances of winning a thermonuclear war? But he said, “Of course, sir.”

  “Really,” Stepan Pavlovich said, exasperated, “this whole investigation, one of our agents working with an American, is just…” His jaw clenched. He let out a slow breath, and went on, “Well, it’s the Chairman’s idea, so of course it’s brilliant. As I’m sure he foresaw, it’s an opportunity for us to gather more intelligence about the Americans’ investigative methods. Keep a good eye on your American partner.”

  “My American partner,” echoed Gennady. “Yes, of course, sir.”

  He tried to sound serious, professional, but inside he bubbled with glee. Such a trip had been the dream of Gennady’s life since he first read Ilf and Petrov’s book about their American road trip, One-Storied America. Driving for days on beautiful smooth American highways, listening to American radio, stopping at diners for coffee and doughnuts – and with an American partner, to boot. Gennady could get to know a real American, see what they were really like, once you got past the fake smiles.

  “And if you do find the monster who tried to kill our Nikita Sergeyevich,” Stepan Pavlovich added, “certainly there will be a place for you in my department.”

  Gennady’s cup of happiness ran over. An American road trip, an escape from Arkady’s office: what more could the day offer?

  But these dreams lasted only until Gennady reported back to Arkady, who was pacing the floor in fury. “Stepan Pavlovich is trying to undermine me again,” Arkady fumed. “Putting you on a joint Soviet-American investigation? He’s trying to frame us all as American spies, I know it. Well, fuck him, I’ll turn this to my advantage. Honeytrap the American agent for me, Gennady.”

  Gennady’s hopes for the trip collapsed. He did not want to go from being pawed by Arkady to being pawed (and probably worse) by an American agent.

  But. But. “Wouldn’t it be better to send a woman to seduce him?” Gennady asked.

  Arkady waved an impatient hand. “It will be fine. Any man will fuck a younger man if he can’t find a girl.”

  Gennady supposed Arkady was speaking from experience, yet he felt he ought to temper Arkady’s expectations somehow. “I’m not sure…”

  “Listen,” Arkady interrupted. “I can see why you’re worried, Gennady, it would be better if you were younger and prettier. But after all, you don’t look nearly as old as you are – that baby face.”

  He reached across the desk to clasp Gennady’s chin, and turned his face from side to side. “Make sure you shave. And get an American suit. As for the rest, you’re a naturally seductive person, Gennady, it will be all right.”

  He gave Gennady’s cheek a quick double pat, hard enough that it was almost a slap.

  So Gennady went home and got drunk and sulked, because in the first place you couldn’t imagine Ilf blackmailing Petrov, theirs was one of the great friendships of literary history and they would never betray each other. And in the second place, if the American behaved like Arkady, it would spoil his beautiful trip.

  He could just see it, driving down a black tarmac highway, with the sunlight dappling through the trees arched overhead, just like in Ilf’s photograph – and the American would grope him over the gear shaft. He would drag Gennady into bizarre perverted capitalist sex practices. He would probably sodomize him with a Coke bottle. Unfair, unfair.

  But as Gennady began to sober up, he realized that it was all more likely to go wrong in the opposite direction: it might be impossible to seduce the American. How did you seduce a man, anyway? All Gennady had ever done was exist in Arkady’s general vicinity. And in any case Arkady had shifted his attentions instantly when Nikolai (younger and prettier) got assigned to the department.

  Gennady stumbled into the bathroom to vomit. Then he opened the window to stick his head out into the early October air. By Moscow standards, October in DC was hardly cool, but it cleared his head, at which point the obvious solution presented itself.

  Drunkenness.

  Get a man drunk enough and he would do anything. Piss icicles into snow banks in negative forty degree weather; brawl with traffic cops. Kiss other men.

  Just look at Alyosha, who was married to Gennady’s cousin Oksana, although they were always fighting and breaking up and then Alyosha would wander Moscow looking for her. He would show up at Gennady’s door dead drunk, crying about Oksana, Oksana, how could he live without Oksana? Falling on Gennady’s neck and sobbing into his shoulder and kissing the side of his face, as Gennady explained that Oksana was not there, and no, he didn’t know where she was, and “Get off me, you oaf, I don’t even look like her.”

  “You taste like her,” Alyosha said once.

  “Everyone tastes like eau de cologne when that’s what you’ve been drinking!”

  When Grandfather was home, Gennady would pin Alyosha down and sit on him till he went to sleep. If Grandfather was elsewhere, and Alyosha had brought something drinkable (“I draw the line at furniture polish, Alyoshka”), Gennady would drink with him and they would jerk each other off, because why not? After all, Gennady didn’t get to see his girlfriend Galya often, and a hand was a hand was a hand; and it kept Alyosha from wandering back out into the night and maybe drowning in two inches of filthy water in the gutter.

&
nbsp; So, anyway, although Arkady had probably overstated the case with all men want to fuck other men, most men would at least fuck around with other men if they were drunk enough. All Gennady had to do was wait for this Special Agent Daniel Hawthorne to get bombed, then sit on his lap and let nature take care of the rest.

  And now Gennady was on the American highway, enjoying the silly roadside attractions (the World’s Largest Catsup Bottle!) and Burma Shave signs and friendly attendants at all the gas stations, who were happy to give you road maps and discuss directions to any place nearby. (You could tell this was a nation that had not suffered a land war in nearly a hundred years.)

  And Hawthorne wasn’t a bad traveling companion. Certainly not to Arkady type. Oh, of course he had his faults: the attempt to gather blackmail with the strip club suggestion had been laughable, although in a way Gennady was glad that the American was trying to gather blackmail on him as well. It evened things up somehow.

  And really Hawthorne wasn’t as stupid as the strip club ploy would suggest. In fact, Gennady suspected the strip club was only an opening gambit designed to put Gennady’s guard down in its incompetence, and really Hawthorne meant to talk him into slandering the Soviet Union. Devious, but clever, you had to admit. The strategy played to Hawthorne’s strengths: he was likeable, good-looking, funny. Easy to talk to, if you let yourself talk.

  Gennady didn’t really want to blackmail him.

  Not that he was likely to have the chance, given that Agent Hawthorne didn’t drink. Oh, a beer with dinner sometimes, but beer was barely even alcohol, it didn’t count. No true drinker would turn down a flask just because he didn’t happen to like the drink, when it was schnapps, which was meant for human consumption, no furniture polish!

  Well, after all, that solved the Ilf-and-Petrov problem, didn’t it? If Hawthorne never got drunk enough to honeytrap, then Gennady would never be in any position to betray him. Unfortunate, of course (Gennady lit another cigarette as he imagined explaining this to Arkady), but after all, it would blow the whole mission to push the seduction angle too hard, and the most important thing was to find out who tried to shoot our dear Nikita Sergeyevich, wasn’t that true, Arkady Anatolyevich?