Agent’s Revenge. Novel

Zhenya began to guess what this was about — the letter, of course — and she feared she had done something irreparable by throwing it into the furnace.

— I’ll start by saying that Meliton Archvadze’s life is in your hands. I know for a fact of the existence of the letter you know of, written by the major, from his wife’s denunciation. I hope you’ve destroyed the letter? I offer you a deal: I will trade the denunciation — and consequently, the pilot’s life — for your agreement to occasionally cooperate with us, proving your love and loyalty to the Motherland and personally to Comrade Stalin. That is, you will become a «secret employee» — say, at your place of work — and we’ll see from there. You won’t have to spy on Meliton, — the major smiled.

— You understand, dear Evgenia, that if you refuse, Meliton Archvadze will be arrested. The letter will be considered lost in the accident. You, most likely, will not suffer. Но the denunciation stating that the major was preparing a conspiracy against the Leader will cost him his life.

11. Friends in the Security Forces

Two bosom friends, Merab Lezhava and Irakli Khutsiev, finished school to the roar of victory salutes honoring the defeat of the fascists. There was no question of where to study or what to become; Irakli’s father, laying the foundations of a «labor dynasty» of osobists, arranged for his son and his friend to enter School No. 305, which trained military counterintelligence officers — later to become the KGB Higher School. Irakli enrolled there under the surname Khutsishvili.

When the friends graduated from the military counterintelligence school, Major General Khutsiev assigned them to his own MGB apparatus.

Following the kaleidoscopic post-war transformations of the security structures, the friends eventually found themselves in different departments — Merab in the MVD [Ministry of Internal Affairs] and Irakli in the KGB. Their male friendship, forged on the school bench, not only endured but evolved into a friendship between their families.

Merab had a son, David, and Irakli had a daughter, Lali. The friends even went on vacations together. Given that their departmental apartment buildings were not only in the city’s elite district but right next to each other, the children not only played in the same yard but went to the same school — in fact, the same class, though Lali was nearly a year younger. David immediately showed everyone in class that anyone looking sideways at Lali would have to deal with him; thus, they were nicknamed «the bride and groom.» The fathers laughed at the moniker, but once, while sitting over drinks for Lali’s fifteenth birthday, they jokingly decided to betroth them, as the children themselves were drawn to one another. They laughed and laughed, but when the wives joined the conversation, the talk shifted quietly into a practical plane.

— And why not? — declared Venera, David’s mother. — The children get along perfectly, and we won’t just help them get settled, we’ll multiply our savings. Otherwise, the money could easily go to some street girl or be drunk away by some slick womanizer.

Valentina, Lali’s mother, supported her friend, and in that tight parental circle, they decided to betroth the children by exchanging rings on David’s sixteenth birthday. No sooner said than done — the betrothal took place in a very narrow circle, and the rings bore embossed inscriptions: «Dato» and «Lali»!

Waiting for Zakharchenko, who was his right hand for executing all sorts of «dirty little deeds,» the colonel pondered how to steer David away from Nino. He was quite determined; he would not allow some slut clutching onto David to ruin his daughter’s future. Of course, he understood David perfectly; if his own Valentina didn’t bow her head in time, her horns would scrape the chandelier. But no one knew about her horns, and those who did — didn’t talk. But this milksop flaunts this girl everywhere; he’s still young, still foolish. And Merab does nothing, as if he’s taking revenge for his Venera — though how could he know? He and Venera had only met at the safe-house villa maybe five times, and even that was meaningless. She couldn’t compare to Valka; she was just «available,» so he serviced her while Merab was in the hospital with an ulcer. And Evgenia made sure he didn’t recover ahead of schedule. Margelova — an excellent operative, the «Golden Fund» of the NKVD, inherited from his father. There is no such thing as an ex-informant. Irakli used her rarely; she worked selectively — «for the family,» so to speak — but he paid her generously, just as his father had.

The colonel pulled up the data on Nino Vladimirovna Meskhi:

Student at the Academy of Arts. Mother — a Megrelian, Dali Melitonovna Pertaya, a librarian from Zugdidi. Father — Vladimir Meskhi, a university student, died on March 10, 1956, during the unrest regarding Stalin’s cult of personality.

They live together in the Sololaki district, in a pre-revolutionary building on the fourth floor.

Oh, how often we, living side-by-side with someone our whole lives, think we know everything about them.

Knowing Evgenia Petrovna Margelova since birth, there was much he did not know about her. He didn’t know that his father, Nugzar Khutsiev, had never officially registered Margelova as an NKVD employee. When he was dying of stomach cancer in the hospital, he had handed Evgenia Petrovna her personal file with the original entry stating that E.P. Margelova was the operative «Sirotka» [Orphan] and was at the disposal of Major N.V. Khutsiev.

To Irakli, Evgenia Petrovna was something akin to a living family heirloom — a living, unquestioning creature belonging to a family without rank or lineage, seemingly without past or future, existing only to carry out small, delicate, or even dirty errands inherited from his father. Therefore, Margelova’s past held no significance for him, a KGB colonel; for the state, she had long been a nobody — a person with a passport, but without a past.

And knowing nothing of Margelova’s past, he set in motion the mechanism that would lead many to a tragic end. Reading the data on Nino, the colonel, thinking of his daughter, mused:

— Oh, these portionless girls! Well, it’s understandable — who wouldn’t want a wealthy, handsome young man as a husband or son-in-law? No matter, we’ll put everything in its place! Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s!

— Comrade Colonel, Lieutenant Zakharchenko is here, — a female voice came through the intercom.

— Send him in.

— Lieutenant Zakharchenko reporting!

— Come in, have a seat. Semyon, here’s the situation — how to explain it precisely?

The colonel pulled a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros and began searching his pockets for matches. Semyon flicked a lighter:

— Zippo, Comrade Colonel, I have a Zippo!

Zakharchenko twirled the lighter — featuring an engraving of a blue-eyed tiger — which he had confiscated a month ago from some «dissident scum» and bragged about to anyone who would listen.

— Lieutenant, in short, there is this girl, quite pretty. You need to «have some fun» with her and, of course, arrange an unforgettable sexual photoshoot of the process. Outwardly, it should look as if a maniac did it — you know, tear the clothes, throw the underwear in the hallway, I shouldn’t have to teach you — but without blood or beatings. Yes, her mother will be home too. You’ll need to put them both under with chloroform. Take two more men from the squad. Here is the address, photos of the girl, and the apartment key.

The colonel handed Zakharchenko an envelope. Semyon opened it; inside were a photograph, a key, and a sheet with the address and the layout of the apartment where Nino lived. Semyon stared at the girl’s photo for a few minutes, then at the floor plan. Then he put the plan and photo back in the envelope, took the key, and placed it in his inner jacket pocket, laying the envelope back on the table before the colonel.

— Crystal! What a girl — Brigitte Bardot, — Semyon whistled. — It’s always like this: someone else gets to ride the beauty while I click the camera — it’s not fair. The mother isn’t bad either; maybe give her some pleasure too?

— Semyon, this isn’t your first assignment. Remember: no blood, no violence. Put them under, sleep with her, film it. The photos must be as juicy as possible. As for the mother — do as you like; your brutes would rape a crocodile if given the chance. I repeat: no hitting and certainly no killing — you’ll answer with your head! Tomorrow morning, negatives and the key on my desk. Dismissed.

The colonel pressed the call button.

— Some tea with lemon, Sonyechka, some tea.

The colonel rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

— Good girl, my daughter — she handled the key perfectly. Now David’s little bird is finished! I want to see his face when his buddies get their hands on photos of Nino’s bedroom scenes.

12. A Sleepless Night

Zhenya did not sleep the entire night. It had been a long time since she had felt such turmoil, such all-encompassing loneliness. She was suspended somewhere between spiritual prostration and total despair. Her small body — which had not yet known a man’s touch, yet had burned with passion for so many nights now — shook with indignation and rage.

They had offered to make her an informant, a spy, a watcher. And if Meliton’s life had not been placed on the other side of the scale, she would have certainly delivered a stinging slap for such insolence! But Meliton changed everything. Meliton — with whom she had long shared her loneliness in her dreams, in that bed where she made him surrender to her beauty, her grace, her lace lingerie, her beautiful body and fiery temperament — changed everything! Now, without a second thought, she would agree to sell her soul to the devil. Meliton’s life was not merely the life of a patient in her ward, but something far greater. Perhaps Zhenya would have given even more than what they were pushing her toward, if only she could become desired by him.

Yet, somewhere deep inside, a duality tormented her regarding this deal with her conscience and the price of meanness. Zhenya wondered: can meanness ever be justified? Are there gradations to betrayal? Where is that boundary, that Rubicon, after which conscience loses its meaning and meanness successfully dons any noble justification — from patriotism and heroism to poetic lyrics about the «impossibility of acting otherwise, because…"? And who is supposed to shift those boundaries back and forth along the scale of conscience?

Looking at the icons in the corner of her bedroom, Zhenya searched for some solid ground, some justification. She appealed to God, realizing that at this very moment, she was her own God.

— For me, — Zhenya thought — Meliton’s life can outweigh almost anything. But for someone else, Meliton is a nobody, and everything that is vital and essential to me right now isn’t worth a broken kopek to another.

She realized she was on the verge of losing her mind, but the thoughts wouldn’t let her go. If, after her report, someone is sentenced to five years instead of ten, does that make her meanness smaller? And if they are shot, is it greater? But the report would be exactly the same! Everything was so complex and relative, and often completely independent of the desire or will of the one writing. If she didn’t write it — someone else would. No one would even notice if her life vanished; and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate her sacrifice. Evil is multifaceted only to those watching from the sidelines. When you are at a logging camp or in a labor-camp brothel, a term of five or ten years is practically the same, since two years in those conditions is effectively a death sentence.

Zhenya suffered not only from having to make a choice where no alternative existed. She was also tormented by the fact that Meliton had no inkling of how much she loved him. He was grieving for a wife who had betrayed him — a woman with whom he should have died in that accident because of her stupidity, her folly, her jealousy, or her infidelity. Zhenya didn’t even want to know why that woman had betrayed her husband, forgetting that the millstones grind down both enemies and those who expose them with equal success. But was she destined for the same fate? Zhenya felt a wave of nausea. She wanted to hide behind the back of the man she had unwittingly saved from torture and death by hiding that letter to «Comrade Stalin.» Was this all the hand of God? Was God saving him for her? Zhenya crossed herself. Outside the window, the sky began to lighten.

Walking down the hospital corridor, Zhenya was already a different person. Today she knew exactly what she would say to the major and how. Her sleepless night had defined much in her life — her new life, in which she could no longer wait for things to happen on their own.

It was still early and the corridor was empty. At the desk, the nurse on duty sat with her head buried in a book illuminated by a desk lamp; she was either reading or sleeping.

Zhenya approached the door, adjusted her hair, checked if the buttons on her robe were fastened, and resolutely opened the door. Meliton was asleep. Evgenia latched the door behind her and approached the bed.

The major’s haggard face, overgrown with stubble, betrayed his spiritual pain and his lack of desire to live. The fact that he had caused the accident, and that he had survived while Mary had not, lay upon him as a guilt that completely stripped him of life’s motivation. The final blow had been dealt by his mother-in-law, who had demonstratively refused to bring his daughter.

— Enough, my dear, enough. Life hasn’t stopped! Your Mary received what she had prepared for you. You haven’t lost your daughter — that depends on you. But as for the fact that you have been incredibly lucky — you will hear that from me today!

Zhenya walked to the window. She gathered her thoughts, adjusted the curtain, and mechanically ran her finger along the windowsill, trying to calm the heart leaping out of her chest.

— How hard it is to tell a person you love them, that you need them, need them constantly — even when they lower their trousers for an injection automatically, as if for a doctor, flashing a bare backside, and you prick that backside as if it were already something of your own, something dear. My God, I already know him better than many wives know their husbands. — Zhenya smiled at her thoughts. — I understand when women cheat, looking for something «more.» Here, it’s a different case. It’s likely I’m the one who will have a hard time.

Zhenya felt herself blushing. She glanced briefly at the peacefully sleeping Meliton and, as she always did when nervous, mechanically checked if all the buttons on her robe were fastened.

— Well, there’s nothing to choose from, and it’s too late anyway.

Meliton stirred.

13. The Confession

Zhenya sat on the edge of the bed:

— Good morning, Comrade Major!

— Good morning, Zhenechka. Why so early? Even the birds aren’t singing yet.

Meliton sat up in bed, scratching a beard that had grown well beyond mere stubble.

— Major, I need to talk to you. This is a very serious conversation. Promise me that, if possible, you won’t interrupt me, all right?

— Is this about me shaving? I’ve already told you — it’s not just that I don’t want to shave; I don’t want to live. If that’s what this is about, don’t waste your time. Besides, I don’t have a razor. Open the window a crack, please; I’m going to smoke. — Meliton pulled out a pack of Belomorkanal left for him the day before yesterday by Major Khutsiev. — A thoughtful officer; he even left matches. I wonder if they found that car that hit us?

Meliton tapped the cardboard tube of the cigarette against the box and struck a match. For the first time since the accident, he took a long drag of the «Uritsky» tobacco. His head swam, and he broke into a cough.

— Imagine that, — he choked through the smoke. — It feels as if I’ve never smoked in my life!

Zhenya opened the small window pane, took a saucer from the nightstand, and handed it to him as an ashtray. She sat back down at the foot of his bed:

— Are you ready to listen to me?

— I’m listening, Zhenechka. It’s simply impossible to say no to someone as lovely as you.

Zhenya smiled:

— Well now, the Belomor has worked on you like a good narcotic! You’ve started to notice that besides your wife, there are other women — even pretty ones.

— Don’t touch Mary. — The pilot’s eyes turned sharply toward Zhenya, flashing with anger. — You didn’t know her. It hasn’t even been a week since she was buried. Aren’t you ashamed? And what right do you have anyway? Who are you? Leave! You may be pretty, but you are cold and tactless. I know you aren’t married; you clearly have no idea what love is, what one will do for its sake, or what agony a person suffers when they lose their beloved — especially through their own fault. Leave, I don’t want to see you! And why are you always hovering around me anyway? Aren’t there other nurses?

Zhenya stood up abruptly and headed for the door, but before reaching it, she turned back:

— No. Now you will have to listen to me! Smoke your cigarette and try not to twitch. If you need to, hold onto the bedframe, but don’t overdo it — don’t break the bed.

The major, not expecting such spirit from the nurse, stared at her in surprise.

— When they brought you in after the accident, you were unconscious in the admissions ward. I was the one who received you. I noticed a letter in your map case and, after reading the addressee, I managed to hide it in my blouse without being seen. That same day, comrades from the NKVD arrived and were searching desperately for that letter. They summoned me, demanding to know if I had seen anything that wasn’t listed in the inventory of the major’s personal belongings.

— Are you insane? I have no idea what letter you’re talking about! Maybe you overheard the conversation with my mother-in-law about Mary’s letter?

— Major, don’t play the lamb with me. I’m talking about the letter that was marked: «Strictly Secret. To Comrade Stalin Personally.»

A heavy silence fell. Meliton slumped against the pillow, pale, his eyes half-closed. Then he sat up again, took a deep drag, and asked without opening his eyes:

— Where is the letter? Did you read it?

— No, I didn’t read it. And when I realized exactly what the «osobists» were looking for, I burned it. While you were still unconscious, two officers came by specifically to find out from you where that letter was — they were checking to see if you were faking.

Then, one of those «osobists» supposedly «perished,» and that gave you a chance to stay out of the basement of the Special Department. You see, your wife, Mary, was an informant for the man who died. It was she who wrote the denunciation about the letter. The accident was arranged for you, though they made a mistake — they thought you would be alone, but you were with your wife. And she was the one who died, not you. But the biggest mistake involved the letter: they knew about it from the denunciation, but they didn’t know the contents, so they searched for it with particular care.

Meliton was paler now than when he had been unconscious. The cigarette trembled in his fingers. A single tear rolled down his right cheek and vanished into his stubble.

— Her mother hinted to me that she had reported the letter. I didn’t believe it; I thought she was just being spiteful. Now, much looks different. This… I still need to digest this. To re-evaluate. It’s too low, too base!

Zhenya fell silent.

She would say nothing of her conversation with Khutsiev — not now, not ever. The main thing was that Meliton would live. As for what came next — let God decide.

The major looked at Zhenya:

— Zhenechka, forgive me… I’m a fool for offending you. I knew nothing about Mary. And I loved that woman! Why did she want me dead so badly? For what, or for whom? — Meliton fell silent, took a deep drag, and began to blow smoke rings. — But what made you risk your life like that?

Zhenya flushed red and, quite unexpectedly even to herself, blurted out:

— I love you!

14. Violation

In the evening, returning from the Academy of Arts, Nino saw David’s white Volga parked near the house. It was only when she almost reached for the door handle that she realized it wasn’t David’s car. Men were sitting inside. A wave of heat washed over Nino from the surprise; she hurried past and almost ran into the entrance.

— The little bird has flown into the cage, — Zakharchenko said, taking a drag of his cigarette. — Well, did everyone see the girl?

— We saw her, — a voice grumbled from the back seat. — She’s choice.

— That’s the one. Her and her mother are the ones we’ll be «breaking in,» but I’m warning you now: no blood, no beatings, and certainly no killing. If anything goes wrong — I’ll kill you with my own hands!

— Come on, what are we, some kind of murderers? Well, it happens sometimes, but not to girls as beautiful as that. They should be loved, not killed. By the way, is a double-rape allowed?

— It is.

— Then consider yourself lucky, Semyon. I’ll rape her twice — the second time for you, while you’re clicking away with the camera. — Gela let out a braying laugh from the back.

— At ease! One on watch, two resting. We go up at four, when everything in the house has quieted down.

Semyon quietly switched on the «Mayak» radio station.

Around four o’clock, Semyon and his subordinates — in gloves, masks, and sneakers — stood at the door of the apartment where Nino Meskhi lived with her mother, Dali Pertaya. In Semyon’s hand was the key to Nino’s apartment.

At her father’s request, Lali had made the impression for the key. She was a good student and, under her father’s guidance, had quickly mastered the process of making a mold from a key. She didn’t know what her father wanted the key for, and she didn’t want to know; but she knew for certain that this key would help drive Nino away from David. Finally — she would be able to remove this proud girl who was trespassing on what belonged only to her. David was hers; he was betrothed to her and would be her husband, and no Nino or any other girl would stand in her way.

Lali had been able to put the plan with the key into action a week prior, when she and Nino were at a cafe with a group. The girls had stepped out to the restroom as usual. Lali used that moment to take an impression of Nino’s house key.

Now, as Colonel Khutsishvili’s men used the key made from that mold to open the apartment door, they had no inkling that they were opening Pandora’s box — that the wake of this atrocity would touch many fates, directly or indirectly affecting almost every character in this story. And if no good deed goes unpunished, then certainly no evil deed does either.

Semyon inserted the key into the lock, hesitated for a moment as if considering whether to open it or not. The door opened easily, almost silently. Despite being in the apartment for the first time, the intruders oriented themselves perfectly; thanks to the plan, they knew the layout of this section of the ancient building. Semyon had prepared the operation meticulously; there could be no slip-ups — the boss wouldn’t forgive it. At his own home, the group had rehearsed the entire process several times, from entering the building to leaving it, trying to foresee every detail. It’s the small details that usually get you caught.

Once inside the apartment, they acted almost on autopilot.

Approaching the bedroom door, Zakharchenko illuminated the way with his Zippo featuring the tiger engraving. Gela opened a jar of chloroform and soaked two handkerchiefs. The men moved quickly into the bedroom. Moonlight streamed through the uncurtained window, so the room was not dark. Two beautiful women, looking much alike in the moonlight, slept on the double bed. The young one lay on the left, the mother on the right by the window. The men pressed the handkerchiefs firmly against the faces of both sleepers. After a minute, Nino went limp and stopped resisting, though her eyes seemed to react. The mother, however, began to resist actively after a minute or two, even starting to scream. One of the attackers struck her in the chin; her head jerked, and the woman went quiet. Her handkerchief was soaked with a fresh dose of chloroform.