our exchange, I wondered if Tatiana was somehow connected with my feeling of being watched. If I were being watched, giving an old woman money for vodka was harmless, even in Russia. After all, I had been told for several days that Russia was changing for the better; perhaps it was. Or maybe I was sensing the fear that ran throughout Russian history and still stalked the people.
***
Earlier that year, I had been promoted to Vice President and Eastern European Area Manager at Universal Bank. Based in San Francisco, it was one of the world’s largest commercial banks. Soon after my promotion, the Soviets invited the world’s leading banks to Moscow to discuss financing a natural gas and oil pipeline to Western Europe. I spoke Russian and French as well as English, and Universal had sent me to kick the project’s tires. An easy assignment, since Universal’s senior management was determined to be the project’s lead American bank.
I spent a week in Moscow, attending presentations by Sov-Gas (the Soviet entity that would borrow the funds) and studying their projections. The Soviets hosted an elaborate dinner the first evening. Subsequent evenings offered numerous possibilities, including the ballet and the symphony.
I was staying at the cavernous Hotel Ukraine. Built during Stalin’s reign, from the outside the hotel looked like a high-rise concrete pastry. The rooms were comfortable, and the antiquated fixtures worked. The formal presentations were over, and I was scheduled to leave Moscow early the next morning on an Aeroflot flight to New York. Reviewing my notes in the lobby near the bar, I saw Boris Izmailov approaching and waved.
Boris was one of the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank’s senior officers; his bank would coordinate much of the project’s borrowing. We got along well during the brief time I knew him. Speaking English, Boris told me that he had business to discuss and escorted me to a conference room off the main lobby where he introduced me to an elderly watery-eyed man, Ivan Alexinsky, whom I remembered from the Sov-Gas presentations. Ivan had stayed in the background, but he stood out. It was his clothes; his baggy suit was forty years out of date. He looked liked one of Stalin’s men.
I introduced myself in English. Without standing or offering his hand, Ivan grumbled in Russian. I sat down. Neither Ivan nor Boris spoke. After a long moment, I asked Ivan in Russian about the pipeline project. Boris answered with a quick rehash of earlier presentations. Since Boris and Ivan wanted to see me, I decided to wait until they explained why. They didn’t. Boris looked at Ivan, who stared at me. I folded my hands and looked away.
Ivan leaned forward and asked, “Where were you born?”
“Paris. Why do you ask?”
“But an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
“Naturalized?”
“Yes.”
There was a knock on the door; I jumped a little. As Boris opened the door, a man from the hotel said that I had a call from San Francisco that would be sent to my room.
“It’s early morning in California. Must be important,” I said. “Excuse me.”
Ivan seemed surprised, Boris relieved.
In my room, I was asking a confused hotel operator for my overseas call and sensed someone behind me. It was Boris.
“Izvinitrye pazhalsta (excuse me), Alexander Andreivich.” His statement struck me as odd, since earlier introductions had been in English, and I had introduced myself as Alexander Romanovsky, without my patronymic, Andreivich.
I stood up. “Yes?”
Boris continued in Russian, “Sorry, but the door was open. Ah, there’s no call from the States. I set this up. We must speak.” Boris and I resembled each other: in our late thirties, we were both tall, fair, with Russian light-blue eyes. Boris’s Russian was educated with a clipped, big-city accent that sounded northern, probably Leningrad. Compared to his, mine was outdated and drawly with my mother’s southern accent.
I thanked the operator and hung up. “What do you want?” I said in Russian.
Boris looked around the room. I followed his eyes; Boris nodded. My room was bugged. He asked, “How does Ivan strike you?”
“Lately I’ve had the feeling of being watched. Perhaps Ivan has something to do with that?”
“Your Russian name attracted the police.” Boris’s tone was blasé; his eyes weren’t.
“And?”
“The police found some odds and ends about your grandfather. Then they called in Ivan—he’s a retired KGB general—and he remembered your grandfather, Adrian Romanovsky, from the old days. Checking files that had been stored away for years, Ivan found out that your grandfather returned to Russia with the Germans during the Great Patriotic War.” Russians call World War II the Great Patriotic War.
“That was ages ago,” I said.
“According to Ivan, those old files say that Adrian Romanovsky was a war criminal. Ivan thinks the American authorities would come after you if they found out.”
“Under American law…”
“What if the American authorities did a complete background check on you and your family? Problems?” Boris nodded yes.
“Yes, there could be repercussions.” My voice had fluttered.
“And there’s Universal Bank to consider.” Boris motioned as if he were tying a knot—my grandfather and Universal Bank.
As a trainee, I was told that, in the event of a bank robbery, I was to cooperate. I hoped that policy extended to blackmail. “I will see to it that Universal participates in the Sov-Gas loans so long as the information about my grandfather is not disclosed to Universal or the American authorities.”
Boris circled his thumb and forefinger. “Well, that’s settled,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs and tell Ivan the good news.”
Instead of the elevators, Boris took my arm and guided me into a stairwell. “Nice work, you sounded sincere and frightened.”
“I was and am. What did we just do?”
“I am professional, a banker like you. I have principles like yours, Western. Ivan believes you can be forced to make Universal approve the Sov-Gas financing. I told him that Western banks don’t work that way, and you can’t force Universal into deals. But he’s drunk all the time and won’t listen. So we’re doing it his way.” With a giddy laugh, he added, “One more thing: I’m scared.”
“Then I’m terrified.” We blinked at each other. “Does your bank know about this?”
“My bank has nothing whatsoever to do with this…this stupid blackmail,” Boris sputtered. “If they knew I was involved, I’d be in big trouble. However, Ivan could make far more trouble if I told my bank that he had forced me. If you help, maybe we can get out of this mess.” He grabbed my jacket. “Please, help me.”
“This is moving far too fast.”
“Don’t you see? Ivan has you,” Boris said.
“Well, I don’t think so.
