The female control officer pressed a hidden lever, and the FSB officer began monitoring the conversation. The passenger is a US citizen named Dmitry Klimov. He is polite and pleasant, and his documentation is in order, but what does this mean? Getting off one plane, wandering around Sheremetyevo without leaving for the city, and then boarding another plane back to where he came from? The procedure to get here was arduous, with countless forms at the consulate, certifications, and photos required to obtain a Russian visa and purchase a business-class ticket. And all this only to take a walk around the airport?

The FSB officer hunched over the monitor, listening to the conversation, and spoke quietly into the microphone. “Girls, take a look at the client in Area Four, male, athletic build, wearing a canvas jacket trimmed in leather, light brown shoes, and thick, blond hair – possibly a wig.”

Once upon a time, Department 7, the section of the KGB responsible for surveilling foreigners, employed operatives of both sexes so that if the need arose, a target could even be accompanied to the toilet. KGB’s successor, FSB, is all about technology, and remote video surveillance is so tightly organized that “guiding” a target has become no more complicated than playing a computer game. However, physical surveillance is still used indoors and outdoors.

In the arrivals hall, camera operators captured a passenger, followed him, and handed him off to customs control. There, legitimate customs officers and security personnel working undercover examined him thoroughly. The passenger was released into the city if no contraband or suspicious items were found.

However, this passenger did not leave and wandered around the airport building, peering intently at the glass doors, stairs, and hallways. This behavior triggered all the government machinery. He was being tailed, video recordings were made, and personal data from the visa application form was urgently requested. Only the old installation engineer, who once served in the KGB and had access to the monitors, gloomily commented, “He is remembering, remembering, and comparing.”

“What does he remember?” insisted the shift supervisor.

“He’s a builder, most likely from Rutebau.”

“What’s that, Valov? What does it mean?”

“The firm that built the airport. The Germans built it – West German’s. The Rutebau company.”

“Hmmm, I didn’t know.”

And you’re a brainless piece of shit, sadly, thought the retiree. I wouldn’t have promoted you beyond a first-grade technician in the old days.

But times had changed, and he was no longer an airport security boss as he was back in the 1980s. Ah, the 1980s… Yes, and he should already be at rest due to arrhythmia. What a distasteful word…

He did not recognize the person on the monitor screens, although the thick hair remotely resembled someone from the distant past.

After wandering around the airport for an hour and a half, the passenger returned to the check-in counter, passed through customs and passport control, and slowly ascended the escalator to the second floor in the departure area.

Right there, where the stairs end, there was once a foreign currency bar well known to the outgoing Moscow elite. Rubles were also accepted, but not by everybody. Here, well-known athletes poured beer from outlandish aluminum cans, and diplomats focused on their caviar sandwiches. The poet Yevtushenko ordered green tea, and beloved artist Volodya Vysoskiy politely asked for cold vodka. All of them were famous and bohemian, and all those who would be granted the ridiculous foreign title “celebrity” had passed by this counter.

The memories seemed to weaken the passenger’s knees. The bar was empty, and he chose a table at the edge, sat down, and threw his bag onto a vacant chair. A blue-shaven bartender with a military bearing leisurely approached him. He wanted to tell the visitors that they were on a technical break and that the chairs were not intended for luggage. He even raised a finger to point to the offending bag, but then the visitor’s phone rang. Ignoring the barman, he spoke into the phone in German. The bartender silently returned to his post behind the counter. After about five minutes, the traveler ended the conversation and sank into reverie. His eyes scanned the room, trying to recapture the past. Alas, there was nothing to grasp onto. Of course, this was not the same bar. Gone were the curved sofas and the odd barstools at a low and wide bar. And the bar itself was missing as the place had become more of a restaurant.

The ring! Of course, the ring! Where was it – the hole left from the bronze ring in the ceiling, dislodged by a champagne cork? The entire airport ceiling comprised these rings – they clustered together and hung like brown honeycombs over thousands of bustling passenger bees. This was Sheremetyevo’s hallmark. No other airport, and probably no other building in the country, had anything like it. But the rings were gone. The ceiling was now wholly different, ordinary like any other airport.

What had he and Anya been celebrating in the storage room? And why had he not allowed her to open the bottle? In his inexperienced hands, the champagne popped deafeningly; the heavy cork shot up like a bullet and stayed there. Seized by horror, they stared as one of the millions of those rings fell. It turned out that they were not metal but rather plastic with a bronze finish. Frightened to death, they quickly stopped the bottle with something and rushed to the exit, through the checkpoint to the bus.

Dima searched the ceiling for a long time for the stuck cork until Uncle Vlad, the senior bartender-administrator, noticed and remarked, “They already know your face well enough. Stop looking up.”

Yes, the airport’s ceiling was made up of rings to mask the lenses of surveillance cameras – it was a joke to all the employees of Sheremetyev-2 in those years, and the passengers presumably thought the same.

“Es tut mir leid, geht es Ihnen gut?” asked the bartender with genuine concern as he touched the passenger’s shoulder and set a glass of cold water in front of him.

“Oh, forgive me, for God’s sake,” he answered in Russian. “I just felt a bit dizzy. May I sit here for a few more minutes?”

“Yes, as long as you like. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be over there working on some papers.”

Oh, those papers… shift change schedules, the commodity report, warehouse requirements, and something else, and, finally, the most important thing is the report on the currency received. An error on any document could cost you your job. At the same time, if the figures were manipulated cleverly and plausibly, some excess money could drop into the bartender’s pocket without much risk.

“Paperwork is creative work,” Anya quoted a friend of hers. “Treat it with your soul and get a sweet reward.” She folded a small airplane out of a hundred ruble note, waving it above her head, and walked into the back room.

“After all, you wouldn’t refuse to go with a lady to the Arbat tonight?” She pushed him against the crates of mineral water, pressing her breasts into his chest, and her eyes shone with a myriad of twinkling lights.

Looking up from the papers, the bartender regarded his only customer, who was still looking off into the distance, into the depths of years past. The bartender even imagined he saw a tear running down the guest’s cheek.

“No, no, I don’t need any help. And the flight has already been announced. Thank you. Thanks.”

He grabbed his half-empty bag and headed for boarding. Strange passenger.

DIMA (1981)

Dima shifted in his seat, his face still pressed against the window as he observed the spit-stained station platform. The view wasn’t fascinating, but it was customary to look out the window as a passenger. Spherically fat grandmothers, or perhaps young women disguised as grandmothers dressed in identical quilted jackets and gray shawls, were selling simple food on the platform. Dima had learned to avoid nuts and pies with various fillings, including questionable “meat,” after getting sick in Khabarovsk. The gray mass vaguely resembled meat but was of uncertain origin, rumored to be a mixture of offal, soy, or even stray dogs. Dima had learned his lesson after two days of illness.

A cheerful former convict, released early due to illness, teased Dima, calling him “First on the Pot,” referring to his recent sickness. Fortunately, the nickname didn’t stick, and Dima remained known as Dima for the rest of the journey. The ex-convict, weakened by his condition, rarely left his folding bench. He joked about going home on the “path of recovery,” a sarcastic reference to his release certificate. Although everyone in the train car understood the underlying meaning, it was a sensitive topic, and no one dared to make light of it.

Dima stayed seated when the conductor asked him to come to her compartment.

“Why are you sitting there, kid? He almost certainly has tubik,” she remarked.

“What’s tubik?” Dima asked.

“Tubik, my boy, means tuberculosis,” the conductor explained.

“But he says it’s his stomach,” Dima replied.

“Well, then you must know better, doctor. Get out of here.”

Regretting her interaction with the youngster, the conductor worried he would spread what she said throughout the car. However, Dima remained silent, moving farther away from the former prisoner.

On the platform beneath the dimly glowing neon sign reading “Sverdlovsk,” Dima purchased hot potatoes wrapped in newspaper and two limp pickles from the spherical ladies. Carefully removing the newsprint from the potatoes with a knife, he ate without much enthusiasm. The black newspaper text left a blue imprint on the potatoes, puzzling him. He sat there for a while, lost in thought, not about the color transformation of newsprint but about the fractures in life and the need to adapt and make changes.

Dima was not outgoing; he preferred to listen rather than speak. But the journey seemed to loosen people’s tongues more than any interrogator could.

“If you had stayed a few more years, you would be on the icebreaker ‘Lenin,’ feeding penguins,” someone remarked.

“Penguins? Are there penguins in the Arctic?” Dima asked, amazed.

“Why not? Where else would they have gone? I saw it on TV,” someone else chimed in from a nearby bench.

Dima found the statement blatantly ignorant and chose not to respond, not even turning his head.

“And so, is it hard to get into the Marine College?” the ex-prisoner asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“No. I applied after being discharged from the Army. Service counts. Acceptance was easy.”

“Did they kick you out, Dima? Didn’t have enough pull?”

“It just wasn’t my thing. Even in the Army, I got tired of barracks life.”

“Not your thing? Hah! But then, what is your thing? Don’t answer. It’s already time for me to get measured for a wooden suit, and I don’t even know what my thing was or how I fucked it up… Did you say you have an uncle in Moscow?”

Dima sat on another bench, seeking solace in observing the ceiling covered with fly droppings. He preferred to talk about life with the old ex-convict without the eager listeners surrounding them, making him feel like he was in a Komsomol meeting. Unhappy thoughts started to intrude into his mind.

Indeed, he had an uncle in Moscow. Despite his reluctance to turn to him for help, circumstances left him no choice. All roads seemed to lead to Vlad, his weary uncle, and only remaining relative. Dima loved and respected him, but an incident at Dima’s farewell party before he went to the Army left a sour memory.

Uncle Vlad managed a café with an unusual name – CAFE – and an adjoining grocery store. Living alone, he felt responsible for his few remaining relatives, including his sister and nephew. He provided them with food, financial support, advice, and patronage. As a grocer, he held a respected position in Soviet society, and people from various backgrounds sought his acquaintance, including engineers and prosecutors.

For Vlad, organizing Dima’s farewell party as he transitioned from civilian life to the Army was a small matter, an inconsequential task. With loud farewells, the alcohol flowed, and Dima’s friends and neighbors slowly dispersed into the Zelenograd apartment block. But then, unexpectedly, a local small-time criminal known as “Chief” called Dima over. Being non-confrontational and having no issues with Chief, Dima approached the garages without expecting any trouble. However, what he heard there was worse than any physical altercation.

“Dimon, here’s the thing… your uncle Vlad is a fag.”

“What did you say?” Dima was outraged. “You drank the port wine and vodka he brought, and Vlad didn’t act oddly at all. What happened?”

“Chief” realized the conversation was going south and fell silent. Then Tolyan spoke – he was older, had already completed military service, but had not yet found a job, preferring to spend his days hanging out in the yard.

“You don’t get it. He’s a real faggot, a queer.”

Dima wanted to get away never to return to this courtyard or this city.

As through a fog he heard Tolyan say that Vlad’s new friend, an Estonian, had tried to stab him. The police hauled both of them in, and the Estonian said he wanted to kill Vlad because he was jealous.

The weight of the situation overwhelmed the 18-year-old Dima, leaving him physically ill. When the dizziness subsided, and everyone had left, he found himself alone. His uncle, who regularly sent greetings in letters from his mother, had taken over the correspondence when she fell ill with an advanced form of breast cancer and became unable to write. Dima was granted leave in the winter of 1979 to attend his mother’s funeral. At first, he didn’t fully grasp that he was now entirely alone in the world. It was only after returning to the barracks that the reality sunk in.

During the memorial service, the director of the Defense Research Institute, where his mother had worked her entire life, mentioned that although housing was state-owned, Dima could keep his mother’s apartment if he agreed to join the institute upon his return. However, deep down, Dima knew he would never return to that apartment or the Moscow satellite city, let alone the closed defense facility. He observed his grief-stricken uncle Vlad with detachment and dismissed the rumors that were circulating. After all, the Estonian had been released quickly, and there he stood behind Vlad, wearing a comical hat adorned with a wolf’s tail.

Six months later, the monotonous life in the army barracks ended. Private Dmitriy Klimov, accompanied by a group of partially intoxicated former soldiers, walked out of the gates of the army base. Instead of the cumbersome uniform, he now donned a windbreaker. Instead of a suitcase filled with photo albums, he carried a half-empty sports bag containing his military ID and a document called a “Military Transportation Order,” granting him a free railway ticket. Dima had chosen Vladivostok, a distant city on the Pacific coast, as his destination.

FMD and SMD

The most important and prestigious section of the KGB is, of course, the First Chief Directorate – FCD (intelligence). This is the dream of young romantics whose heartfelt wish is to join the “Komitet.” Bitter disappointment awaits many of them. Upon returning from various foreign assignments, they will discover they are being watched, their phones tapped, and their careers will halt. They spend long hours with their heads in their hands, trying to recall where and when they had aroused suspicion. Which of their comrades could be the source of the denunciation? The trouble, however, is that there may not have been any denunciation. The colleague has returned from beyond the ideological front, and who knows, who knows?

Members of the Second Chief Directorate – SCD (counterintelligence) rarely go on operational trips abroad, and because of this, their careers are more predictable. Life and service are simpler. For example, they are not required to live undercover – neighbors and friends could know that so-and-so works in the KGB. For every FCD officer, however, a cover story was arranged. Usually, for friends and neighbors, he was supposed to be an engineer at a secret defense facility. Most employees of the FCU of the KGB of the USSR never used an official ID – a plastic card without a photo and a name was used to enter the vast complex at Yasenevo on the outskirts of Moscow. It never occurred to anyone to flash a brown folding ID with the embossed letters “KGB” to anyone without serious cause. Whatever you look at it, life in the SCD was more straightforward.

Major Valov, the senior operations officer of Department “T” of the SCD, left the Detskiy Mir (Children’s World) store. In his right hand was a slim diplomatic briefcase; in his left, like a conjurer, he held two ice cream bars. Squinting at the sun and glancing at his watch, he ate both, discarded the sticks in an overflowing trash can, crossed the street, and disappeared into Building No. 2 on Dzerzhinskiy Street, the former Bolshaya Lubyanka. Here, on the fourth floor with a window overlooking the dreaded Inner Prison, where the employee cafeteria is now located, was his office.

But it was not easy to find Valov there. More often, he could be found in one of the unmarked rooms in the main building of international airport Sheremetyevo-2, right behind the Deputy Hall. Or in the airport basement behind a steel door with the inscription “Civil Defense.” Or in the departure hall, he walked around with a detached look, pretending to be a passenger. Often, he would sit at the bar with his habitual double-scoop of ice cream. Of course, the staff knew who he was, no secret about that. Among themselves, they called him “our curator from the KGB” or simply “curator.” The departure zone was his actual workplace, a sort of battlefield where, like chess pieces on a board, his proxies and confidential informants were placed, special equipment was installed and concealed. Valov had sources among cleaners, customs officers, border guards, and even pilots.

It is not that the average Soviet citizen was naturally secretive and close-mouthed. Still, he became extraordinarily talkative after being caught in petty theft, a bribe, immorality, or any offense that entailed a trial and dismissal. He provided mountains of information, sometimes unexpected and sometimes unrelated to the work of the KGB. He would be investigated and asked to sign a document obligating him to cooperate with the authorities voluntarily; a pseudonym was selected, and a schedule for secret meetings was agreed upon.

The primary despised “initiators” – those who voluntarily sought contact and offered information. There were many of them, but all employees at Sheremetyevo were not averse to snitching to the KGB. However, Valov, being an experienced operative, understood that these volunteers all wanted to use him, Major Valov. Some wanted to settle a score through him, some wanted to advance in their jobs, and others, anticipating future problems, wanted to get into his favor as an excuse or to receive special treatment.

Major Valov never refused to listen but mainly trusted his tested informants, recruited based on solid evidence, indebted to him, and deeply involved in their informant activities. In official documents, this is referred to as an “informant network,” and through this network, streams of foreigners flowed day and night. They would drink too much, eat, and buy souvenirs, speculating that the cashier or a cheerful bartender might have some connection with the “kay-gee-bee” (KGB). However, these were the game’s rules during the height of the Cold War.

The network provided a vast amount of information, often of a criminal nature or, as the KGB termed it, “police-related info.” It was meticulously documented but never directly shared with the police to protect the anonymity of the sources. However, it would be incorrect to say that this data was not utilized – it was often used to recruit new KGB informants.

Foreigners, as a category, rarely interested Valov. This was the domain and concern of the prestigious First Chief Directorate of the KGB of the USSR. Instead, Valov focused on Soviet citizens actively seeking contact with foreigners. Providing a tip about such individuals could earn an informant a cash bonus, exemption from legal troubles, and, in some cases, a State award. A secret order of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR granted these awards. Recipients were prohibited from wearing or boasting about them to neighbors or relatives. However, Valov had never had such informants in his network. Most individuals in Valov’s network were ordinary people who had found themselves in some trouble, documented in intelligence reports that landed on Valov’s desk.

Major opened the steel safe and pulled out two folders – one thin folder labeled “Personal” and the other thick folder with the words “Operational” written on the cover, along with the bold inscription “Confidential Informant LARIN” in felt-tip pen. Glancing at his watch again, Valov picked up both folders and headed to meet his boss.

The head of Department “T,” responsible for counterintelligence operations at transportation facilities, occupied a bright and spacious office on the third floor. This “General” had formerly been a high-ranking member of the Party’s Central Committee, but during the campaign to “strengthen intelligence,” he was transferred to the KGB. Despite lacking experience as an intelligence officer and never holding a military rank, he was promoted to General overnight – a common practice aimed at imposing Party control over law enforcement. In the USSR, ideology always took precedence over professionalism. The Dzerzhinsky Red Banner University of the KGB even had an extraordinary faculty to train those transferred Party and Komsomol workers for leadership positions within the KGB.

The former Party boss held a certain appreciation for Valov’s superior operational skills but also harbored a slight fear due to the absence of compromising information on him. Consequently, their interactions were infrequent. Although the major had a direct superior, that person had recently gone on vacation, leaving Valov in charge. After explaining his request, the General leaned over to read the contents of the “personal” file.

Valov made a peculiar request – to seek approval to hire the informant’s nephew, “Larin,” as a porter. Larin, whose real name is Vlad Klimov, worked as a bartender in the departure zone of Sheremetyevo-2 and implored Valov not to obstruct his nephew’s employment. Larin had already handled all the necessary paperwork with the airport management using his connections, and the only remaining step was to secure the Committee’s approval.

“I don’t quite understand why he wants a relative to work there, and I understand even less why we need him,” the General said, emphasizing the word “we.”

“There’s nothing illogical about it,” the major responded quietly. “There isn’t a single shift change at the bar without shortages. The porters typically steal beer and cigarettes. They drink the beer and break the empty bottles to claim they were damaged in transit, and the cigarettes are smoked in the storage room, eliminating the need to carry them through the checkpoint. Sometimes, they loosen the caps of the cognac bottles and extract ten or twenty grams. Currently, they’re short of a porter. All the shift bartenders have to come in an hour early and transport the goods themselves on carts – they complain, but it’s better than shortages. A porter who doesn’t drink and happens to be a relative of the senior bartender administrator is precisely what they need.”

“Well, what good is a teetotaling porter to us then?” the General asked, again emphasizing the word “us.”

“None. But “Larin’ wasn’t rewarded at all for the mother-of-pearl icon case,” the major replied.

“Tsarevich Aleksey?” the General became interested.

“Yes, it all happened in his bar, and he was the one who provided the initial information,” the major confirmed.

“Right, but all the glory went to the Counter-smuggling team! He should be punished for this,” the General exclaimed, laughing.

It had been a significant incident involving the wife of an African diplomat who had attempted to smuggle out an antique icon by strapping it between her legs and nearly strangling Officer Shubin from the Tenth Department (counter-smuggling) with his tie. Many employees from the Tenth Department were rewarded, the woman was expelled from the country, and Sasha Shubin became the head of the department.

“Well, I can’t tell an informant that contraband isn’t our job, that Department “T” and Department ’10” are not the same,” the major explained.

“True, of course,” the General agreed. “But could he be revarded with money?”

“You clearly don’t understand how much they make over there,” Valov replied, daring to show a touch of audacity as he gazed out the window, his eyes filled with hatred. “So let me tell you – up to three hundred rubles daily! In just one day! And during the Olympics, that faggot managed to earn enough to buy a one-room cooperative apartment.”

The general disliked Valov’s tone and wanted to put him in his place, but Valov continued, “The bartenders receive more tips in rubles and foreign currency in a five-day week than you and I together in a month. They’re the ones who could motivate us with money.”

Noticing the expression on the general’s face, Valov fell silent.

“Well,” said the general, “try to control your emotions and explain what you want from me. You could have approved the nephew yourself.”

“I can’t. They are close relatives. The instruction states ‘in special cases.’”

“What instruction?” the former Party member asked, immediately regretting his question.

“Instruction Two Zero Sixty,” the major replied in surprise.

Oh, you’re a bitch, thought the general to himself. He was upset and changed the subject. “Is he really a homo?”

“Yes. He was recruited in 1977 in an incident with his homosexual partner – he was pulled out of the incarceration unit of the Zelenograd police department. Jealousy. Fight. Non-penetrating stab wound in the stomach.”

“I don’t care for your attitude toward sources,” pronounced the general in the officious tone of a former instructor of the Central Committee. “But why so much hate? Why do you speak with such irritation about your informant, who has worked with you for years? Yes, sometimes they have a lot of money; yes, they are not awakened and called to report in the middle of the night as we sometimes are. They live materially better than us in some ways, but tell me honestly, would you change places with this ‘Larin?’”

And again, the apparatchik realized he had blundered. After all, the informant was a homosexual. What a day!

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