“We won’t expect much from his son.” The station chief’s attention was moving on to something else, but Charles Marley had received his nod to see if Vladimir Davidovich could be recruited. The station chief looked up suddenly when Charles was at the door. “Maybe he will surprise us,” she said.
“It’s a
“Someone should have told my grandfather — or his grandfather.”
“Everyone knows what a cultural attaché does.”
“When the political climate permits, I arrange exchange visits. Your ballet dancers for our bluegrass pickers.”
“Banjos.”
“Right.”
“Duh-duh-duh DUH duh. The movie’s been here. Must be pretty dull — the world’s in ferment, and you’re escorting hillbillies around Moscow.” They were at Proffer’s apartment again, alone, and Vlad was playing with him, enjoying his moment, knowing he had gotten someone interested — if not in himself, then in his father’s satchels of work.
“What I was thinking,” Marley said, “is I might try to get you some engagements in New York.”
The narrow face mocked the offer. “If I help you, you’ll see I play Carnegie Hall?”
“More like Queens College, if you’re as good as Proffer says. Or places in Iowa. It would be part of an exchange of students. Up to you what you made of it. And whether you stayed. How good are you?”
“Ask Melissa.” She was a young woman who came to some of the gatherings at Proffer’s apartment.
“At the piano.”
“I’m very good.” He grinned confidently, but the look in his eyes wasn’t so sure. “This is the nation of great pianists — and great alcoholics. I’m good enough for your Queens College, not quite ready for Carnegie Hall. In another year, maybe.”
“Proffer says you’re as good as Gilels was at your age.”
Vlad shrugged. “Proffer’s no music critic.”
“But he’s right?”
“Bound to be once in a while.”
“And you want out.”
“Oh, brother. You’ve seen through me.” The young man dragged his hand down his face theatrically. “I thought I kept that hidden.”
“You’ve been shouting it on the street corners,” Marley said.
“It gets lost in the din there. Everybody wants out, more or less. The KGB can’t arrest us all. Anyway, they’re busy plotting against each other.” He got up from the table where they’d been sitting. His elbows had rested on a magazine,
What Marley thought was:
Vlad laughed and demanded the bottle back.
The station chief was pleased. “James Jesus,” she murmured, an expression she used often, which had nothing to do with divinity but invoked the memory of her favorite counterespionage officer, whose surname was Angleton. “This needs to be verified, of course.”
“Sure.” He had read the foolscap memorandum through twice, taking no notes. It appeared to be what Washington would call a talking paper, outlining the pros and cons of the military recommending a hard line against restive republics that wished to weaken their ties to the Soviet Union.
“It’s not much by itself,” she said.
“No.” Marley was having trouble suppressing a smirk.
“But if General Zavenyagin is privy to those discussions...” She snapped a glance that only caught Marley looking serious. “What does the kid want from us?”
“Vodka and promises,” Marley said. “He wants to tour the West playing Schumann.”
For just a moment, the station chief gave Charles Marley a blank stare, long enough for his mouth to drop open a crack at the discovery she didn’t know Schumann, and then her stare turned scornful because he was so gullible. Not a good quality in an agent, being easily led — her head shake made that plain.
He heard Vlad perform nine days later at the apartment of an