Milo March #17

Potpourri

Potpourri

The young, hard-faced American tossed on the bare floor of the cell and then screamed at the darkness that closed in on his mind. The sound of his own voice awakened him and he sat up, angered by the weakness that struck when he was asleep. There was still nothing but darkness, but this was real and not something in his mind, and it did not frighten him. It was always dark in the cell, and he had no idea whether it was day or night—not that it made any difference. He wished he had a cigarette, but even that hunger had been dulled by time.

Finally he stood up and reached over to the wall, running his hand along it until he felt the marks he’d made. He thought that they brought him food twice a day. At least they brought coffee and bread; then later what tasted like watery cabbage soup, more bread, and tea. After that it was coffee and bread again. Once, a guard had forgotten to take the spoon when he came for the bowl. The American had sharpened the handle on the stone walls and after that always made a mark on the wall each time he was given coffee and bread. There were now sixty-one marks. He counted them again to be sure. Then his hand slipped down to where he had scratched his name.

James Hartwell. It gave him substance, which was often on the verge of vanishing in the prison. And someday someone might see it and the information would travel back across the ocean and close an open file. He expected no more. The prospect of a cell like this and then death was a part of his profession.

After a while he curled up on the floor again and went back to sleep. The guards had to shake him awake when they brought his coffee and bread. They did not speak, for they knew that he understood their language.

Grigory Masinov was one of the new Soviet men. He had been born after the Revolution and had never known any form of society other than that in the Soviet Union. He was a loyal Russian.

He was also a cynic. He saw no great conflict in these two positions. He had become a member of the secret police while he was still at university. He had advanced in his profession until, at the age of thirty-four, he was a member of the KGB with a rating equivalent to that of a sergeant in the Red Army. He was trusted. He had been part of a security guard on trips to the United States, France, England, and Yugoslavia. For six months he had been assigned to the Soviet delegation to the United Nations. It was sometime during this period that Grigory became a cynic. But that was not the way that he saw himself. He was a realist, in a Marxist sense, about mankind as well as systems.

He went ahead, carefully setting a trap for the man he was supposed to watch, but his thoughts were really on his future.

Marya Rijekta undressed quickly in the tiny bathroom and glanced down at her body. It was a beautiful body, unmarred by wrinkles or fat, smooth and full, accented by the coral-tipped breasts and the triangle of red-gold hair. How long, she thought, would it look like this? She ran her fingers through her long, blond hair and walked into the other room where the man waited impatiently. She glanced automatically at the chandelier where the microphone was hidden. There was always a microphone, she thought bitterly, although it was not always the property of the same people. She wondered what it would be like to make love in a room where there were no microphones.

The microphone faithfully recorded the creak of the bed and the heavy breathing of the man. It failed to catch the inaudible sigh of Marya Rijekta or the expression in her eyes as she stared up at the chandelier.

Josip Voukelitch was merely one of many journalists sitting in the large room listening to the remarks of the Soviet Premier and making notes in two neat columns. One column would end up in a special bureau, where it would be analyzed for the benefit of Tito. The other would end up in another special bureau thousands of miles away. Voukelitch was bored. It was his normal state.

Irina Simonov a attended this same news conference and would later write a story for Pravda. She didn’t have to take notes. She had a copy of the speech, and if there was any departure from the text the additions would be waiting for her when she reached the office. Irina was also bored, although her outward appearance was that of any attractive woman of twenty-five from almost any country. Irina carried a dream deep within her, but it was now more than two months since she had been able to do anything about it. She wasn’t certain why this was true and didn’t think too much about it. She knew it was an area where thinking was dangerous.

James Hartwell, Grigory Masinov, Marya Rijekta, Josip Voukelitch, Irina Simonova—they were all quite different from each other, yet they shared one thing in common. Each one of them existed in his or her own prison, real or imagined, yet not one of them knew or for that matter cared about any of the others. And there were two men, unknown to any of them, who would soon start moving them as if they were puppets on strings.

One of these men was sitting in a large office in the Kremlin. It was a special office, known to only a few and inspiring fear in most of them. The man who sat there and pulled his thousands of strings, stretching all over the world, had once been famous, but it was believed that he had died more than twenty years earlier in a Japanese prison. He was now in his seventies; his hair white and his face lined with the passions and cruelties that had filled his life. He pressed a button on his desk and waited. The soldier who entered saluted and stood at attention.

“Hartwell?” the old man asked.

“He has not yet broken,” the soldier replied. “Perhaps it is time for stronger measures.”

The old man studied him. “Would stronger measures break you, Nikolai?”

Something like fear came into the soldier’s eyes. “Of course not,” he said quickly. “But I am different.”

“No, you’re not,” the old man said quietly. “Hartwell is also a professional. He would die with the same quietness that marked his work until we were lucky enough to catch him. Notice that I said luck, Nikolai. It was luck. The next time it must be skill. Move Hartwell to another cell. Feed him better—but not too much better. Have him watched, but leave him alone. Hartwell will become our prize cheese.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, but he sounded puzzled.

“Sooner or later a hungry mouse will come looking for cheese, and there he will be.”

“Then why not show him off in a public trial?”

The old man shook his head. “You’ve been listening to our p********a again, Nikolai. I’ve warned you about that before. They are not stupid. They will find him. But if we make it easy for them, they will merely write him off and forget about it. We have plenty of time. Impatience, my dear comrade, is the cardinal sin of our profession. Try to remember that.”

The soldier saluted and left.

And there was yet another man in New York City…