“A Bulgarian.” Andropov laughs. “Who would have believed it?”
The waiter puts two small glasses of vodka and two large glasses of orange juice on the table, with two fat gherkins on a little plate, and Kristoff wonders if this is a clue. Around him, people smoke, drink, and talk loudly, and that is the first rule when you want to be sure that a conversation cannot be overheard: meet in a noisy place, full of random sounds, so that any microphones hidden nearby cannot isolate a particular voice. If you are in an apartment, you should run a bath. But the simplest solution is to go out for a drink. Kristoff observes the customers’ faces and spots at least two agents in the room, but he presumes there must be more.
Andropov continues on the subject of Dimitrov: “If you think about it, it was there for all to see during the Reichstag trial. The conflict between G?ring, who is summoned as a witness, and Dimitrov, in the dock, anticipated the fascist aggression to come, the heroic Communists’ resistance, and our final victory. That trial is highly symbolic of the superiority of communism from every point of view, political and moral. Dimitrov is majestic and mocking, and masters the historical dialectic perfectly, even as he risks his life, faced with the angry, fist-waving G?ring … What a spectacle! G?ring, who just happens to be president of the Reichstag, prime minister and minister of the interior for Prussia. But Dimitrov reverses their roles, and it is G?ring who has to respond to his questions. Dimitrov completely demolishes him. G?ring is furious: he stamps his feet, like a little boy who’s been told he can’t have any dessert. Facing him, imperious in the dock, Dimitrov reveals the madness of the Nazis to the world. Even the president of the tribunal realizes it. It’s hilarious because you’d think he was asking Dimitrov to forgive fat G?ring’s behavior. He says to him—I remember this as if it were yesterday—‘Given that you are spouting Communist propaganda, you should not be surprised if the witness is so agitated.’ Agitated! And then Dimitrov says he is fully satisfied with the prime minister’s response. Ha ha! What a man! What a talent!”
Kristoff sees allusions and deeper meanings everywhere, but he tries to keep things in perspective because he knows that his paranoia makes it difficult for him to assess the KGB chairman’s words correctly. All the same, the fact that he was summoned to Moscow is, indisputably, a clue in itself. He does not wonder if Andropov knows something. He wonders what he knows. And that is a much harder question to answer.
“Back then, people all over the world said: ‘There is only one man left in Germany, and that man is Bulgarian.’ I knew him, Emil, were you aware of that? A born orator. A master.”
While he listens to Andropov praising the great Dimitrov, Comrade Kristoff assesses his own situation. There is nothing more uncomfortable for someone preparing to lie than being uncertain how much the person he is about to lie to knows. At some point, he realizes, he will have to gamble.
And that moment arrives: ending his disquisition on Dimitrov, Andropov asks his Bulgarian counterpart for clarification on the latest reports that have reached his desk in Lubyanka Square. What exactly is this operation in Paris?
So, here we are. Kristoff feels his heart accelerate, but is careful not to breathe more quickly. Andropov bites into a gherkin. He must decide now. Either admit the operation or claim to know nothing about it. But this second option has the disadvantage of making you look incompetent, which, in the world of intelligence, is never a good idea. Kristoff knows exactly how a good lie works: it must be drowned in an ocean of truth. Being 90 percent truthful enables you to render the 10 percent you are attempting to conceal more credible, while reducing the risks of contradicting yourself. You buy time and you avoid becoming muddled. When you lie, you must lie about one point—and one only—and be perfectly honest about the rest. Emil Kristoff leans toward Andropov and says: “Comrade Yuri, you know Roman Jakobson? He’s a compatriot of yours. He wrote some very nice things about Baudelaire.”
37
My Julenka,
I got back from Moscow yesterday. The visit went well, or at least I think it did. I got back, in any case. We had a few drinks, me and the old guy. He was friendly and seemed pretty drunk by the end of the night, but I don’t believe he really was. I do the same thing sometimes, pretending to be drunk in order to win people’s trust or get them to lower their guard. But as you can probably guess, I didn’t lower mine. I told him everything he wanted to know except, obviously, I didn’t mention you. I said I didn’t believe in the manuscript’s power, and that was why I didn’t inform him about the Paris mission, because I wanted to be sure first. But as certain agents in my service did believe in it, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry, so I sent a few agents, and I told him that they’d been overzealous. Apparently, the French services are investigating at the moment, but Giscard is pretending not to know anything about it. Maybe you can use your husband’s connections to find out? Either way, you should be very careful, and now that the old man is watching me, I won’t be able to send you any extra men.
The van driver got here safely, and so did the fake doctor who gave you the document. The French will never be able to find them—they’ve gone on holiday to the Black Sea, and they are the only people who could possibly lead anyone to you, along with the two other agents who died and the one who’s stayed there to oversee the investigation. I know he was wounded, but he’s tough. You can count on him. If the police find anything, he’ll know what to do.
Allow me to give you some advice. You must file away a copy of that document. We are used to keeping and hiding precious documents that must absolutely not be lost but whose contents cannot under any circumstances be divulged to anyone else. You must make a copy of it, one only, and give it for safekeeping to someone trustworthy who has no idea what it’s about. Keep the original on you.
One other thing: look out for Japanese people.
All right, that is my advice for you, my Juleshka. Make good use of it. I hope you’re well and that everything will go as planned, even if I know from experience that nothing ever goes as planned.
Your old father who watches over you,
Tatko
PS: Write back to me in French. It’s safer, and anyway I need to practice.
38
There is some faculty housing at the école Normale Supérieure, behind the Panthéon. We are in a large apartment, and the weary-looking, white-haired man with bags under his eyes says:
“I’m alone.”
“Where is Hélène?”
“I don’t know. We had another row. She had a horrible tantrum about something absurd. Or maybe that was me.”
“We need you. Can you keep this document? You mustn’t open it, you mustn’t read it, and you mustn’t talk to anyone about it, not even Hélène.”
“Okay.”
39