Chapter 25
by Dan Kirk
“I do not think you understand the importance of being able to dream of a better life.” Davey said to his ‘father’ as we rode in the car back into Moscow. For the past week we’d stayed in the dacha while the old man took the time ‘off’ from work. Not that he did no work. He had an office in the dacha, and spent many hours on the phone when he was not entertaining the two of us. It had now been a few days more than three weeks since that first trip out to the dacha, and we were now heading back into Moscow for the official ‘results’ of the test.
Davey and I were both nervous, since we couldn’t see how the CIA would have been able to fake those results.
“You do not understand the importance of knowing your place in life, and being assured that you will have safety and security when you are old and infirm.” Verakov countered Davey’s assertion. “What good are silken dreams when they do not put food on your table or a roof over your head?”
“What good is a roof over your head when you know your children will never achieve more than you have?” Davey retorted. This particular argument had been raging for two days now, and both of them were enjoying it immensely. If I had to be honest, I was enjoying it too.
“In America you can have both.” I added my voice to the argument, drawing looks from both of them. There were smiles on both their faces. The truth was I liked Verakov, probably more than I liked this timeline’s version of Davey’s father. “Social security guarantees the elderly will have money in their retirement, although they do not have to depend on that alone. They can save, have their own pensions to supplement what they get from the state. If they are smart enough to purchase their own home while they are working, they will have paid it off by the time they retire, and are even more free to enjoy the fruits of a life of labor.”
“But you have millions of homeless.” Verakov pounced with a wolfish smile. “Millions of your elderly, and your mentally ill roam your streets and sleep in doorways while trying to stay warm! Your Social Security does not save them!”
“There is no homelessness in the Soviet Union?” Davey shot back.
“None worth mentioning.” Verakov snorted. “Again, I ask what use are there dreams of yours when you can not feed your hungry or shelter your homeless?”
“How much grain is being imported this year from the United States?” I asked and the man blinked at me before laughing.
“No system is perfect, but we are getting there.” He countered with a slight shrug. It was true the Soviet Union imported grain every year from the United States. Their collective farming system was…inefficient in the extreme. They should have been able to grow enough food to feed their own people, but they didn’t. In some cases, it wasn’t the collectives that were the problem though. Some grew more than enough food, but that food rotted in storage because there were no trucks to take it where it was needed.
It was facts like these that had ultimately led to the fall of the Soviet Union, and while we might argue about them with Verakov, we didn’t want them to change anytime soon. In less than six months, the beginning of the end would happen for the Soviet Union with the first elections in Hungary and Poland. Then the Berlin Wall would fall, and within two years of that, the Soviet Union would cease to exist.
An idea was beginning to form in my head, an avenue of opportunity that had never been available to us before, but was now opening. One of the things my original Davey had always tried to change was the fallout of the Soviet collapse. He had achieved some success with that in my original timeline. Sean had told me that I had been less successful in the last timeline. Maybe, just maybe, this opportunity here with Verakov could be translated into better success down the road.
“Not even the United States is perfect.” Davey admitted with a shrug of his own and Verakov nodded.
“Too many people are too blinded by their patriotism to see the need for improvement in their own system of government.” Verakov stated flatly.
“Maybe they fear being arrested here.” I added in as a jibe and Verakov frowned at me.
“For some that is a concern, but not for those who belong to the Party and seek to further the goals of the Party.” Verakov’s voice was flat as he spoke. “To look at the Party with a critical eye, seeking to improve the dialectic is the responsibility of all Party members. We are here.”
“Amazing.” Davey said as we got out of the car and looked around at the Kremlin. We had been to Red Square when we first arrived, and seen the Tomb of Lenin with its long line of tourists, but to actually be in front of the working Kremlin, where the Soviet Union, and later the Russian Federation were governed was absolutely amazing. “Do you actually work here?”
“No, my offices are nearby, not in the Kremlin itself.” Verakov said kindly. “Come, you have your papers?”
“Da.” Davey said as he pulled the green passbook from his suit pocket. We were both wearing our best suits today. Davey’s passbook was new, something given to him just last week by Verakov. I had received a similar one. Neither were our American passports. These were documents that actually allowed us more freedom in Moscow than most of its own citizens enjoyed.
A middle-aged officer looked them over carefully before allowing us entry into the building itself. Walking through the building was different than walking through the Capitol in Washington, or even the White House. Those buildings were full of history, and you knew they were the center of power for a mighty government, but the Kremlin had even more history, and at times like now, just as much power. It was more ostentatious, and in a way more humbling.
We were led to a room deep in the Kremlin, where Verakov introduced us to Yuri Maslyukov, his ‘superior’. I recognized his name as the head of the State Planning Committee, and was surprised because I had been led to believe that Verakov worked for a different branch of the government. The State Planning Committee was responsible for implementing the long-range economic plans of the Soviet Union, and was one of their most important economic bodies.
“They are waiting for the two of you.” Maslyukov stated after polite words had been exchanged, and Verakov led Davey into another room while I remained, as it was clearly intended with Maslyukov. When they were gone, the man turned to me, looking me over twice before speaking again. “Walk with me.”
“Yes, comrade.” I said with a slight nod as he led the way out of the room and back down the hallway of the Kremlin.
“In that room, a doctor and an official from the Foreign Office are telling your friend and mine that the young man is indeed the lost twin son.” Maslyukov said in Russian after we had turned a corner. He stopped walking and gave me a very direct look. “It is of course, a lie.”
“Excuse me?” I exclaimed in English and he nodded before starting to walk again. I had to hurry a few steps to catch up. “Why are they telling them this if it is a lie?”
“Mika has worked hard for the Rodina all of his life.” Maslyukov stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Rodina likes to repay those who serve it, and the last few years have not been kind to him. For the last year, his work has not been as it should, and I was considering replacing him. It was only a few months ago that I took this position, and we have important work to accomplish. I need him, his knowledge, and his skills, but only if he is able to work hard. Your… friend has given new life to him. Mika believes the boy is his son, and his work the last few weeks has never been better.”
“Then why are you telling me the truth?” I asked him with incredulity. So the CIA hadn’t been able to fake the test. But… how did they get this result? Or did they just expect it to happen and hope for the best? My incredulity was real right now.
“You are both very smart young men.” Maslyukov began his explanation with a compliment. “The fact that the two of you are perverts would normally be a barrier, but in this case we will overlook this fact.”
“Why?” I asked directly and got a direct answer.
“Mika, with his new son at hand, will do valuable work for several more years before he retires.” Maslyukov’s answer was simple. “When he retires, you can tell your friend the truth, and the two of you can return to your country, or stay. If you stay, honorable work will be found for the both of you, and as long as you do not make your perversion public, we will overlook it and not punish you as the law requires. In staying, at least until Mika retires, you will live comfortably and have the gratitude of the Soviet people.”
“Aren’t you worried we might be spies?” I asked him, just to see his response.
“Nyet.” He snorted in the negative. “You are too young, although we do know you wished to work for the CIA but were rejected. Mika has already told you we know this.”
“I don’t want to give up my American citizenship.” I stated flatly. “I do not think Davey will either. I do know I will want to be able to visit my family from time to time.”
“All that is being arranged.” Malsyukov stated. “You will both be granted diplomatic passports. The American State Department does not wish an international incident, although they deny any switch in babies was ever made.”
“They’re right.” I reminded him and he chuckled.
“But we will never tell them that.” He replied. “Sergei Mikhailovich, as your friend is being told his real name should be, will be granted Soviet citizenship. You will be a legal resident of the Soviet Union. Tomorrow you will visit the American Ambassador and tell him that these arrangements are acceptable to you. Both of you will be granted visas to return to the United States for a few weeks each year, and naturally any foreign vacations you take with Mika will be permitted. When Mika is retired, you will tell your friend, but not before! Then you may decide whether to stay, or leave forever.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him sharply, and with a deliberately suspicious tone.
“You believe the Soviet Union is this gigantic creature that does not care about its people.” Maslyukov stated flatly. “You are wrong. You Americans claim your government, what is the phrase? Oh yes, ‘Of the people, by the people, for the people’ but it is not the people your government serves, it is your economy. We run our economy so that it serves the needs of our people, not some corporations or a select few. Spend the next few years learning the true Soviet Union, not the villain your propaganda has shown you. We truly care for our people, and Mika has served us long and faithfully. In some ways, we have failed him. Our doctors failed to cure his wife of cancer, but then even your doctors often fail with that. Americans die all the time in accidents like that which took the life of Dmitry Mikhailovich. The difference is that we will give him something to replace those losses.”
“By lying to him.” I stated and he chuckled again. I realized that we were essentially walking in a big circle as we passed the doorway that led to the room where Davey was right now.
“Some lies are not wrong.” Malsyukov shrugged. “Some lies can do more good than harm. Do you not lie to your parents about your relationship with Sergei Mikhailovich?”
“My parents know.” I said with a shrug.
“His do not.” It was a statement, not a question. Yes, Davey had told Verakov that.
“No, they don’t.” I stated.
“Why not?” Maslyukov asked.
“They wouldn’t understand it.” I said sourly.
“So for you two, telling the lie to them is okay?” He asked with another chuckle. “When is a lie acceptable to you and when is it not?”
“We’ll be lying to them when we tell them this story is true.” I stated and he nodded. “It will hurt them a lot.”
“Will they not hurt when they learn their son will never give them grandchildren?” Maslyukov retaliated, and I had to smile at his persistence. He was right of course. Everyone lied, and we always believed our reasons for lying were valid, even necessary.
“I am not Russian, or Soviet, or Communist.” I said with a shrug. “Why should I care to help you maintain your form of government?”
“Ah, a real question at last.” Malsyukov said. “We will give you and your friend a comfortable life, more comfortable than you would have in the United States even.”
“I don’t care about that.” I said with a shake of my head.
“You are not interested in money?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you are American?”
“We can have all that in the United States.” I answered.
“Then what if I were to tell you that you and Sergei Mikhailovich have broken Soviet law?” He said in a sterner voice. “You can be sent to the gulag for five years for the things you have done in the bedroom of Mika’s dacha. Not even your State Department would seek to stop such a sentence.”
“You will lose Verakov’s services if you do that.” I retorted.
“We will lose him anyway, to depression, if you do not cooperate.” He countered. That should be enough protesting to make it look real.
“Okay.” I said after meeting his stare for several minutes.
“As I said before, you are a smart young man.” Malsyukov said more jovially, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now, why don’t you join your friend and his father? Remember, he must believe what he has been told.”
“I won’t tell him the truth, not until Verakov retires.” I said firmly and the man nodded once before opening the door for me. Davey was sitting in the room, in a chair next to Verakov, but smiled and leapt to his feet when he saw me.
“Brian, it’s true!” He said in a tone of disbelief, but there was a smile on his face. “Can you believe it?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” I answered in Russian. “This sounds like some story out of a Tom Clancy novel.”
“Pravda.” Davey agreed with a chuckle. Verakov also stood and turned to face me.
“Let me introduce you to my son, Sergei Mikhailovich.” Verakov said with a hand on Davey’s shoulder. “That is the name we would have given him if he had come to us, as he should have, eighteen years ago.”
“I understand.” I said calmly. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know.” Davey said with a frown. “How am I going to tell Mom and Dad? And Jenny? Do we stay here?”
“I would like to get to know my son, if you are willing.” Verakov said firmly. “Both of you will always be welcome in my home.”
“The Soviet Union will welcome one of its own sons home, and his friend.” The older man who was in the room said gravely. “I am Yuri Andreiich Nerov, from Foreign Affairs. We have already spoken with the American State Department. I believe you have been told of the agreements made, if this remains quiet and out of the Western media?”
“Yes.” I agreed.
“What do you think, Brian?” Davey asked me in English. “He says we can attend Moscow State for our degrees, if we wish. We’ll even have an apartment near campus, together! They will honor our credits from Arizona State.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.” I said simply. “You should get to know him better if he really is your father.”
“I think… it’s not like we won’t be able to go back.” Davey said. “I just don’t look forward to telling Mom and Dad.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” I replied in English and he nodded.
“Come, this calls for a celebration.” Nerov said as he walked over to a low credenza with several bottles on it. He poured Vodka of course, and we all toasted father and son.
Two nights later we were at the U.S. Embassy in a rather uncomfortable situation. At first two mid-level State Department officials grilled us over and over again on what was really going on, and on our decision to stay in the USSR. Then the ambassador himself got us alone in his office and pulled out the big guns. The long-distance telephone call to Davey’s parents, and then my parents, was anything but comfortable. They wanted us home, especially Davey’s parents who didn’t understand why he wouldn’t believe that they knew he was their son. This whole situation was stressful to them, and Davey knew through our secret tapping system that the test results were really a lie. Fooling his parents wasn’t easy, and it was only the promise of a visit over Christmas that kept them from going to the media immediately.
Verakov took us to the Black Sea resort that was the favorite of members of the Politburo and their senior staff. Whatever his humble beginnings, Uncle Mikhail, as he insisted I call him, was one of the elite of Soviet society now, and lived a fairly comfortable life. Even while relaxing on the beaches of the Black Sea, though, he was working and Davey and I learned a lot about his work just from overheard conversations.
We learned even more from the philosophical conversations that Davey had with the man while we settled into life in his dacha. The man was intent on convincing Davey that communism was the right way to govern a society, and Davey was proving a capable debater. He deftly steered their discussions into areas where the man actually revealed quite a bit about economic production in the Soviet Union, and the problems they faced. Occasionally I would get involved in the conversations, but I tended to give ground easier than Davey did.
When classes began again at Moscow State, we were enrolled the same as any other students, or at least any other students of the elite. The required courses on Marxism-Leninism were non-negotiable, as were the math requirements harsher than their American counterparts. Davey was chagrined to learn he would be taking more math than he would have at Arizona State.
Then there was the fact that everyone now called him Sergei. Even I called him by that name, only using his real name when we were having sex. It took him two weeks into the semester until he answered to it as he would to his real name. My name was also ‘russianized’, with people taking to calling me Yuri for some reason. I never quite got the connection, but Davey insisted that if he had to go by Sergei, I would answer to Yuri.
When December rolled around, we learned just how cold a Russian winter could be. Both of us were happy to get on the Aeroflot flight that would eventually take us back to California. It was a long flight, with a stopover in Japan before we landed in San Francisco where both of our parents met us. His folks whisked him away with barely a word for me, while my mother kept on touching me to make sure I was really there.
“What is really going on, Brian?” Dad asked when we were in the car and driving back towards Modesto. Davey had called, and written his parents every week, just as I had done, and their responses had become more and more distressful as time went by. Mikhail Verakov had not been happy to let us go, but seemed confident we would return.
“You were told about Davey’s birth.” I answered in English that was actually a bit rusty.
“Don’t tell me you believe that story?” Mom snorted.
“Does it matter if we do or not?” I asked. “The Russians do, and Verakov believes it. You know how bad the story would make our government look if it ever got out. It’s just easier to let things happen this way. It’s not like they’re going to make Davey live there forever.”
“What do you mean?” Dad asked. “And that’s Davey. Why are you staying?”
“Would you leave Mom?” I asked him with a snort and he shook his head. “As for what I mean, well, when Davey and I graduate from college, things will change. Verakov will have gotten to know Davey for a few years, and he’ll be less… needy is the word I think. He’s just asked Davey for a few years to get to know him. He’s lost all his family you know.”
“That doesn’t mean he has a right to take other people’s family.” Mom said sternly. I could only imagine what Davey was getting. “Well, both you and Davey have appointments with psychologists who specialize in dealing with Stockholm Syndrome. We’ll get you set right.”
“You think we were taken hostage?” I asked, surprised by my own parents.
“What other explanation is there?” Mom said and I laughed. This was going to be fun.
In the end, it was Trevor’s father who took both parents aside for several long conversations. When he was done with them, our parents gave us dirty looks, but didn’t protest when we packed our bags to return to Moscow. Davey’s parents were downright frosty to both of us, not even taking him to the airport. It was on the flight back I learned that they finally knew exactly what our relationship was, and they’d threatened him with being disowned if he didn’t dump me. Then they blamed my parents for the whole mess, and I wasn’t sure how that was going to affect the business they all operated as a group.
Mika was happy to see Davey when we landed in Moscow. It was even colder than it had been when we left. Oddly, Davey looked more comfortable here than he had the entire time in California. This whole thing was going to take years to smooth over when everything was done. I’d left nearly two hundred pages of hastily typed notes for Mr. Rush before we left, and I hoped whatever information was in there was worth the cost Davey, and to a less extent, I, would be paying for this – emotional as well as physical.
Twice over the next year, I met Alexei Shevardnadze. It was eerie standing in the same room with the person who had caused so much trouble in previous timelines. The scientist was dead, though, and there was no need to kill the Russian this time. Still, it was interesting to know that I could have done it if it was necessary.
As 1989 progressed, the discussions between Mika and Davey became less and less frequent. If you read Pravda, or watched the government news, you might not know that Hungary and Poland had elected non-communist governments. Nor would you truly understand that the Berlin Wall no longer existed. Still, news of those events percolated on the campus of Moscow State, and on the streets of the city itself. Knowing what was coming, and seeing the effects of those events on the populace was interesting. The signs were everywhere of the cracks in the foundations of the Soviet Union if you knew what to look for, but its leadership went along like nothing had changed.
That year I went home for two weeks in the summer, and had several long talks with Mr. Rush, as well as leaving him a two-hundred page book on everything Davey and I were observing. In those notes were predictions that within the next few years, major changes would be seen in Soviet government. They didn’t come right out and say the Soviet Union was going to crack like an egg, but they hinted at it.
That summer, we went to Samarra with Mika, and Davey got to meet several ‘cousins’ that still lived in the region. It was a closed region, where few if any Westerners had ever visited, and when I went back for Christmas, again alone, Mr. Rush seemed quite enthralled with my notes from the visit there. 1990 was going to be a long year for the Soviet Union, and I had front-row seats with Davey for the excitement.
The 1988 reforms of Gorbachev, allowing for the first time since 1922 private property, private ownership of business and manufacturing plants were starting to have their effect on the national economy. Mika was at the heart of the storm, and while we stayed in the Moscow apartment that had been provided, we barely saw him during the week. On the weekends he looked like he was aging every week, growing older and older. Davey took to worrying over his health more than anything else.
One thing I’d always underestimated was the news programs. As time went by, the reforms of Gorbachev relaxed the Communist party control over the media. For the first time, the Soviet people were learning some of the sordid history of their nation. From Stalin’s purges to the abysmally high suicide rate, information that had been kept from them was becoming public, and shaking the faith of the average citizen on the street.
Since the early days of the cold war, the United States had tried telling Soviet citizens about these atrocities and problems, but their broadcasts reached few people inside the nation, and were believed by even fewer. Several of those we met who were near our age group could sing every song by American (and British) rock bands that they heard over the pirate American broadcasts, but would laugh about stories of Stalin’s atrocities, until they heard about it on Moscow news. By the time we were ready to graduate with our degrees from Moscow State, I was quite certain that I wanted to stay and watch this all the way through.
It was still winter outside, and there was a lot of snow on the ground when we went to a dinner at Mika’s house. Maslyukov was there, with his wife, as were several other apparatchiks who worked with the two men. It was a semi-formal affair, but the discussion took a surprising turn after the dinner itself was over, and we sat in a room sipping cognac in front of the fire.
“Do you know what our work is right now?” Maslyukov asked Davey and I after taking a puff on his cigarette. So far Davey and I had both resisted taking up smoking, which all these men did with relish.
“I have a few thoughts.” Davey admitted. “There is much privatization of businesses going on now and you play some role in that.”
“We are supposed to be supporting the private ownership of business and manufacturing while still maintaining control.” Maslyukov stated sourly. “It does not go well. Production is still down, and our economy worsens instead of improves.”
“Maybe you have the wrong people buying the businesses.” Davey said quickly, hitting a key point I’d shared with him about the problems of post-Soviet Russia.
“What do you mean?” Maslyukov asked.
“Who is buying these businesses?” Davey asked him.
“Those with the resources to do so, Sergei.” Mika stated with a chuckle. “You know this already, or should.”
“Yes, but why are they buying these businesses?” Davey asked him. “What is their motivation for owning them?”
“To make money.” Maslyukov, a true communist said it with a frown. “That is the problem. They do not care about the good of the nation, they care first about making more money.”
“That is always the problem with capitalism, but it does work.” Davey said. “The problem is not just with production, it’s with distribution, which is still state-controlled, and it is with the ownership. Here in Moscow, the small restaurants and other types of businesses that are opening are flourishing. That is because they can buy the goods they need to sell, and because they live here. They care about not only making a profit, but doing right by their neighbors who are their customers. A person in Moscow who buys a factory in Samarra does not care about the people in Samarra. He cares about his factory making money.”
“So how do you solve this?” Maslyukov asked with real interest. “No one in Samarra has money to buy the factory.”
“No one.” Davey said with emphasis on the second word. “Establish a fund to help the workers in the factory take out a loan and collectively buy the factory. If the workers of the factory own it, depend on it for their lives, and receive back the fruits of their labor from dividend payments, they will work harder. They will vote to hire managers that know what they are doing, and get rid of those who do not.”
“But that does not solve the transportation problems.” I added. “What good does it do to make more automobiles if you cannot move them to where people can afford to buy them?”
“How would you improve our transportation, my young man American friend?” Maslyukov asked. Should I reply honestly, and take the risk of actually helping the Soviet Union? No, the suggestion would only speed up its end, or be a contributing factor to that end.
“Much the same way as what Sergei suggested.” I explained. “Truck drivers do not care if they arrive on time if they are not being rewarded for their work. Enable them to achieve their own control over their own work. Establish a fund that will loan them the money to buy their own trucks. You won’t really be spending any more money than you already did to buy the truck the first time. You are just moving money around on paper. Charge them a little interest. They will own the truck, and be able to offer their services to those who have goods to move at a fair price. Monitor their prices, and those that cheat too much can be punished. In English we call it ‘gouging’.
“But there isn’t really infrastructure to support all that.” Davey said with a sigh. “The roads are awful, and fueling stations are not all that common. They would have to be privatized too in order to make this work.”
“That is the problem.” I agreed with him. “You cannot just turn one part of the economy into private business without also converting those that support such businesses. A puzzle is only little pieces until you put them all together to form a whole.”
“Yes, it is as you have said, Mika.” Maslyukov said. “Looking at only one tree has blinded us to the whole forest.”
“It is something we should think about.” Mika added, and the conversation changed to the weather and when we thought spring would finally arrive.
By summer, Davey and I found ourselves in positions I had not expected: working as assistants to Mika. Certainly we were very junior, and watched very, very closely, but we found some of our suggestions actually being considered, and one or two implemented. I was certain they would not help strengthen the Soviet Union, but held my breath just the same.
That summer Davey did not go back to America at all. His family was still not speaking to him, and my parents explained that David Jones Sr. had quit working for their budding corporation, even though he still owned a fair amount of stock. It wasn’t quite clear what he was doing, but he wanted nothing to do with us anymore.
Mr. Rush was not alone when I went to visit him this time. Mr. Long was there as well, and I had a direct debriefing that summer that lasted almost all of the two weeks. I barely had time to spend a day with Trevor and Todd as well as Brandon and Sean, all of whom were busy with their own lives. Todd was working on movie sets, trying to become a director. Trevor was drafted by L.A. and playing professional football as a backup quarterback. Brandon and Sean were starting up their own computer firm and had settled in Massachusetts.
Before I returned, there was one more meeting with Mr. Long, who told me to keep doing what we were doing. There were several people at the CIA who now believed it was entirely possible the Soviet Union could collapse any day now, and they were looking forward to seeing it become reality. He was even more excited about our new jobs, and was considering setting up a system whereby we could sneak information out more frequently.
Davey was happy to see me when I returned, and he had a very worried look on his face as he met me at Moscow’s airport.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him, switching back to Russian easily now.
“It’s father.” Davey said with a frown as we walked to the waiting car. He had started calling Mika that last year. Never any shorter name, always ‘father’.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“He is in the hospital.” Davey said sadly. “The doctors say it is only a matter of time.”
“I’m sorry.” I said as we got in the car. “Are we going to see him?”
“Yes, he’s been asking for you.” Davey said with a slight smile. “He misses his ‘third’ son.”
“I missed him too.” I said, and was only partly surprised at the truth of that statement.
