The Bucharest Dossier

CHAPTER ONE

Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts

December 1989

PROFESSOR ANDREI PINCUS left through the rear door of the Harvard Faculty Club wearing another man’s coat. He had chosen it at random, as he had been trained, eyes closed, taking the first coat his hands grabbed. It was not luck that caused him to choose a man’s coat. He knew that very few female professors used the Faculty Club, a fact that he regularly bemoaned. The coat was a short parka lined with fur—normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead in it. He preferred the old European-style black cashmere topcoat that reached down below his arthritic knees.

Still, he had to admit that this American style was more practical. The fur made it warmer than his own, and the hood, which he had pulled over his head before leaving the club, provided protection from the bitter wind. The East Coast had been suffering under an arctic blast for days, the biting cold driving his colleagues to scurry from one building to another, finally settling into the plush red leather chairs of the Faculty Club with a glass of hot cider and a pipe to finish off the day. But the hood had the added virtue of obscuring his face from prying eyes, which had become of vital concern to him lately. He would return the coat in the morning with apologies.

It was silly of him, really, and he hoped that no one, especially the Agency, would ever hear of his behavior. And yet, lately he had felt the need to fall back on his old spycraft. He was convinced he was being followed, even though he hadn’t actually seen any signs of it. In the old days his instincts had been legendary, and he had learned to trust them. Still, that had been decades ago. For the past twenty years all he had ever been asked to do was recruit an occasional Harvard man or woman for the second-oldest profession. For that he was grateful, for he knew his aging heart could no longer take the rigorous exploits of his younger days.

He plodded down the snow-covered pathway through Harvard Yard and onto the side streets of Cambridge until he reached an old Colonial house, the faculty housing that he had called home for the past thirty-four years. He could have afforded something larger, but what was the point? The house was full of memories of his beloved wife, and leaving it would mean abandoning her. If anything, the house now felt too large and empty. And with his recent premonitions of something dire about to take place, the house felt almost daunting. Still, he decided that if he had to die, he would die here, in this familiar space, where he and his dear wife of fifty-two years had been so happy.

He’d never thought that he would be so lucky, that America would welcome a Jew from Romania with such open arms. And with a full professorship at Harvard, no less. Yes, he taught one of those obscure Eastern European languages that no one heard of and, yes, it paid less than he would make in one of those international corporations that did business in Romania. But there was only one Harvard in the world, and he was part of it.

He climbed the wooden steps to his house and unlocked the door. For a moment he thought he was greeted by a waft of warm air redolent with the smell of cooking, his wife’s stuffed cabbage or famous schnitzel. He heard the television, which he left perpetually on, whether or not he was at home. It gave him a sense of being part of the world, among friends he wished he could have but knew he never would. When he turned on the light, he thought he saw his wife sitting on the couch watching reruns of Perry Mason and trying to figure out the identity of the murderer. He blinked a few times, causing his wife to metamorphose into a man dressed in a black overcoat and wearing gloves. He was smoking a cigarette and dropping its ashes into a glass of water.

Come inside, Professor, and get warm. The night is too cold even for a dog. The man spoke Romanian like a native.

Pincus stood frozen, shocked and yet not surprised. His instincts had warned him, and now here it was. The arm of the Securitate, his nightmare, had reached all the way to America.

The man dropped the cigarette butt into the glass and stood. He was thin and tall, in his fifties or so, with graying hair. His face was all bone and angles, his skin tight, yet marked with shallow crevices. An aged, experienced collector of souls.

What is that silly coat you’re wearing? You look ridiculous in it.

Why have you come for me? Pincus asked in Romanian, then slid onto the couch, his knees hurting as he bent them.

The chickens have come home to roost, Professor, the man said, now towering over him. For years you’ve been agitating with false propaganda against your country, writing articles, giving speeches. Now you are even on a White House committee, spreading your filthy lies to those in the highest levels of the American government.

I am simply stating the facts, Pincus said, though he knew the man had no interest in facts.

"You have been convicted in absentia of treason, the man continued, and we all know what the sentence is."

The man held up a bottle of tsuika, Romanian plum brandy, which Pincus kept in his cabinet, and poured a glass for Pincus. He then picked up his own half-drunk glass and raised it. "Noroc! Have your last glass of tsuika with me to remind you of the country you have betrayed."

You are the betrayers, you and the other criminals who have run our once-beautiful land into the ground. Pincus swallowed the tsuika then banged the glass on the table. Thousands killed and starved, and for what? You will go down in the dustbin of history as an abomination.

The man laughed. You are a gifted orator. I don’t understand why we haven’t taken care of you earlier.

Why now, then? Pincus asked. It makes no difference if I live or die. You’re finished either way.

Just tying up loose ends, Professor.

You want information, is that it? Tell me what you want.

I’m not interested in any information, Professor. I’m just here to carry out justice. I can’t count on God to do it.

There is money, Pincus said, his voice betraying a faint hope. America is swimming in it. I can get you however much you want: a million, two million? You don’t have to do anything but walk away and report that you accomplished your mission. I’ll just disappear. You’ll never see my face again.

What will I do with all those dollars? The man laughed. If I try to spend it in the West, they’ll find out and hunt me down. The man shook his head.

Do what you want with me, then, Pincus said. But your soul will boil in hell, if God is at all just.

Damn God and damn my soul. The tall man spat, placed the glass on the table, then removed something from his jacket pocket. It took a moment for Pincus to realize that it was a syringe with a long needle. Good. Death will come quickly. In a moment he would be with his dear wife, which he now realized was where he had been craving to be ever since her death.

In one swift motion the man grabbed Pincus’s white hair, pulled back his head, and plunged the long needle into one of his nostrils. He felt a sharp pain, then a fire exploded somewhere deep inside his head. Within seconds the muscles throughout his body began to contract, each muscle fiber seeming to twitch and slither independently, like worms. Then it all stopped. His arms and legs relaxed, followed by his chest muscles, and finally his diaphragm. He slumped into the soft cushions, still awake and aware, yet unable to take a breath. He saw the man standing over him, smiling, waiting. He tried to calm his mind, to prevent the panic. A flash of memory of his childhood nightmares, waking up partially paralyzed, but this was worse, much worse. His mind was now screaming for air but his body didn’t respond. A voice in his head started laughing. I will be caught dead in this silly coat, after all. A wave of panic now overtook him, his mind frenzied, crying out. Is this it? The end? Please, God, let it be quick.

And then, as if his prayers were answered, it all grew quiet. As he felt himself drift off, he saw his wife, young again, the way she had been when they met, smiling and beckoning him with open arms.

CHAPTER TWO

New York City

December 1989

TO SAY THAT it was a normal day in December was not to do it justice. Yes, there was the usual patina of snow covering the grass in Central Park. And the slippery ice patches on the pavement caused Bill Hefflin to slip and almost fall. And, yes, he was taking his usual morning walk down the usual path near the Metropolitan Museum, past a row of green-painted benches with brass plates honoring wealthy donors. And, yes, the usual tinge of nostalgia accompanied this morning’s walk. Central Park reminded him of a similar park in Bucharest, Romania, called Cismigiu Park. There, twenty years ago, as an eight-year-old, he had accompanied Pusha, his first and truest love, down similar paths.

The park lacked one essential element, though: the peculiar aroma of a certain plant or tree that he hadn’t been able to find in any other park but Cismigiu Park. Nevertheless, Central Park came close enough for him to choose an apartment only a block away, so that he could pretend, at least for a few minutes each morning, that he was back in the city of his birth, the place where he had been happiest.

Though he had been following this morning routine for years, certain signs, missives from the gods, now foretold a day of realignment, maybe even of destiny.

First, a black cat sitting by the side of the path decided to cross in front of him just as he was approaching. What was a cat doing outside in twenty-degree weather? And what were the odds it would be totally black? The instructors at the Farm had taught him that, in his line of business, there were no coincidences. Tanti Bobo, an old gypsy, had instilled in him the same lesson at the age of six. The black cat had been waiting specifically for him, that was clear.

Second, a rumble of thunder rolled out just as he was coming up to a specific tree, a bass clarion call to ensure that he didn’t miss the white chalk mark on its rumpled bark, a mark that hadn’t been there the previous morning. The moment he saw it he felt a tightening of his chest, a mixture of excitement and dread. These runes appeared only three or four times a year, and never accompanied by such dire warnings. The chalk mark was diagonal, from top left to bottom right, which meant the package was to be found under the ninth tree counting from the second bench on the right.

He erased the chalk mark with a handful of snow, then casually walked on, counting the benches and then the trees, then recounting them twice more. When he was certain he had arrived at the appropriate tree, he paused to make sure that no one but he and the black cat were crazy enough to be walking in the park in such cold weather. He spotted a couple walking down the path, hand in hand, and felt a twitch in his heart. That couple could have been he and Pusha. He brushed away the thought as he spotted another figure a hundred feet away, a bearded man dressed in a ragged wool hat, old coat, and tattered boots pushing a cart laden with bundles, all his worldly possessions. A homeless person.

He waited for the couple to pass then decided to ignore the homeless man. He kneeled on the left side of the tree, brushed away the powder of snow from the ground, and began digging with the key to his apartment. The ground was frozen, and the digging hurt his hand. Why couldn’t the dead drop be indoors? A library, perhaps, or a café. Even a subway station would be warmer than Central Park in December.

He soon found it, however, the spike, just where it was supposed to be. He quickly dug it out, replaced the dirt, brushed some of the adjacent snow over it, and left.

On the path heading toward Fifth Avenue, he took the spike out of his pocket and examined it. It was the same as the previous ones: a four-inch pointed hollow tube made of dark metal, with a company logo stamped on it—Gunne Metal Co.—and a model number. Langley had tried to track it down once, spending months following false leads, only to find there was no Gunne Metal Company anywhere in the world that produced hollow spikes. The logo and serial number were meant to send the Langley propeller-heads on a wild goose chase.

Boris had a sense of humor.

Hefflin unscrewed the top of the spike and emptied the contents into his hand. He was surprised to find not the usual roll of microfilm but a single piece of paper. On it a message, written in longhand: Vasili, you must come to Bucharest to create history. Time is critical. Below that line were instructions. Stay at the Athénée Palace where you will receive my call. I will say, ‘Let’s get together for a vodka.’ You will respond with ‘Usual place?’ If I answer yes, it means in an hour at The Red Barrel Bar. If I say no, it means the coffee shop at the Gara de Nord train station.

Hefflin stopped in the middle of the path and reread the message. A fury of conflicting emotions swirled through his mind. Bucharest to him meant his childhood, his paradise lost, at least as he imagined it, intermingled with the pain of lost love and lost innocence, of subsequent torment, and the beginning of a difficult new life. What the hell was a Russian agent like Boris doing in Bucharest? And why would he ask him to go there? No matter. There was no way he was going back to Bucharest to dig up his past, despite what Boris wanted.

As he arrived at his office at the CIA’s Clandestine Center, located on the fourteenth floor of a nondescript high-rise on Third Avenue, a message was waiting for him on his computer. As he sat down at his desk, he felt the same tightening of his chest that he had felt earlier that morning. He sensed that the day was not yet ready to return to normalcy, that the black cat was now insisting on further fulfilling its prophesy. He cursed the superstitious nature he had absorbed during his childhood from that gypsy woman in Bucharest.

The message was from Dan Gorski, his supervisor: Professor Andrei Pincus was found dead this morning in his home at Harvard. He’s been dead a couple of days, it seems. Autopsy pending, but it looks like natural causes. Wasn’t he your original recruiter? Condolences if he was.

CHAPTER THREE

Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts

January 1980

THE FIRST TIME Hefflin ever spoke to Professor Pincus at length was during office hours at the end of the first semester of his freshman year. The middle-aged expat was a thin man with a full head of silver hair and the lined face of someone who had worked outdoors all his life. But as Hefflin entered the office and saw the layers of blue smoke floating in the room, he realized the fine wrinkles were the result of lifelong heavy smoking. Pincus lit up an unfiltered Camel and offered him a chair.

It always gives me great pleasure to speak my own tongue with a native, Pincus said in Romanian. I recognized it was your first language the moment you spoke it in class. But your name threw me off. Hefflin is not a Romanian name.

I’m Greek, Hefflin answered in Romanian. Both my parents emigrated from Greece to Romania as teenagers.

Hefflin is not a Greek name either, Pincus said.

Hefflin squirmed in his seat, disliking this interrogation. I changed it before applying to college. I prefer not to be pegged as an immigrant.

Ah, I see. And what do your parents think of this?

They’re fine with it. He shrugged.

The truth was that he had dreaded telling his parents. But to his surprise, his father had a very different reaction than what he had expected.

What’s in a name? his father said when he told him. You’re still my son. Our family name was made up anyway. The way the story goes, my great-grandfather traveled from Crete to Epirus as a young man. He was an orphan, and relatively illiterate. I don’t know if he didn’t know his last name or if he never had one. Anyway, he was in his twenties but already had silver hair. So they named him Argyris, Greek for ‘silver-haired.’ He laughed. If it will help you get ahead in America, then I’m all for naming yourself Rockefeller or Carnegie or Smith. America is the land of the self-made man. He sighed with satisfaction. From an illiterate orphan to a Harvard man—all in four generations. Not too bad.

His father’s upbringing in the class system of old Europe, where advancement was slow and generational, strengthened Hefflin’s resolve to shed his immigrant roots and become fully immersed in the American dream of the self-made man. His mother was less sanguine. I know what your father said, but I think deep down you hurt him. Not because of the name. He is afraid you are turning your back on your roots, on the people who love you.

Perhaps he was, but he couldn’t tell his mother that the community of immigrants was a swamp that sucked him down and suffocated him with a kind of spiritual fatigue. These bands of rootless people were fearful, isolated, out of touch with the society in which they now lived, suspicious of new things, and slow to adopt new ways. They had gone through cultural shock so many times that they’d eventually given up and settled into their own subculture of displaced persons. In an attempt to hold on to their identity, they ossified old traditions to preserve them, even as those same traditions continued to evolve in their homeland. They insisted on their children marrying members of their own culture, even if the children had to go back to the original country to find a mate.

This was the stifling society of Worcester, Massachusetts, in which he had grown up. Why wouldn’t everyone want to escape that quagmire? But objectivity was not at play here. The community saw his leaving as a rejection of their heritage. To them his desire to become a real American was an act of treason.

So it was with this new identity as William Hefflin, which he had created from scratch, that he began his Harvard career. How had he picked that name? From a magazine.

He discovered the name Hefflin came from a long line of deposed royalty, whose seeds had been spread far and wide throughout Central Europe. Of course, if anyone really wanted to find his true identity, it wouldn’t be difficult. This legend was not meant to hide his past, merely to obscure it with layers of coats that he could put on or take off as he pleased.

What he found in his first weeks at Harvard was that no one asked him about his background, a unique and liberating experience for him. Throughout his childhood in America, he’d had to constantly explain where he came from, what languages he spoke, and how to pronounce his Greek family name. For the first time in his life, he was now accepted as an American.

Understandable, in a way, Pincus now said. You want to blend in, especially since your English has no accent. You must have come here at a young age.

We left Romania when I was eight, he said. We lived in a refugee camp in Greece for a year, where I had to learn a new language, new norms, and form new friendships. We then immigrated to America where the process started all over again. At this point, I don’t know if I’m Romanian or Greek or American. Anyway, we spoke Romanian in the house, but my vocabulary needs improving. That’s one reason I took your course.

How much of Romania do you remember? Pincus asked.

I prefer not to look back, Hefflin said as he squirmed in his chair. Life moves forward, and so do I.

Pincus let out a deep sigh, tinged with exhaled smoke. That’s the American view … no sense of history, no learning from old experiences. But you took my class for a better reason than just to improve your vocabulary. You must still be interested in the language and culture of your birth. Language is more than just words used to transmit information. It forms the way you view the world, the way you think, even.

Hefflin shrugged. I thought that knowing a second language well, even the Romanian language, would help me in my career, whatever that turns out to be.

Very well, if that’s what you tell yourself. Your Romanian is practically that of a native, apart from a few idioms that come from the streets, as it were. Pincus chuckled. "For example, one day in class you used the slang gagica to refer to a girlfriend."

"Should I have used amanta?"

"Iubita would have been better. It’s less formal than amanta and not as base as gagica. The word gagica comes from the gypsy gadje meaning a non-Gypsy, similar to goy in Hebrew. The word eventually morphed in Romanian to mean ‘chick’ or the British ‘bird.’ It’s not exactly derogatory to women, but not a term of respect either."

You should have corrected me. He shifted in his seat, embarrassed, yet feeling a growing respect for the professor.

I enjoyed listening to your childhood expressions, Pincus said, "almost like observing a time-traveler from the past. It gives one a perspective on history. For example, you used the word jidan to refer to a Jew."

That’s the word I know from my childhood.

"I’m not surprised. Romanians have always been anti-Semitic. The equivalent English word for jidan is kike. The word you want to use is evreu."

Sorry. I didn’t know. He realized that the professor himself was Jewish. He wanted to slink out of the office now, deeply embarrassed and unsure of how much more criticism he could take.

Of course you didn’t know. Pincus waved his hand. No offense taken. So, tell me, how did you like my course? You certainly aced it.

I loved it, he said. I discovered Romanian writers: Eminescu, Caragiale, Sadoveanu, Blaga. But—

But?

He didn’t know how much to tell this professor, whom he hardly knew. The language brings back memories of a time when I was happy, he said. Nostalgia is a killer. It makes one weak.

Pincus sighed again. Hence your reluctance to look back at your own history. Yes, that’s the immigrant’s drama. Once we leave our country—no matter how miserable it was—some of us pine for it, want to return to it, while others feel forever unanchored, no longer a Romanian and yet not fully an American either.

One leg here, one there. Permanent impermanence, Hefflin said. Does everyone feel that way?

Those who are self-aware, Pincus said. Most are just concerned with making a living. Angst is a luxury they can’t afford.

A blessing, in a way.

Pincus moved behind his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle.

It’s past five o’clock: happy hour. The professor beamed. And now that the drinking age in the state has been lowered to eighteen, I can legally share this with you. Not that it would have been an obstacle otherwise. He let out a chuckle, then removed two shot glasses from a drawer and poured. I think you’ll recognize it.

Hefflin immediately smelled the familiar aroma of plum brandy. "Tsuika. I haven’t had any since I left. The immigrants in Worcester have forgotten how to make it."

European friends bring me a bottle now and then. Pincus handed him the glass and raised his in a toast. "Noroc! To a free and prosperous Romania."

The moment the liquid hit his tongue, a wave of memories washed over Hefflin—his father drinking tsuika with his uncle and letting him taste it from his glass; his mother boiling a cup to get rid of the alcohol, then serving it to him as he lay in bed with a cold.

I can see you appreciate it, Pincus said. It’s homemade, a high quality.

Pincus settled in a chair across from him and placed the bottle on the coffee table between them. Have you been back at all?

He nodded upward, along with a tsk sound of his tongue—the Romanian gesture for no. The tsuika was bringing back bodily expressions that accompanied the language.

Why not? Pincus asked. You spent the first eight years of your life there, the most formative years. Your way of thinking, of looking at the world, was formed by the language and culture around you.

What could he say? That the thought of Romania always brought on a sickening feeling of loss, that the memories of Pusha, his first love, had to be kept pure, insulated from the miserable realities that he knew he’d find if he ever went back?

What would I gain by going back? he asked. Indulging in nostalgia for a lost childhood?

You might cure yourself of that nostalgia, for one. Pincus eyed him closely, as if trying to look around the corners of his mind.

Maybe I don’t want to cure myself, Hefflin said, then regretted it.

You prefer to suffer? Pincus downed his tsuika and poured himself another. Maybe you’re afraid of what you’d find. You still have relatives there?

A cousin, Irina, a well-known stage actress in Bucharest, but I haven’t written or spoken to her since we left. He chose not to mention Pusha.

Don’t you think that’s strange?

Making contact with her isn’t like writing to a friend in California, simply a matter of distance, Hefflin said. It’s also a trip back in time.

Well put. But in your mind, she has become frozen in time. The truth is she has moved on, as you have. Your cousin is now an adult suffering under Ceausescu’s brutal regime.

The same applied to Pusha. But he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as anything other than a young girl with golden hair who had befriended and then enchanted him.

He shrugged. What can I do about it?

The struggle against communism takes many forms, Pincus said. I have no doubt the West will win in the end, but that may take a long time if matters are simply left to themselves.

Pincus shifted in his seat, appearing to be thinking, trying to decide on a course of action. He abruptly turned the conversation to Hefflin’s knowledge of world affairs. What did he think of the Vietnam War, Soviet hegemony, Nixon’s China opening? Was democracy a viable system, or did he think communism would sweep the world?

Hefflin considered himself relatively well versed on most issues, having judiciously read the New York Times, and having had daily arguments at the kitchen table with his parents and other immigrants. He responded with what he thought were thoughtful, reasonable opinions. The Vietnam War was a catastrophe, Soviet hegemony was on the rise, Nixon’s China opening was an inspired move by a well-known anti-communist, democracy was the only system that would survive in the long term since it tried to meet people’s need for personal freedom and accomplishment. Communism, though based on altruistic ideals, had been so corrupted by totalitarian regimes that it would eventually collapse from within.

Pincus nodded, letting out a few satisfied grunts, and went on. Did Hefflin have relatives still living in Romania other than his cousin Irina—no; friends his father might still have living there—none; and was Hefflin affiliated with any political parties in America—none.

In a momentary lapse in the conversation, Hefflin tried to turn the focus on Pincus.

When did you leave Romania, Professor?

Pincus’s face darkened. In ’38, before the War, when Romania still had the remnants of a constitutional monarchy. I had seen the writing on the wall for years—the German Brownshirts, the Romanian Iron Guard. I knew the Nazis would sweep over Europe sooner or later. My wife and I decided to go while the going was good. First to Paris, then to America. It broke my heart to leave my parents behind, but they refused to come with us. Even though they were Jews, they considered Romania to be their country. I heard they were rounded up at some point and brought to a concentration camp. I don’t know what eventually happened to them, but I can guess. Pincus’s gaze drifted into the distance.

I’m sorry, Hefflin said.

When America finally joined the war, I enlisted in the Air Force, Pincus continued. "I flew a dozen or so missions