Heads You Win

“Never better.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Alex, but I thought you ought to know that Ivan Donokov has been released from prison and is on his way back to Moscow.”

“How can that be possible?” asked Alex, turning ice cold. “I thought he was sentenced to ninety-nine years without parole.”

“The CIA exchanged him for two of our agents who’d been languishing in a Moscow hellhole for over a decade.”

“Let’s hope they don’t come to regret it. But thank you for letting me know.”

“I only hope you don’t live to regret it,” said Dimitri, but not until after he’d put the phone down.

Alex tried to get Donokov out of his mind while he continued signing letters. His thoughts were interrupted when Miss Robbins reentered the room to pick up the correspondence file. “Before I forget, Pamela, there’s a man who’s been sitting in reception for the past three days. Do you have any idea who he is?”

“A Mr. Pushkin. He’s flown over from Leningrad in the hope that you would agree to see him. Claims he was at school with you.”

“Pushkin,” he repeated. “A great writer, but I don’t recall anyone from my school by that name. But as he’s so determined to see me, perhaps I ought to give him a few minutes.”

“He says he needs a couple of hours. I tried to explain that you don’t have a couple of hours before Christmas, but it didn’t deter him, which made me wonder if he worked for the KGB.”

“The KGB don’t sit around cooling their heels in reception for three days, especially when everyone can see them. So let’s see the rabbit before we shoot it. But make sure you rescue me after fifteen minutes—tell him I have another meeting.”

“Yes, chairman,” said Miss Robbins, not looking at all convinced.

Alex was still signing letters when there was a gentle knock on the door. Miss Robbins entered the room followed by a man he thought looked familiar, and then he remembered.

“How nice to see you again, Misha, after all this time,” said Alex, as Miss Robbins left the room.

“It’s good to see you too, Alexander. I’m only surprised you remember me.”

“Captain of the junior chess team. Do you still play?”

“Occasionally, but I never reached your dizzy heights, so don’t bother to challenge me.”

“I can’t remember the last time I played,” admitted Alex, which only brought back memories of Donokov. “Before you tell me what brings you to Boston, how is the city of my birth?”

“Leningrad is always beautiful at this time of year, as you will remember,” said Pushkin, in Alex’s native tongue. “There are even rumors that it won’t be too long before its name will be changed back to Saint Petersburg. Another symbol to perpetuate the myth that the old regime has been replaced.”

Hearing Pushkin speaking Russian made Alex suddenly feel sad, even a little guilty, that he’d lost his accent, and now sounded like any other Boston WASP. He looked at his visitor more closely. Pushkin was around five foot eight, with a thick brown mustache that reminded Alex of his father. He wore a heavy tweed suit with wide lapels, which suggested either that he had no interest in fashion, or this was the first time he’d traveled outside of the Soviet Union.

“My father worked in the docks when your father was chief supervisor,” said Pushkin. “Many of the lads still remember him with respect and affection.”

“And my uncle Kolya??

?

“He’s now the docks’ supervisor. He asked to be remembered to you and your mother.”

I owe him my life, Alex was about to say, but stopped himself when he remembered that if Major Polyakov was still alive, that wasn’t a risk worth taking.

“Please give him my best wishes, and tell him I hope it won’t be too long before we meet again.”

“I’m hoping it will be sooner than you think,” said Pushkin. “I see him from time to time, usually at the football every other Saturday.”

“The two of you standing on the terraces cheering on Zenit F.C., no doubt.”

“There are no terraces nowadays. Everyone has a seat.”

“Can I assume my old friend Vladimir has found his way into the chairman’s box?”