Dead Drop (eBook)

CHAPTER 6

A Trip Down
Soviet Lane

Spencer Hale

Colbie, Cal, Ravi and I are seated around the table with Mr. Fedorov, who has prepared a fresh pitcher of lemonade, closed the windows, and turned on the air conditioner. It took some doing to get Colbie and Cal to join us, especially once they learned Mr. Fedorov was home, but I convinced them it was okay. And necessary.

Tsarina is beside herself with the excitement of having four familiar visitors, walking from one to another of us, tail wagging, seeking attention.

“So,” says Mr. Fedorov, “you thought I was a spy. Maybe am still a spy? Not surprising, with my Soviet background and the gossip from next door.” He gestures with a burly arm in the direction of Mrs. Prattle’s house. “But,” he says, gazing back and forth between me and Ravi, “your analysis led you astray. In the intelligence business, it is not uncommon for deductive reasoning, based on limited information, to lead to a wrong conclusion. We’ll get to that. But I am a student of human behavior – any good spy is – and unless I’ve read the four of you wrong all along, I suspect you deserve the benefit of the doubt and that your bad decision to visit my home in my absence was based on good intentions.”

He takes a sip of lemonade, strokes his bushy gray horseshoe mustache, and squints at us. “I guess both sides have a story to tell here. Who shall go first?”

He glances at Colbie and Cal, who are still visibly nervous, unaware of how Ravi and I found ourselves sharing a lemonade with our prime suspect. “Tell you what, let me go first,” he says. “Then perhaps you’ll be more comfortable sharing with me why an old Cold War spy like me has suddenly sparked the interest of four high school basketball players with too much time on their hands. Something tells me the four of you have gotten yourselves into something, yes?”

Colbie, Cal and I glance at Ravi, who squirms under the attention.

“Come,” says Fedorov, pushing on the tabletop for leverage to get his huge frame out of the chair. He ambles toward his study, a little unsteady at first, Tsarina trailing him. “Let us return to the scene of the crime.”

We follow him. He walks to the section of framed photos on the wall opposite the door, and gestures to the one of him and President Reagan in the Oval Office. “I believe you boys were looking at this one,” he says. Ravi and I nod. Seeing it for the first time, Colbie and Cal understand how Ravi and I realized we misjudged Mr. Fedorov.

“So, you spied for the United States?” asks Colbie. “Against the Soviet Union?”

Mr. Fedorov nods. “For a couple of years, until I was caught. I was a KGB officer. My wife, son and I lived for many years in Western countries, including the United States. My first overseas tour was in Washington, D.C., in the 1960s. We lived on the Soviet compound, maybe twenty miles from here.” Colbie and Cal look at the photos of the young Mr. Fedorov and his family.

“Your wife is pretty, Mr. Fedorov,” says Colbie.

“Thank you, Colbie.” His smile is wistful. “Yes, she was beautiful.”

“Is that when you started working for the United States?” I ask. “When you were in Washington?”

“Nyet – no. That came much later. I was a patriot. I loved my country, the people, the customs and traditions. But over time I developed a profound appreciation for the freedoms enjoyed in the West, freedoms often taken for granted here. No, it was two decades later when I volunteered to the CIA. And there was much more to it than that.”

Mr. Fedorov walks to a bookcase on an adjacent wall. We follow. He points to a wooden, box frame on a shelf. In it, behind glass, is a certificate above a round gold medal with a big star in the middle. Inscribed around the outside of the medal is “Central Intelligence Agency.” Below the star is another inscription: “For Valor.”

“President Reagan presented me with this in the Oval Office,” says Mr. Fedorov.

The certificate above the medal identifies Pavel Fedorov as a recipient of the Intelligence Star “for extraordinary heroism under conditions of grave risk.” It is signed by CIA director William Casey, in 1988.

On another shelf, above the Intelligence Star, I see a framed photograph of a basketball team, in red jerseys with “CSKA” in white letters across the front. I spot one player who is tall, thin, and athletic-looking – the only player with a mustache.

“You played basketball?” I ask.

All eyes look up at the photo. “Da, a long time ago,” says Mr. Fedorov. “I played as a young man in the Soviet Union Premier Basketball League for the best team, CSKA Moscow. We won the FIBA European Champions Cup in 1963. Beat Real Madrid in the finals. I had eleven assists and fourteen points.” He smiles. “Today, we would call that a double-double.”

All of us look at him, thinking the same thing: this heavy old man, a Cold War hero and basketball star, has been living down the street from us all these years. And we never knew it.

“That’s legit!” says Ravi.

Mr. Fedorov laughs. “You are more impressed with the basketball than the Intelligence Medal.” He bends over slightly at the waist, a hand gripping his lower back.

“Mr. Fedorov, would you like to sit down?” asks Colbie. “Let’s go back to the kitchen.”

“Da. Your observation skills are strong, Colbie. You would make an excellent spy, if only you were better at concealing yourself behind trees across the street.” Mr. Fedorov raises his bushy gray eyebrows.

Colbie grimaces, gently takes his elbow, and guides him slowly back to the kitchen table. We follow, with Tsarina in tow.

“Did you play on the Soviet Olympic team?” asks Ravi as we sit.

“Nyet. I was not so lucky. I tore ligaments in my knee a few months before the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo.” He pulls up the left leg of his pants, revealing a long scar on his left knee. “Knee surgery was primitive in those days. I was never able to play the same again. That team lost to the U.S. in the finals. Won a silver medal.”

“Wow, you coulda won an Olympics silver medal!” says Ravi.

“Nyet,” says Mr. Fedorov. “It would’ve been a gold medal if I’d been on the team.”

He reaches down to pat Tsarina’s head. “The injury. Best thing that ever happened to me. I met my wife, Karina, going through rehab for my knee. She was a nurse.”

“What about your son, Mr. Fedorov?” asks Colbie. “Where is he now?”

“Dmitry.” Mr. Fedorov lowers his gaze to his glass of lemonade and takes a sip. “Killed in the senseless Soviet War in Afghanistan. Nineteen eighty-four. Such a young man – still a boy, really. Always looking for adventure.” He smiles. “Perhaps a bit like the four of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fedorov,” says Colbie.

“So you got married and joined the KGB,” says Cal, joining the conversation for the first time as he sets his baseball and glove on the table.

“Da, yes. Playing tournament basketball in Europe, it was my first time outside the Soviet Union. Such an adventure. Experiencing cultures so different from mine. Players from other countries – we played Finland, Spain, France – seemed more carefree. Meanwhile, our players were watched constantly by KGB minders. Preventing anyone from defecting to the West. I realized – my teammates, too – that Western countries, the people, were far different from how they were portrayed by the Soviet government. It made me want to travel more. When an opportunity with the KGB came along after my injury, we – Karina and I – decided to take advantage of it. Despite our reservations. The job came with more privileges and an opportunity to see the world. And then Dmitry came along. It was a perfect life.”

“What was it like?” I ask. “Growing up in the Soviet Union, I mean.”

“The Soviet system was repressive, though I didn’t understand it until I was older. We were conditioned to view life as a constant struggle against enemies of the people, outside our country, but inside it, too. Soviet children were taught that loyalty to the Soviet government was the most important trait one could possess. As a schoolboy, I learned to honor the legacy of Pavlik Morozov, a twelve-year-old boy who reported his own father to the secret police for hiding grain from the authorities during the 1930s Stalin era.”

“This boy was a hero for ratting out his own dad?” asks Ravi.

Mr. Fedorov nods. “He was the model for other children. There were statues of him. Schools were named after him. Can you imagine?”

“Did you know it was different in other countries?” asks Colbie. “Like in the United States or Europe?”

“Nyet. It was illegal to listen to a foreign radio broadcast or be...