Before we could be assigned to a Wallenberg, we embarked on a series of solo training missions. For our first we were sent to St Petersburg to collect a flash-drive that contained encodements of top-secret communiqués detailing Plutovich’s plan to weaken Western democracies with cyberattacks and assassinations of world leaders likely to foil him. Briefing us, Hrant explained that transmitting intelligence of such importance electronically or by diplomatic bag – not as safe as it was purported to be – would be too risky. The flash-drive had to be collected in person.
The incriminating data had been compiled by a reputable historian, Yevgeny Ulyanov, who had hidden it in the manuscript of his explosive new book about the October Revolution. We were sent as excited publicity representatives of his European publisher. On arrival we phoned Yevgeny to arrange a rendezvous. Agreeing to see us the next day, he suggested that rather than meeting at his agent’s stuffy office we should enjoy a leisurely lunch at Peterhof Grand Palace, a must-see marvel for tourists some fifty kilometres from St Petersburg on the Gulf of Finland’s southern shore. The serenity of the place, he cryptically added, would salve our nerves.
We were indeed nervous – certainly because of mission-jitters, but also because of a niggling feeling that though while speaking on the phone Yevgeny had sounded eager to meet us – even boasted exuberantly about his book – his voice had betrayed flashes of dread. The odd clicks on the line suggested that his amiability had not been for our ears only. Obviously, his anti-authority blogs had spurred the VSH to keep him under surveillance, but had they now received intelligence about the encodements in the flash-drive? When he said ‘salve our nerves’, did he mean that VSH suspected our well-publicised meeting was not just a publicity appointment?
For our rendezvous, we took the hydrofoil from the Hermitage Museum’s Embankment. The trip failed to calm our nerves.
Walking up from Peterhof’s pier through the Lower Gardens to the Grand Palace, we remained alert, but we didn’t spot anyone tailing us. As we approached the Grand Cascade, we saw Yevgeny standing by the main pool admiring Mikhail Kozlovsky’s majestic ‘Samson’ sculpture. On the phone, he’d described how we’d recognise him. ‘Writers fall into three categories,’ he’d said: ‘one: the outré, impeccably dressed, including bow ties and something in the buttonhole à la Oscar Wilde; two: Bohemian-like debauchees on a picnic in the woods; and three: shadowless shadows pickled in vodka like myself. You’ll peg me straightaway.’ With state-of-the-art unkempt hair and beard, a muzhik’s tunic, loose Turkic shalwars, flip-flops and a weathered satchel dangling from his shoulder, he looked like an understudy for Tolstoy.
He was under surveillance. Three couples seemingly awed by the Grand Cascade triangulated him. Young and fit, they were unmistakably VSH.
We strode over to him.
The three couples, maintaining their distances, edged closer.
One of the women, ostensibly videoing the surroundings with a camcorder, filmed us.
As we introduced ourselves Yevgeny kissed us the Russian way, several times on the cheek. ‘You look just as I imagined. Book-kulaks. Right?’
We concurred.
‘My English okay?’
‘Excellent.’
‘Self-taught. First Enid Blyton. Now on Classics. Shakespeare. Brontës. Dickens. Hardy. Can’t go wrong, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Pleasure before business. I’ll show you around. Okay?’ ‘Fine.’
‘Palace first. Then lunch – and business. Then goodbye. Come!’
We followed him.
Yevgeny rambled on as we toured the Grand Palace. He explained that Peter the Great had ordered its construction to rival Versailles, the palace of his contemporary, Louis XIV of France.
The German occupation during World War Two destroyed many of the sixty-four fountains, ravaged the Palace and left one of the wings burning. Admittedly much has been restored since; nonetheless it would still take years to renovate the rest. Of the Palace’s thirty-odd rooms two, the East and the West Chinese cabinets, had exquisite landscape paintings in yellow and black lacquer. The cynosure was the Chesma Hall where twelve great paintings by the German artist, Jacob Philipp Hackert, commemorated Russia’s naval victory over the Ottomans at Chesma in the Aegean – an amazing feat given that the Russian fleet had deployed from the Baltic Sea to lure the Ottomans away from the Black Sea.
Then it was time for lunch. We had the choice of three restaurants. One was courtly, exorbitant even for ‘tourists’ like us. The second catered for guided tours and was always crowded and noisy. The third, the proletariat’s café, served a selection of fast food.
Yevgeny pointed at the posh restaurant. ‘We deserve that one.’
We went there.
As two pairs of agents stayed outside in case we tried to get away, the third couple found a table close to us. They placed their techset on the table; its tiny red light indicated that it was already on.
I noted that Yevgeny was also aware – had been aware – of being under surveillance. But he hadn’t alerted us. Did he think we’d panic?
We had a lavish lunch. Yevgeny chose the most expensive items on the menu with a large dish of caviar as ‘pièce de résistance’ and two flagons of vodka to wash them down. The techset couple restricted themselves to a frugal vegetarian fare. Obviously, the agents’ employers was miserIy with expenses. I felt sorry for them.
Finally, dessert over, Yevgeny, sipping his second vintage cognac, opened his satchel. ‘Business now!’
He handed us the flash drive. ‘This is it! My book – it will make waves I’m sure.’
I noticed the flash drive’s high capacity: 512 gigabytes. Obviously, masses of stuff in it. I pocketed it. ‘Thanks.’
He smiled – probably for the video footage, I thought. ‘No, it is I who must thank you. You’re my midwives!’
He took out a thick manuscript from his satchel and opened it at a random page. ‘This is my master print copy. Same version as what’s on the drive. I’ve added some photos of me for your publicity. The book is important – it’s my masterpiece. Now look carefully at the text. Examine the Cyrillic alphabet. There were minor differences in the past. Since 1990 we have modified most of them. So, I want you to instruct your editors to study my style, comb the text meticulously, make sure there are no anachronisms. Ditto the punctuation!’
Belkis nodded. ‘I’m sure the translators would know what to do. They are the best in Europe. And I believe they already have your instructions.’
‘Even so. Insist on these points!’
I reassured him. ‘We will.’
Yevgeny turned prolix. ‘I may sound paranoid but I’m a perfectionist. For me conjugations and punctuations are kleptomaniacs – like life. Some meanings always get pickpocketed. Translators must be detectives – find the gold; get rid of the mica around it. This is possible with words. But much more difficult with punctuation. Because even as principles remain the same, applications vary. Let them look at the text like at a map – language’s map; my map. Tell them to explore the jungle of my mind and discover what I put consciously or unconsciously. Why did I use a full stop or a comma or a colon? Is there a double-entendre? Something left unsaid? A change of nuance? There are many banana skins in punctuation marks. Full stops and commas especially. They’re like milestones. Full stops bring new thoughts, new departures, something insignificant that might or might not grow big or create change. So, let them pause, think, decide. Patiently – not once or twice but ten, twenty, as many times as necessary. Comma says: take breath, reflect. Any clarification needed? A signpost for what’s to come? An aside revealing a secret? Again patience! Ten, twenty, breaths … I make these points because I know quick decisions can mislead or trick. Decisions are not clairvoyants. Right ones improve the translation. Wrong ones, the opposite …’
When he finished his speech, he looked drained.
I should admit Yevgeny’s logorrhoea had engaged me. I thought it wasn’t just bluster. There was, I felt, a pointer, a veiled instruction. When, later, I discussed his antics with Belkis, she remarked that she, too, had been mystified by it.
As I paid the enormous bill, Yevgeny chuckled. ‘Make sure you hand in the receipt as expenses! No doubt they’ll be furious at its size! Just tell them even workers must have a blowout now and again. That will be their punishment for being rich!’
I pocketed the receipt, imagining Hrant’s shock when he converted the roubles into euros.
We said good-bye outside the Restaurant. Yevgeny was going to take the bus to Veliky Novgorod – or Novgorod as he insisted calling it by its pre-1999 name – where he lived and which he patriotically regarded as the place where Russia was really born.
After the long-drawn embraces, he dug into his satchel again and brought out two Matryoshka nesting dolls. Graciously, he handed them to us. ‘Souvenir from Russia. Every visitor must have one! Particularly, new friends.’
As he walked away, two sets of the agents followed him. The techset couple stayed on and followed us into the hydrofoil.
When we disembarked at St Petersburg, four more VSH agents met the techset couple. Together, they arrested us on the suspicion that we were carrying contraband materials.
At the detention centre, they confiscated the flash-drive. We would remain in custody while their experts examined it.
They scanned and tested the Matryoshka nesting dolls and found nothing. We had verified that they were empty on the hydrofoil – but feared that they might plant some drugs to incriminate us.
We were then dragged into a cell in the middle of the night and – much to Belkis’ horror and protestations – were strip searched and our whole bodies were sadistically investigated for ‘alien matter’.
At some point during these proceedings, we asked about Yevgeny. They told us he was fine, celebrating his ‘sudden prosperity’ with a barrel of vodka.
We were released five days later with profuse apologies and all our belongings returned, including the flash-drive, the Matryoshka dolls and our receipt from the Peterhof restaurant. Then we were escorted to the Finland Station – famous for Lenin’s return from his exile in Switzerland – and put on the train to Helsinki.
Two months later, Hrant reported that the contents of the flash-drive was hailed as one of the most daring whistleblowing coups of all time. Yevgeny had proved to be a tech wizard. He had hidden the communiqués in pixels inside various letters and punctuation marks – an ingenious development inspired by the old microdot system – that could only be opened as a file by using as passwords various combinations of the letters and numbers on my credit card receipt from the Peterhof restaurant. Since no other item in the world would have the same letters and numbers as the receipt no expert in the world – including Yevgeny himself – would have been able to decipher the passwords. This not only explained Yevgeny’s tirade on punctuation, but also his insistence on safekeeping the receipt.
The exposure of Plutovich’s strategic plans – vehemently denied by Russia as ‘pure imaginative concoction’ – stirred the Western governments to set up countermeasures.
When eventually Yevgeny’s book was internationally published – even a samizdat edition appeared in Russia – it was hailed as the most illuminative chronicle of Bolshevik activities in the years leading to the Revolution.
But, alas, by that time, Yevgeny could not reap the accolades.
The VSH, outraged that it had been outwitted, countered in its traditional way. On a grey day, while waiting at a bus stop, Yevgeny suffered an anaphylactic attack. Breathless, his skin bursting with hives, he expired within minutes. The Russian media reported that he had been stung by a wasp – fatally allergic in his case – and praised him for his ‘valuable contribution to history’. A photograph from cctv footage showing a bystander ‘accidentally’ scratching Yevgeny’s ankle with her umbrella was quickly suppressed – but not before it went viral on the internet.