The Class

  “Because you were brought up a Marxist and because perhaps you sometimes have nostalgia—”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t mean for the system, but for the old country. Don’t you feel the slightest bit deracinated?”

  “I’m an American,” George Keller answered firmly.

  Dmitri pondered his reaction for a moment, reached into his pocket, and withdrew two thin silver canisters.

  “Cigar?” he asked. “They’re Havanas. We bring them over in our diplomatic pouch. I bet you’ve never had one, eh?”

  “No, thanks,” George said politely. “I don’t smoke.”

  He wanted the FBI observers to note that he would not even touch a Communist cigar.

  Yakushkin lit up and started blowing little rings.

  “Dr. Keller,” he started with deliberate slowness, “I have some information that may be of interest to you.”

  The Russian’s sudden change of tone made George uncomfortable.

  “I’m always glad to receive information from the Russian Embassy,” he replied with nervous humor.

  “It’s about the status of your father,” said the diplomat. “I thought you might like to know that—”

  “I know my father’s risen in the party,” George interrupted with annoyance.

  “I mean the status of his health.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “He has lung cancer.”

  “Oh,” George said gravely. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It will no doubt be very painful,” the Russian added. “What do you mean ‘painful’?”

  “Look,” Dmitri began with fraternal consolation, “you’re an expert on East European affairs and you know the level of hospital facilities in Hungary. We don’t have the abundant supply of medication that you have in the West. So it’s not clear how long he’ll live. It could be one year. It could be several months.…”

  Yakushkin sighed like a world-weary physician.

  “George, this wretched arms race sometimes makes humanitarian concerns a secondary matter. If your father were in America, he would be so much more comfortable. You are so far ahead of us in—what’s the word?—analgesics.”

  “I’m sure Party officials don’t lack for Western medicine, Dmitri.”

  “True,” the Russian conceded. “But as you and I know, your father’s rank is not that high.…”

  He paused and blew another Cuban smoke ring.

  “I don’t see what all this has to do with me,” George protested quietly.

  “Well,” Dmitri said with a little smile, “a father is a father. I mean, if I were in your place I would want to help him. At least to die peacefully. It’s possible I could be in a position to help him.”

  “Then do so.”

  There was a pause, like the rest period between rounds of a fight.

  Yakushkin replied simply, “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “What the hell are you driving at?”

  Dmitri refilled George’s wine glass and then spoke in friendly, reassuring tones.

  “Please, Keller, if you think I’m going to ask you to commit espionage, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “But you do want me to do something,” George insisted.

  “Yes. Something perfectly legal. It is simply a matter of unblocking the logjam of your government’s bureaucracy. We have been trying for months now to obtain a piece of equipment—”

  “Which, I suppose, you would like me to steal,” George interrupted.

  “No, no. This is a small device that we are trying to buy. Do you hear me? Buy. It is merely a gadget for enhancing photographic images from weather satellites. There’s no hanky-panky here, but your Department of Commerce just won’t get off the fence.”

  “And you want me to push them?”

  “ ‘Push’ is too strong a word,” the diplomat replied. “I would prefer to say ‘gently nudge.’ Look, all I want you to do is satisfy yourself that the Taylor RX-80 is of no military value. Take your time and give me a buzz when you’ve checked it out. Anyway, I’ve had a very pleasant evening.”

  “Yes,” George replied, trying to keep his psychic equilibrium. “Thanks very much.”

  • • •

  In his Memorandum of Conversation to the FBI referring to his second meeting with Dmitri Yakushkin, Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy, George Keller wrote succinctly:

  I tried to recruit him. He tried to recruit me.

  Game ended in a scoreless tie.

  G.K.

  But in fact, in the days that followed, George was haunted by thoughts of the father whom he hated. And by thoughts of that same father lying in agony in a Budapest hospital. Whom he could no longer hate.

  After three days and nights he was still in an anguished quandary. The thought even occurred to him that the Russians might be bluffing. For all he knew, his father might be hale and hearty in some elegant resort for Party officials. How could he be sure?

  Dmitri Yakushkin had anticipated this. On the fourth morning, when George went downstairs to get the mail, he found a large manila envelope that had been delivered by hand.

  It contained two chest X-rays and a short note from the diplomat:

  Dear George,

  I thought these might be of interest.

  D.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  September 30, 1973

  I’m scared that something’s terribly wrong with George Keller. He called me this afternoon and asked me, since I’m active in alumni affairs, whether I knew any good doctors in the Washington area.

  I was puzzled for several reasons. Why did he ask me, a layman? And why didn’t he ask some friends of his who live in his area?

  He explained that it was something really serious and had to be kept confidential. Of course, I said that I would try to help him but I’d need some details, like exactly what kind of doctor he was looking for.

  At first he gave a very strange answer. He needed someone “very trustworthy.”

  This made me think that George might be having some kind of nervous breakdown. I mean, I know those high-security guys are under tremendous pressure.

  But, no. What he wanted was the name of the best oncologist within driving distance of Washington.

  This really upset me. Why did he need a cancer specialist? I didn’t feel I had the right to ask.

  I just told him I’d make some discreet inquiries among my medical friends and call him back. Then he quickly insisted that he’d call me.

  At this point the operator interrupted to say that his three minutes were up. He shoved in some more coins just to say he’d call the next day at exactly the same time.

  Naturally, I immediately contacted the alumni office and asked one of my old buddies who works there to have the computer try to find what George needed (without using any names, of course). I soon found out that a classmate, Peter Ryder, was now a professor of oncology at Johns Hopkins, in nearby Baltimore.

  Though I was worried about his health, something else also disturbed me.

  Why did he call from a pay phone?

  Peter Ryder, Professor of Oncology at Johns Hopkins Medical School, startled George by his greeting.

  “Kak pozhivias?” he said.

  “I don’t understand. Why are you speaking Russian to me?”

  “Gosh,” said the tall, balding physician, unable to conceal his disappointment, “don’t you remember me? I sat right next to you in Slavic 168. But I guess in those days you were too busy listening to the lecture to notice anything else, huh?”

  “Uh, I suppose so,” George said distractedly. “Do you think we could go somewhere private and talk?”

  “Yes, of course. You said you had some X-rays. We can look at them in my office.”

  George clutched the manila envelope as he followed the white-coated specialist down the corridor. Even when the door to Ryder’s office was closed, he would not relinquish the photographs.

  “Doctor,” he said in confidential
tones, “there’s something I must explain to you first.”

  “Please call me Pete,” he insisted.

  “Well, Pete, you know that I work for the State Department. These X-rays are of a security nature.”

  “I don’t follow you, George.”

  “They are of a high-ranking Communist leader and were smuggled out under great secrecy. I need to be sure that there will be no written report of this conversation. And I won’t be able to explain why I need the information.”

  “That’s okay,” Ryder replied. “I’m savvy enough to guess it’s important for you guys to know how healthy the big shots on the other side are. Anyway, you can count on my discretion.”

  He pinned the X-rays to his lighted cabinet. And immediately said, “I don’t understand why you had to come to an oncologist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean any med student could see what’s wrong. See that black mark on the apex—that’s the upper lobe—on the left lung? That’s a very large malignancy. This patient has very little time to live—several months at most.” He then turned to George and asked, “Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

  George hesitated and then asked, “Is it possible for you to tell me if the patient is in any … distress?”

  “I can make a pretty accurate conjecture,” Ryder answered and turned back to the photograph. “The carcinoma seems to be impinging on the brachial plexus of nerves. This would cause severe pain in the upper chest at that point and radiate down the arm as well.”

  George was momentarily at a loss for further questions.

  “Is there anything else I can tell you?” the physician asked.

  “Uh—yes. Just some theoretical information, if you would, please—uh—Pete. If this person were your patient, how would you go about treating him?”

  “Well, there’s zero chance of actually reversing the disease, but we could perhaps prolong life with X-ray treatment and some of the new drugs like Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan. These could be used singly or in combination.”

  “Would they ease the pain?” George asked.

  “In many cases. If not, we have a whole pharmacopoeia of narcotics and sedatives.”

  “So it’s possible that even a person as sick as this could … die in peace?” George asked.

  “I’d like to think that’s a very important part of my job,” Ryder said gently.

  “Thank you very much, Pete,” George mumbled, and tried to keep his wits about him to make a nonchalant exit.

  “Not at all,” his classmate replied. “But could I ask you a question? I mean, you can count on my complete discretion.”

  “What?”

  “Is it Brezhnev?”

  “I’m sorry,” George replied softly. “I can’t tell you.”

  George asked his secretary to get Stephen Webster of the Commerce Department on the phone. He was a technology expert fresh out of MIT who had recently introduced himself to George at a party. And who, like all ambitious young men arriving in Washington, was eager to curry favor with his superiors.

  “Gee, Dr. Keller,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a pleasant surprise hearing your voice. How can I help you?”

  “Steve,” he began casually, “this is really a very small matter. Are you familiar with this RX-80 business?”

  “You mean the Taylor photographic filter?” the scientist inquired, anxious to show he was on top of things.

  “Yes. Could you explain to a layman like me just what the thing does?”

  “Sure. We’re using it on weather satellites to sharpen our pictures and prevent guys like you from getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.”

  “Sounds pretty innocuous to me,” George replied. “That’s the reason some of us at State were wondering why you guys are sitting on it. Could it possibly serve any military purpose?”

  “Well,” Webster replied, “almost anything could. It depends how you use it. I mean, theoretically, a clearer satellite image might help you aim a missile better.”

  “So which way are you guys going to go on this?”

  “Listen, Dr. Keller, I’m practically one step above the office boy. If you want my opinion, it probably depends on what State decides.”

  “Do you mean Kissinger?”

  “Could I possibly mean anyone else?”

  “Thanks, Steve. By the way, do you play tennis?”

  “A little,” he replied eagerly.

  “Then I’ll call you sometime next week and maybe we could hit a few balls.”

  This time it was George’s turn to invite Yakushkin to dinner. He chose Cantina d’Italia, another elegant Washington restaurant favored by the Russians for détente dinners. As soon as they ordered, he got right to the point.

  “Dmitri, I’ve done some preliminary explorations with Commerce and it does appear we could possibly speed along your government’s request for that little filter.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” said the young diplomat, smiling broadly. “I’m extremely grateful to you. And if there’s any way I can ever reciprocate …”

  George tried to glance around in a nonfurtive way to see if they were within earshot of the other guests.

  But Yakushkin knew what was on his mind and immediately remarked, “You know, you wouldn’t recognize your native city, George. Budapest has modern skyscrapers now, modern hospitals with the best facilities and advanced medications.…”

  “The very best?”

  “I’ll wager they’ve got any drug you have in the West. Try and stump me if you can.”

  He had made it easy for George, who had, of course, memorized the relevant pharmacology.

  “How about Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan, for example?”

  “Certainly obtainable when the circumstances call for them.”

  “I’m very impressed,” said George.

  And both gamesmen knew it was time to switch to other topics.

  In his capacity as Assistant Secretary of State for East European Affairs, George would prepare a series of policy memos, consistent with his boss’s political philosophy, but written by himself and given to Kissinger in a pile at the end of each week.

  By now he was so adept at doing this that he could even reproduce Henry’s distinctive turns of phrase. That Friday the heap of correspondence to various departments and bureaus included a brief memo to a middle-ranking office at the Department of Commerce:

  There seems no point in holding up the sale of the Taylor RX-80. Its military value is tenuous at best. Besides, we might as well sell to them and get the money before they steal it.

  Yours,

  HAK.

  George briefed the Secretary of State on the contents of what he had placed before him.

  They were mostly policy directives, notes to various think-tanks to be sure their area studies were on target. And one or two miscellaneous notes, like a memo to DOD about security precautions at an upcoming arms-trade show. Also a note to DOC about an innocuous camera device the Soviets want to buy.

  “Who did you check it out with to be sure it was ‘innocuous’?” Kissinger asked.

  “Oh, an MIT whiz kid at Commerce named Webster,” George replied casually.

  “I don’t think I know him. Is he new?”

  George nodded. “But I looked into him. Apparently, nobody knows more than he does about this filter.”

  “Do you think I ought to have a word with him myself?”

  George’s mind raced frantically. “Uh—I don’t think you need to in this case.”

  “I suppose you’re right. You always do a thorough job, George. Okay, you go home while I sign these.”

  “Thanks, Henry.”

  His boss looked up. “Have a good weekend, George. Don’t work too hard.”

  Henry Kissinger remained at his desk for another two and a half hours. During which time he executed sixty-five different directives, including all the documents given him by George Keller.

  Jason Gilbert’s parents did
not go to Israel as planned in early October 1973. Because, as the country was at a standstill for Yom Kippur—the sacred day of atonement—the Egyptian and Syrian armies attacked in force.

  Israel was caught completely off guard and, for several days, hovered on the brink of annihilation.

  By the time news of the simultaneous attacks on the frontiers reached central command, Egyptian tanks had crossed the Suez Canal and were slaughtering the forces manning the southernmost lookout points. It seemed as if they would reach Tel Aviv without resistance.

  The north was even worse. There hundreds of Syrian tanks had smashed across and were only a few hours from the population centers.

  The handful of Israeli troops on duty dug in to slow the onslaught, knowing that the cost would be great, but equally aware that they had no alternative.

  As the radio broke the silence of the holy day with frantic code messages to mobilize the nation’s reserves, Jason received a call at the kibbutz.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded anxiously.

  “Listen, saba, don’t ask questions. It’s chaos in central HQ. We’re mobilizing like mad, but meanwhile we’ve got to slow the Syrians down. Get as many men as you can up to the Heights and reinforce them until we can get more armor through. Hurry the hell up to Nafa and report to General Eytan. He’ll give you a command.”

  “Of whom?” Jason snapped.

  “Of whoever’s still living, dammit! Now get going.”

  Jason and five other kibbutzniks took one of their trucks and started north up the bumpy road, stopping every few miles to pick up other soldiers headed for the front. Some of them were still in jeans and sweatshirts, carrying only their weapons and ammunition. They said almost nothing during the ride.

  But the Syrians had gotten to Nafa before them, and forced General Eytan to retreat.

  The kibbutzniks found him in an improvised camp right by the roadside. Jason was stunned by the number of soldiers dead and wounded. The live and the quick were in short supply. Only a handful of reservists had been able to muster.

  Among the half-dozen officers being briefed by Eytan, Jason recognized another member of the elite Sayaret Matkal, Yoni Netanyahu. The two nodded at each other as they listened to the commander’s litany of disaster.