In the First Circle Read online

  Edward E. Ericson, Jr.

  October 2008

  Cast of Characters

  Viktor Semyonovich Abakumov—Colonel General; Minister of State Security; formerly head of SMERSH.

  Grigory Borisovich Abramson (Grigory Borisych, Borisych)—Zek (prisoner) at Marfino sharashka (special prison); serving second consecutive term; engineer; Trotskyist.

  Agnia—Girlfriend of Anton Yakonov in his youth.

  Avenir—Uncle of Innokenty Volodin.

  Aleksandr Yevdokimovich Bobynin—Zek; senior engineer; assigned to Number Seven Lab; age forty-two.

  Amantai Bulatov—Zek; Kazan Tatar; assigned to Number Seven Lab; formerly POW under the Germans.

  Bulbanyuk—General; one of the officials overseeing the experiment in voice identification.

  Vladimir Erastovich Chelnov—Zek; serving eighteenth year of incarceration; formerly professor of mathematics and corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences; lists nationality as “zek.”

  Iosif Vissarionovich Djugashvili (Soso, Koba, Iossarionych)—Real name of Stalin.

  Rostislav Vadimovich Doronin (Ruska, Rusya, Rostislav Vadimych)—Zek; sentenced to twenty-five years; mechanic; assigned to Vacuum Lab; adventurist; age twenty-three; designated for shipment out of Marfino.

  Konstantin Dvoetyosov—Zek; assigned to Vacuum Lab; gigantic man.

  Ivan Feofanovich Dyrsin (Vanya)—Zek; in tenth and last year of his sentence; engineer; assigned to Number Seven Lab.

  Nikolai Arkadievich Galakhov (Kolya)—Husband of Dinera; famous young Soviet author; age thirty-seven.

  Dinera Petrovna Galakhova (Nera)—Daughter of Pyotr Makarygin; sister of Dotnara and Klara; wife of Nikolai Galakhov.

  Illarion Pavlovich Gerasimovich (Larik, Illarion Palych)—Zek; serving second term of incarceration; engineer, optics expert; designated for shipment out of Marfino.

  Natalia Pavlovna Gerasimovich (Natasha)—Wife of Illarion; jobless; age thirty-seven.

  Ernst Golovanov (Erik, Erik Saunkin-Golovanov)—Real name Saunkin, pseudonym Golovanov; literary critic; acquaintance of Klara Makarygina.

  Isaak Kagan—Zek; directs battery room; stool pigeon.

  Ilya Terentievich Khorobrov (Ilya Terentich, Terentich)—Zek; arrested for defacing election ballot with an obscenity; engineer, radio expert; assigned to Number Seven Lab; designated for shipment out of Marfino.

  Klimentiev—Lieutenant Colonel; commandant of Marfino, supervisor of the guards; authorized visit of Nerzhin and wife.

  Klykachev—Lieutenant; predecessor, then assistant, to Boris Stepanov as Communist Party organizer at Marfino.

  Ippolit Mikhailovich Kondrashov-Ivanov (Ippolit Mikhalych)—Zek; resident painter of art works; age fifty.

  Kuleshov—Lieutenant, Ministry of State Security.

  Viktor Lyubimichev—Zek; electrician; assigned to Number Seven Lab; stool pigeon.

  Pyotr Afanasievich Makarygin—Public prosecutor in Moscow; father of Dinera, Dotnara, and Klara.

  Alevtina Nikanorovna Makarygina—Wife of Pyotr Makarygin; stepmother of Dinera, Dotnara, and Klara.

  Klara Petrovna Makarygina—Youngest daughter of Pyotr Makarygin; free worker at Marfino; friendly with Ruska Doronin.

  Yakov Ivanovich Mamurin—Zek; formerly director of Communications Department, Ministry of the Interior; placed in charge of Number Seven Lab.

  Myshin—Major; Operations Officer at Marfino, responsible for security.

  Nadelashin—Junior Lieutenant; guard at Marfino.

  Gleb Vikentievich Nerzhin (Glebka, Glebochka, Gleb Vikentich, Vikentich)—Zek; mathematician; assigned to Acoustics Lab; interlocutor of Rubin and Sologdin; age thirty-one; designated for shipment out of Marfino.

  Nadezhda Ilyinichna Nerzhina (Nadya)—Wife of Nerzhin; graduate student.

  Foma Guryanovich Oskolupov—Major General; head of Special Technology Department, Ministry of State Security.

  Aleksandr Nikolaevich Poskryobyshev (Sasha)—Lieutenant General; head of Stalin’s personal secretariat; gatekeeper and spokesman for Stalin.

  Andrei Andreevich Potapov (Andrei, Andreich )—Zek; electrical engineer; assigned to Number Seven Lab; formerly POW under the Germans; age forty.

  Valentin Martynovich Pryanchikov (Val, Valentulya, Valentin Martynych, Pryanchik)—Zek; engineer, radio expert; assigned to Acoustics Lab; formerly POW under the Germans; age thirty-one.

  Dushan Radovich—Serb; faithful Marxist; acquaintance of Makarygin.

  Adam Veniaminovich Roitman—Engineer Major; senior deputy of Yakonov; supervisor of Acoustics Lab; winner of a Stalin Prize; age thirty.

  Lev Grigorievich Rubin (Levka, Lyova, Lyovka, Lyovochka, Lyovushka)—Zek; linguist; assigned to Acoustics Lab; steadfast Communist; interlocutor of Nerzhin and Sologdin; age thirty-six.

  Mikhail Dmitrievich Ryumin (Minka, Mikhail Dmitrich)—Senior MGB interrogator; formerly SMERSH investigator.

  Selivanovsky—Deputy Minister of State Security.

  Serafima Vitalievna (Sima, Simochka)—Free worker at Marfino; worked alongside Gleb Nerzhin, developed amorous interest in him.

  Rakhmankul Shamsetdinov—Staff member of Moscow Oblast Communist Party Committee; guest lecturer in political propaganda at Marfino.

  Shchagov—Engineer Captain; soldier in Red Army during World War II; friend of Nadya Nerzhina.

  Shikin—Major; security operations officer at Marfino; rival of Myshin.

  Shusterman—Senior Lieutenant; guard at Marfino.

  Artur Siromakha—Zek; electrician; assigned to Number Seven Lab; king of stool pigeons.

  Smolosidov—Lieutenant; MGB officer at Marfino; entrusted with physical property for top-secret project.

  Dmitri Aleksandrovich Sologdin (Mitya, Mityai, Dmitri Aleksandrych)—Zek; engineer, designer; assigned to Design Office; serving second term and twelfth year of incarceration; interlocutor of Nerzhin and Rubin; Christian; age thrity-six.

  Boris Sergeevich Stepanov (Boris Sergeich)—Secretary of Communist Party at Marfino; age forty-nine.

  Gennady Tyukin (Genka)—Lieutenant, Ministry of State Security.

  Pyotr Trofimovich Verenyov—Before World War II a senior lecturer in mathematics at Rostov University; Nerzhin’s former teacher.

  Innokenty Artemievich Volodin (Ini, Ink, Inok)—Diplomat, State Counselor Grade Two in Ministry of Foreign Affairs (equivalent in rank to lieutenant colonel); age thirty.

  Dotnara Petrovna Volodina (Dotty, Nara)—Wife of Innokenty Volodin; daughter of Pyotr Makarygin.

  Anton Nikolaevich Yakonov (Anton Nikolaich)—Engineer Colonel; chief engineer, Special Technology Department; head of operations at Marfino.

  Spiridon Danilovich Yegorov (Spiridon Danilych, Danilych)—Zek; of peasant stock; yardman; age fifty.

  Larisa Nikolaevna Yemina—Free worker at Marfino; copyist; worked alongside Dmitri Sologdin; married; age thirty.

  Zemelya—Zek; engineer, vacuum-tube expert; assigned to Vacuum Lab.

  Zhvakun—Lieutenant; guard at Marfino.

  Author’s Note

  SUCH IS THE FATE of Russian books today: They bob up to the surface, if ever they do, plucked down to the skin. So it was recently with Bulgakov’s Master—its feathers floated over only later. So also with this novel of mine: In order to give it even a feeble life, to dare show it, and to bring it to a publisher, I myself shortened and distorted it—or, rather, took it apart and put it together anew, and it was in that form that it became known.

  And even though it is too late now, and the past cannot be undone—here it is, the authentic one. By the by, while restoring the novel, there were parts that I refined: after all, I was forty then, but am fifty now.

  Written: 1955–58

  Distorted: 1964

  Restored: 1968

  Chapter 1

  Torpedo

  THE FILIGREED HANDS POINTED to five minutes past four.

  The bronze of the clock was lusterless in the dying light of a December day.

  A high window, begin
ning at floor level, looked down on bustling Kuznetsky Most. Yardmen trudged doggedly to and fro, scraping up fresh snow that was already caking and turning brown under the feet of pedestrians.

  State Counselor Grade Two Innokenty Volodin surveyed all this unseeingly, lolling against the edge of the embrasure and whistling something long drawn out and elusive. His fingertips flipped through the pages of a glossy foreign magazine, but he had no eyes for them.

  Volodin State Counselor Grade Two—the diplomatic-service equivalent of lieutenant colonel—was tall and narrow-shouldered and wore a suit of some silky material instead of his uniform, looking more like a well-off young drone than an official of some importance in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  It was time to switch the lights on or go home, but he stayed where he was.

  Four o’clock was not the end of the working day but only of its daytime part. Everyone would now go home, have something to eat, and take a nap; then at 10:00 p.m. the thousands and thousands of windows in forty-five All-Union and twenty Union-Republican ministries would light up again. A single individual ringed by a dozen fortress walls could not sleep at night, and he had trained the whole of official Moscow to stay awake with him until three or four in the morning. Knowing the peculiar nocturnal habits of their lord and master, all sixty-odd ministers kept vigil, like schoolboys awaiting a summons from the headmaster. To fight off sleep they would summon their deputies; then deputy ministers would rouse department heads, research officers would erect ladders and swarm over card indexes, clerks would charge along hallways, and stenographers would break their pencil points.

  Today was no exception. It was Christmas Eve on Western calendars. All the embassies had fallen silent and given up calling two days ago, but the ministry would be staying up through the night just the same.

  They—the Western diplomats—had two weeks of vacation ahead of them. Trusting babes! Stupid donkeys!

  The young man’s nervous fingers paged through the magazine hastily, mechanically, while hot waves of terror welled up inside him, then subsided, leaving him cold.

  Innokenty flung the magazine away and began pacing the room, shuddering.

  Should he call or shouldn’t he? Did it have to be now? Would Thursday or Friday be too late over there?

  Too late. . . . There was so little time to think about it, and absolutely nobody to ask for advice!

  Surely there was no way of finding out who had made a call from a phone booth? If he spoke only in Russian? If he didn’t hang around but walked away quickly? Surely they couldn’t identify a muffled voice over the telephone? It must be a technical impossibility.

  In three or four days’ time he would be flying there himself. It would be more logical to wait. More sensible.

  But it would be too late.

  Oh, hell! His shoulders, unused to such burdens, hunched in a shiver. It would have been better if he had never found out. Better not to know.

  He scooped up all the papers on his desk and carried them to the safe. His agitation grew. Innokenty lowered his brow onto the dull-painted iron of the safe and rested there with closed eyes.

  Then suddenly, as though he felt his last chance slipping away from him, without calling for a car, without so much as closing his inkwell, Innokenty rushed for the door, locked it, handed his key to the guard at the end of the hallway, almost ran down the stairs, overtaking the usual gold-braided personages, dived into his overcoat, planted his hat on his head, and ran out into the damp twilight.

  Rapid motion brought him some relief.

  His low French shoes, worn fashionably without galoshes, sank into the slush.

  As he passed the Vorovsky Monument in the ministry courtyard, Innokenty looked up and shuddered. The building of the Great Lubyanka, which looked out on Furkasov Passage, suddenly took on a new significance for him. This gray-black nine-storied hulk was a battleship, and the eighteen pilasters loomed like eighteen gun turrets on its starboard side. And Innokenty’s tiny craft was being helplessly sucked into its path, under the bows of the swift, heavy vessel.

  Or no—he wasn’t a helpless captive canoe; he was deliberately heading toward the battleship like a torpedo!

  He could hold out no longer! He turned right onto Kuznetsky Most. A taxi was about to pull away from the curb. Innokenty grabbed it, hurried the driver downhill, then told him to turn left, under the newly lit streetlights of the Petrovka.

  He still couldn’t decide where to make his call—where he could be sure that no one would be hovering impatiently, distracting him, peering through the door. But if he looked for a single phone booth in some quiet spot, he would make himself more conspicuous. Wouldn’t it be better to pick one in the thick of it all, as long as it had soundproof brick or stone walls? And how stupid he had been to chase around in a taxi and make the driver a witness. He dug into his pocket, hoping not to find the fifteen kopecks for the call. If he didn’t, he could obviously put it off.

  At the traffic light on Okhotny Ryad, his fingers felt and drew out two fifteen-kopeck pieces simultaneously. So that was that.

  It seemed to calm him down. Dangerous or not, he had no alternative.

  If we live in a state of constant fear, can we remain human?

  Without intending it, Innokenty now found himself riding along the Mokhovaya past the embassy. Fate was taking a hand. He pressed his face against the window, craning his neck, trying unsuccessfully to make out which windows were lit up.

  They passed the university, and Innokenty motioned to the right. It was as though he were circling on his torpedo to position it properly.

  They sped up to the Arbat; Innokenty gave the driver two bills, stepped out, and crossed the square, trying to moderate his pace.

  His throat and his mouth were dry with the dryness that no drink can help.

  By now the Arbat was all lit up. In front of the Khudozhestvenny Cinema, there was a long line for The Ballerina’s Romance. A faint bluish mist clouded the red M above the metro station. A woman with a dark southern complexion was selling little yellow flowers. The doomed man could no longer see the battleship, but his breast was bursting with desperate resolve.

  Remember, though: not a word in English. Let alone French. Mustn’t leave the smallest clue for the tracker dogs.

  Innokenty walked on, erect and no longer hurrying. A girl eyed him as he passed.

  And another one. Very pretty, too. Wish me well out of it!

  How big the world is and how full of opportunities! But all that’s left for you is this narrow passage.

  One of the wooden booths outside the station was empty but seemed to have a broken window. Innokenty walked on, into the station.

  Here the four booths set into the wall were all occupied. But in the one to the left, a rough-looking character, not quite sober, was finishing his call and hanging up the receiver. He smiled at Innokenty and started to say something. Innokenty took his place in the booth, carefully pulled the thick-paned door closed, and held it shut with one hand; the other, still gloved, trembled as it dropped a coin into the slot and dialed a number.

  After several prolonged buzzes the receiver was lifted at the other end.

  “Is this the secretariat?” Innokenty asked, trying to disguise his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Please put me through to the ambassador immediately.”

  The answer came in very good Russian.

  “I can’t call the ambassador. What is your business?”

  “Give me the chargé then! Or the military attaché! Please be quick!”

  There was a pause for thought at the other end. Innokenty put himself in fate’s hands: If they refused—let it go at that, don’t try a second time.

  “Very well, I’m connecting you with the attaché.”

  He heard them making the connection.

  Through the thick glass he saw people passing, within inches of the row of phone booths, hurrying, overtaking one another. One person peeled off and stood impatiently waiting his tur
n outside Innokenty’s booth.

  Somebody with a thick accent and a well-fed, indolent voice spoke into the telephone:

  “Hello. What did you want?”

  “Is this the military attaché?” Innokenty asked brusquely.

  “Yes, air attaché,” drawled the voice at the other end.

  What next? Shielding the receiver with his hand, Innokenty spoke in a low but urgent voice:

  “Mr. Air Attaché! Please write this down and pass it to the ambassador immediately.”

  “Just a moment,” the leisurely voice answered, “I’ll call an interpreter.”

  “I can’t wait!” Innokenty was seething. And he had dropped his attempt to disguise his voice. “And I will not talk to any Soviet person! Do not put the receiver down! This is a life-and-death matter for your country! And not only your country! Listen! Within the next few days a Soviet agent called Georgy Koval will pick something up at a shop selling radio parts; the address is—”

  “I don’t quite understand,” the attaché calmly replied in halting Russian. He, of course, was sitting on a comfortable sofa, and no one was on his trail. Animated female voices could be heard in the background.

  “Call the Canadian Embassy. They have good Russian speakers there.”

  The phone booth floor was burning under Innokenty’s feet, and the black receiver with its heavy steel chain melting in his hand. But a single foreign word could destroy him!

  “Listen! Listen!” he cried in despair. “In a few days’ time the Soviet agent Koval will be given important technological information about the production of the atomic bomb, at a radio shop—”

  “What? Which avenue?” The attaché sounded surprised. He thought a moment.