Tag: cia

Jazz with Ella

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VOLGA RIVER, JULY 17, 1974
“She’s madder than a hornet, and she’s calling for your blood,” teased Marty. He ducked out of Hank’s way. It was lunch time on the morning after Hank had found Lona’s mysterious black book. “I guess she tortured your waitress friend until she confessed.”
“I’ll go find her,” Hank muttered. “I don’t want Chopyk or Jennifer to find out. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He didn’t have far to look. They smacked into one another at the door to the dining room.
“You…creep,” Lona growled at Hank, her usual Cheshire cat smile missing. “Now, give me back my book!”
He couldn’t resist one last stand. “Uh…whatcha talking about?” She was about to raise her voice again, when he hustled her down the hall, one hand firmly on her back, until they were out of earshot of the passengers.
“Okay, so I took it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to know why you’re on this trip—and don’t give me that line about being a student.”
Lona drew herself up to her full height and bristled like an alley cat prepared to do battle. She thrust out her hand imperiously. “It’s none of your business, you thief. I want my book back right now!”
Hank knew when he was licked. “I just …heck, I’d still like to know. I’ll get it for you.” He walked her to his cabin, and she waited at the door, tapping her toe, until he placed the worn black book in her hand. “Come on, Lona. I just wanted to get to know you. Maybe we could still be friends.”
In fact, the book had been a big disappointment—besides a list of Russian names and addresses there were only a few other notes on icons

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The Circle

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EMILY IS GETTING READY for Matthew’s funeral service at Mount View
Memorial. Jennifer and Hakim should be at the house soon. Talal is there with
her, as he has been ever since Matthew’s death, and Emily appreciates that. She’s
in love with this young Iraqi man with the lilting voice and the cute smile. They
haven’t made love during these last days and she wonders how Talal feels about
that. But she is very appreciative of the time and space he has given her.
He has prepared a simple breakfast and goes upstairs to see if she is ready to eat
before they leave. It’s early morning and a good cup of coffee, at least, is in order. He
finds her out of the shower and in front of the mirror doing her eyes. He hugs her
from behind. She cuddles in his arms and lays her head back on his shoulder.
“Are you hungry, sweet Emily?”
She smiles at him in the mirror and nods yes.
“Are you hungry, sweet Talal?”
His eyes look deeply into hers in the mirror, and as he rubs her buttocks he
laughs.
“Yes, my sweet Emily, yes. However, now is time for breakfast. Let’s have a
good cup of coffee.”
She turns and hugs him tightly; she seeks his lips and kisses him passionately.
“I’m in love with you, sweet Talal, and I don’t care what tomorrow brings. I
don’t care how long this is going to last.”
“I’m in love with you, too, sweet Emily, and I know this is going to last a long
time.”
They go downstairs to the family room and he serves their coffee toasted
bread and jam. She leans closer to him and kisses him once more when Jennifer
and Hakim come in and see them kissing. Jennifer looks at Hakim, who smiles,
“So what, Jennifer? They are adults. Why are you looking at me as if they have
done something wrong?”
Talal gets up to greet them and says to Jennifer, “Your mother is a beautiful
person. Be proud of her in the same way that she’s very proud of you.”
“I know my mother,Talal. I just find myself wondering and I don’t know why.”
Emily smiles at Hakim and asks him, “What happened with the apartment?”
“Well, the deal was finalized today. The agent called earlier…

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Jazz With Ella

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and pedal off. As soon as Tanya strolled in the other direction, Paul and Vera emerged from the bushes.
“We must go in and see.” Vera dragged him to the rickety building.
“We don’t need to,” he demurred.
“You think I am a spy, but it is good to have this information. It is good to know about our government officials. It can help us.”
“And I thought you would be a good communist,” said Paul.
She stopped in the path and stared at him. “But I am being a good communist. I am.”
She darted away into the boathouse and Paul followed to find her casting about widely at this love nest as if she would find something incriminating that she could take away.
★
The home of Fyodor Shukshin was set half a mile down a winding dirt path that branched off the main regional road. It was a dark, old, wooden house with some remnants of the original gingerbread still clinging to the eaves, though it had long needed paint and repair. At the gate stood a cement well covered with a sloping roof and this had been kept in trim condition. The front yard was a small patch of dirt with signs of thorough grazing by chickens now gone to roost. Although the light was waning, Paul could see that the surrounding fields were covered in growth: beet greens and carrot tops showed on one side, bright green potato plants on the other. They entered the house through a groaning, battered door and Vera greeted her father.
Vera’s sudden return to the farm even with a stranger in tow bothered Fyodor Shukshin not one bit. Apparently she was in the habit of dropping in at home at any opportunity in her work schedule.
“So it’s you,” he snorted. “Come from across the Volga.”
“Some day I’ll go much farther away than Toglyatti,” she said, smiling at her father fondly, then turning to Paul. “Meanwhile, I like to visit here.”
Her father returned the smile a bit cynically. “Of course, when you can get fresh vegetables here—and sell them for a profit—why wouldn’t you like to visit your old father?”
She grinned, searched through the cupboards and served pickles in a bowl accompanied by slices of heavy black bread. At first Vera’s father appeared delighted to meet the foreigner.

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The Circle

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it’s best for their morale, for their belief in the rationality of what they do every
day, and for their steadfastness in moving ahead. He has been around these
people and this agency for a long time since leaving Baghdad, since the days he
thought he had a good future with the CIA. Time has passed along with his belief
in a good future. What went wrong? He has wondered many a time; Ibrahim is
right. Bevan knows deep in his heart that Ibrahim is right. The problem is what
the agency does and what his department does is often questionable. This has
troubled him for a while. He has a hard time understanding the reasoning
behind decisions taken that are based on a mounting fear in the psyche of the
American people. He has been abroad for many years in which he has come
across people of many different nationalities; Muslims and others and they are
seldom the way they have been portrayed by the administration and by the
Ameerican media at the best of times. Following the end of the term of the “war
president” the people elected a different party and the stand of the country
abroad softened a bit, but after a couple of terms they were back at the same old
doctrine of pre-emptive strikes whenever it felt right, and Bevan knows that’s
not the best approach. Sometimes it’s better to sit and talk to a person instead of
unleashing the power of the killing machine and later trying to find answers to
questions you never asked to begin with.
He knows something has to be done about all this. Yet there are times when
he doubts even himself, even the comments from Ibrahim, his good friend. Does
he doubt his friend? A number of times he has thought about that, as well. After a
while his mind gets stuck on the idea that something has to be done with this
department, something has to change; it cannot keep on going like this for ever,
it cannot keep on going on with the killings and the atrocities. Yes, he knows,
something has to change.
He has tried over the past five or six years to change the mentality of a
number of people whom he has talked to; but has found it difficult to convince
most of the people in higher positions that what they do and how they approach
things is wrong. Some seem to thrive on other peoples’ misery and cannot
suddenly change direction because Bevan Longhorn wants it. He knows the only
way something will ever change is when something dramatic happens. Bevan has
been thinking about that for quite a while.
Ibrahim is right; substantial change takes place only when dramatic events
precede, like the attack in New York in 2001. He takes a copy of the memo he has
issued to his personnel and puts it in his wallet. He closes the file and calls his
secretary to pick it up. Then he finishes eating his sandwich and asks Dorothy to
remove his cold coffee.

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Jazz with Ella

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Elizabeth and the other a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep. The two laughing women that accompanied Slava looked on with interest.
“Let me give you something in return.” A dignified Slava reciprocated with two artistically decorated stamps from his album, which he had brought along for this purpose. Lona, who was seated at the next table, apparently took her cue from Jennifer because she also rummaged in her purse for a gift, pulled out an American nickel, and began explaining the significance of the buffalo to a group of enraptured young men.
By the time the party broke up, some two hours later, the students and visitors had warmed to each other. Jennifer had learned something about their lives: their brothers and sisters, their schools, their music and their anxiety that they would somehow discredit themselves in front of their superiors on the day’s visit—this last concern added in a whisper. She glanced around. But their commissar was still engrossed in conversation with Chopyk and both Ivan Nikolaevich and Natasha had disappeared—presumably leaving the group in good hands. What a relief, Jennifer thought. Finally, Nadezdha brayed her goodbyes to Chopyk, while Lona exchanged addresses with at least four of the panting youths.
Just before he left the dining room, Slava turned to Jennifer. “Stay with us, Zhennifer, please. You can have a good life here. Stay with us.” She was stunned by the request and could only smile and shake her head. Good god, were any of the others asked to stay?
As she walked the trio down to the wharf and waved them goodbye, she did not notice that Paul had also walked his new friend, Vera, to the bus and was now standing behind a copse of rowan trees on the footpath. And if she had not been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she would have overheard Vera explain to Nadezhda that she would not take the bus back with the others, but instead walk to her father’s farm, only one kilometre down the road.
“On your way, then, Vera Fyodorovna,” the political commissar called out to her. “Get there before dark.”
“See you later, Nadezhda Ivanova,” she called out happily as she ran toward the rowan trees.

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The Circle

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“I’ll remember that.”
“Even if you or Talal need something, you call Bevan. If he calls and wants to
meet you, find the time for him, find anything he needs. Don’t hesitate to do
what is right.”
“Yes, my uncle. I won’t forget.”
The time comes for Ibrahim and the two guards to get to their gate for
departure. Ibrahim hugs and kisses his nephew.
“You have a safe and pleasant trip, my uncle. My kisses to Mara.”
“Thank you, my dear son. See you in Iraq, soon.”

Emily Roberts has been busy making arrangements for Matthew’s funeral scheduled
for Friday. She calls relatives, friends, Bevan Longhorn, of course, who
assures her he’ll be there not only for the funeral but because he also has something
to give her. She sends e-mails to a few people. She calls Cathy and asks for
her help in preparing food for people who might like to go to the house after the
service. Cathy knows what is necessary and gives Emily a list of what things need
to be prepared or ordered from a caterer.
Talal has stayed with her three nights in a row, keeping her company, and
sharing with her the pleasure of talk, of kiss and of a hug, which she needsmore
than anything else these days. They have been in bed next to one another for
three days and nights and haven’t made love yet. They talk a lot, the
conversation going several times to the underwater photography idea of hers,
and Talal reminds her all the time how pretty the water is in the Persian Gulf
and how many different species of marine life one can see there.
Tuesday morning and they are having breakfast, fruit, coffee, two and brown
bread with strawberry jam.
Talal sips his coffee and smiles at her.
“Feeling a bit better today, sweetheart?”
“I’m good, my sweet Talal,” she smiles a brilliant smile.
“Well, a few more days and everything will be behind us.”
She smiles at him again, leans forward and kisses his lips, while wondering at
the same time if everything really will be behind them soon. Are they going to
become a memory? What happens if he decides to go away to his country? What
is she going to do? Will he ask her to go with him?
As if reading her thoughts, Talal says, “Next year, early next year better yet,
we’ll take a short trip.What about that, my sweet Emily?”
“Where do you want to go, Talal?” Emily asks, anticipating his answer.
“How about if we go to my country for a couple of weeks.

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Jazz with Ella

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bristles of his moustache into neat, serried rows. Once, when he had been due for a Russian department evaluation involving an interview with Chairman Hoefert, he had arrived early at his department head’s office. The door was open and there was no one about so he had wedged himself into a seat in the crowded study, his legs straddling boxes of books and papers, to await Hoefert’s return. A file lay open on the desk and without too much twisting of his neck he could see that it was his own confidential personnel file. Leaning out from the chair at an acute angle, he could even read the text upside down and he quickly did so without any attack of conscience. The chairman had written a number of congratulatory things, Chopyk was gratified to see. He could read that he was a stellar professor, thorough and devoted to his publishing schedule. True. It was a bit lacklustre on the subject of his teaching abilities, but certainly adequate. But there, at the bottom of the report, was what Chopyk considered to be a damning bit of character assassination. Neatly penned in the director’s handwriting were the words: “Chopyk’s flaw is vanity.” The subsequent interview was more tense than usual.
Ever since that day Chopyk had pondered this revelation, especially when he glanced at his trim appearance in a mirror. Later, he realized that Hoefert was not talking about superficial vanity, though he was deemed a snappy dresser; instead, Hoefert had locked onto a deeper quality: Chopyk’s self-absorption. He took magnificent pleasure in his successes, however small. He took a positive delight in outsmarting Professor Hoefert, preferably in front of colleagues at the Learned Societies conference. But it was only friendly rivalry, Chopyk told himself. Where was the harm? It was the word “flaw” that niggled. He didn’t like to admit to flaws; didn’t think he had any. But there were moments—like today with Lona Rabinovitch—that he would consider his vanity to be a genuine weakness. She was playing him, flattering him—no doubt about it. And he had fallen for it.
She had come up to him in the dining room after lunch, when the others had drifted away, to ask his clarification on a small question of verb tense. Somehow, within minutes, she had managed to turn the conversation to their departure from the Soviet Union, and she complained that she was running out of room in her luggage. Before he knew it he had gallantly agreed to pack some of her “valuable gifts and souvenirs” in his own luggage. She was quite appealing, gazing up at him softly with those large green eyes—he couldn’t refuse. She was hypnotic. Dammit.

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The Circle

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He sits down and looks around the office; the lieutenant catches his eye and
says, “Well, it’s as functional as any other, I suppose.”
The Admiral smiles thinking of his own office, which is very similar.
“Yes, I suppose so, lieutenant. Well, tell me what we know so far; do you have
an autopsy report?”
“Yes, it arrived a little earlier,” Bonetti gives him the written report of the
autopsy.
The Admiral reads the half-page brief and hands it back to the officer.
“It appears to be a clear-cut case, I suppose. Anything else on your mind,
lieutenant?”
“It’s strange that, when we got the phone records from the house, we
determined the widow had made a few calls when she discovered the body. The
first call was to a lover, then to the daughter, then to us third. Then to her
girlfriend.”
“To a lover? There is another man in the picture? I never expected that from
Emily. Are you sure?”
The lieutenant looks him in the eye and says, “No doubt, Admiral. She calls
him “sweetheart” and he says to her, “I’ll be there shortly.” I have seen this
scenario many times, however we cannot place him at the crime scene at the time
of death. The evidence is crystal clear, ballistics, prints, etc.”
“That means the third person has no involvement, I presume,” the Admiral
says. “Who is he, anyway?”
“A person named Talal Ahem, an Iraqi chemist, presently unemployed.”
“I have met this man, Talal Ahem. He is a friend of Hakim Mahdi,
boyfriend of the deceased’s daughter?”
“Yes, Admiral. He was the one with the limo, when I got there.”
“Yes, I know him as well. He’s the nephew of Ibrahim Mahdi, an Iraqi
billionaire, here for cancer treatment. I wouldn’t think these two boys would
have anything to do with this,” he admits to himself aloud.
“Well, it seems you know these people. Now I have something else for you,
Admiral, and this is most strange. When I conducted my examination at the
scene, I noticed signs of tears on the cheeks of the deceased; the medical
examiner confirmed it. The examiner says this man was in a blissful state of
mind when he took his own life. I find that very difficult to follow. Yet the
autopsy confirms that; as you read in the report they found traces of serotonin in
his bloodstream. On the other hand, there was plenty of adrenaline in his
bloodstream also, which means this man had been quite unhappy and angry
before coming to the state of blissfulness, as the examiner put it.”

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Jazz with Ella

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It was to one of these, the park on Mamaev Hill, scene of a prolonged battle, that the combined tour group, accompanied by Natasha, arrived by bus. This time Natasha was quiet; there was no need for her to whip up enthusiasm. The spectacle of Mother Russia—a behemoth of a statue brandishing her sword and poised on the hill overlooking the city—excited the visitors.
“That’s got to be taller than the Statue of Liberty,” exclaimed one of the Americans to Jennifer as they shuffled along with crowds of Russians winding their way through a memorial park up to the statue’s base. “It’s really impressive.”
She smiled. “It’s a commemoration of a siege that no one here has forgotten; nothing could be too big or too dramatic for that.” So far the Americans had not admitted that anything about the Soviet Union was bigger or better than the good old US of A. This was a first, she reflected.
“Where are you from?” the man asked her, and when she replied, he nodded. “Y’know, that’s near Seattle where I’m from,” he said. “I’m Bert, by the way.” He extended his hand and Jennifer introduced herself. “You Canadians know all about Russia, don’t you?” Although she began to protest, he continued. “See, we weren’t told much before we came. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the cold war… yes? Well, it’s pretty hard to visit this country right now without everyone at home thinking we’re reds. We’re probably being investigated by the CIA for even coming here.”
“Wow, that’s frightening,” Jennifer said, amused at his naïveté—an attitude she might have shared just a few short weeks ago. Little does he know that he’s probably being investigated by the KGB at the same time.
“You know, the people in our group just want to find out more about the real Russia,” Bert went on. “We don’t want to believe everything we read in the papers about the ‘evil commies.’ You think that way too, don’tcha?” Jennifer nodded agreement.
“This is all real swell,” he continued, marvelling at the faces of warriors etched in marble around him. The slowly moving line of visitors advanced up the hill towards the statue and then indoors into a tomb-like memorial chamber at the top of the hill. Once inside, an illuminated path spiralled downward around the chamber, and they gazed at the names of the fallen soldiers and citizens inscribed on every available inch of the walls. Jennifer noticed that Bert had tears in his eyes.
“It’s very moving,” he told her. “All these people…” He shook his head. “It makes you think about the ugliness of war.

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The Circle

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have to do now is carry on one day at a time. I’m sure we’ll manage. If you are
concerned about money, don’t worry, we’ll find our way.”
“I don’t worry about money, mother—not at all. I’m just trying to see life
without Dad from now on. It will be hard to adjust.”
“We’ll manage, you’ll see. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Hakim
appears to be a very good man and I know he’s to come into a lot of money. Your
father told me all about it.”
“Why did Dad look into Hakim’s life, Mom?”
“Well, honey, that was your father.”
Later at around six, Hakim tells Jennifer he wants to go see how his uncle is.
The limo will take him to the Sheraton Hotel and from there, when he’s done
with Ibrahim, the driver will drive him to his apartment. Cathy gets up also and
says goodnight to Emily.
“Don’t forget to call anytime, remember?”
Helena also says goodnight and leaves.
“I’d like to go with Hakim, Mom. Are you going to be alright?”
“I’ll be just fine, honey. Go, I’ll be just fine. Talal may stay for a while to keep
me company. You just go.”
Hakim is ready to go, when Talal whispers in his ear, “I’ll stay for a while to
keep Emily company, okay?”
“Are you going to be okay?” Hakim asks, looking at Talal.
“We’ll be just fine. You guys go and see Ibrahim. Say hi to him for me.”
They walk out to the limo and Rassan sits in the front with the driver and
Hakim with Jennifer sit in the back. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the
Sheraton. They find Ibrahim in his suite happy because he’s out of the clinic and
because the chemotherapy hasn’t given him any negative side-effects, so far.
“Hello, my uncle, how are you?”
“I’m fine, my dear boy. What is this about Jennifer’s dad?”
“He is dead, sir. The police are doing their work now; we’ll hear from the
medical examiner in the next little while,” Jennifer says.
“Oh, my dear, oh, I’m so sorry,” he opens his arms as if ready to hug Jennifer.
She takes the opportunity and falls into his arms. Ibrahim is a bit surprised by
this; however, he knows that this is customary for North Americans, and he hugs
the young woman. Hakim smiles. His uncle is very fond of Jennifer, and that
pleases him a lot.
Ibrahim is already prepared for his return home and Rassan is making the
flight arrangements for as early as tomorrow. Mara will be most happy to have
him home with her.

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