Summer, 1980 -- I had more or less just moved into my new office at Literaturnaya Gazeta. It was a small office shared with three other reporters, but I still look back on those days as some of the happiest times of my life. But I remember one day particularly well, rather one phone call which has stuck vividly in my memory.


"Yury?" an ingratiating male voice said as I picked up the receiver. "This is Alexei Ivanovich."


"Alexei Ivanovich who?"


"From the KGB," the voice announced joyfully. "Yury, we have to meet."


"Well, come on over," I answered.


"What are you talking about? There are people there! No, that is out of the question."


"Do you expect me to come to Lubyanka? Then send me a summons. After all, how do I know who you are?"


"Believe me, this is the KGB." Then he dictated a phone number that began with the characteristic prefix "224." I told him that I had no intention of calling him and that if the KGB needs to see me they can come to my office.


"Well, this is very important," Alexei Ivanovich assured me. "How can you not understand how important this is?" Again, I told him that I would not come.


"Yury, Yury ..." he sighed. "I'll have to report to my superiors."


"Go ahead!" I told him and slammed the receiver down. What did he want? Did he want to ask me about some of my friends? Maybe it had something to do with my last business trip to Uzbekistan and the article that I had written. Maybe he just wanted to get better acquainted?


I was still thinking about these questions when the phone rang again. From his voice, it sounded like Alexei Ivanovich had just run all the way up to his "superiors" and back again. "No, Yury. I'm afraid this is impossible. I've just come from my boss and they insist on today. It is quite urgent and can't possibly be put off. We really must see you. And my boss ... "


"Oh, the hell with it," I said decisively. "When and where?"


"Oh, any hotel you like. The Rossiya, Berlin, Budapest ..." I chose the latter since it was closest to my office. "How will I recognize you?" I asked. "Don't worry. We'll know you. We'll know you." He hung up.


I remember that I was not afraid as I walked up to the hotel. For one thing, I was already used to being protected by my newspaper. Second, I think that we all had, by then, come to think of the KGB with a sort of irony, even though we were ever more convinced that this organization was increasingly entangling the country like an octopus.


I recognized Alexei Ivanovich immediately. He literally radiated joy as he saw me approach the hotel. "How wonderful, Yury! How wonderful," he said, showing me his identification. Alexei Ivanovich ... KGB ... Major. Oh, a major! I remember that I looked at the ID for a very long time. "Well, where are we going to talk?" I finally asked.


"Come on in," he said and pointed toward the door of the hotel. I have always had very difficult relations with doormen. They never let me in anywhere. I guess I just don't know how to talk to them or how to create the impression that I am some sort of powerful government official. It happened again this time. The doorman blocked my path with his arm saying, "Where do you think you are going?"


"This comrade is with me," Alexei Ivanovich said quietly.


"And just who are you?" the doorman replied, looking suspiciously at the major's civilian dress. I was curious to see how Alexei Ivanovich would get himself out of this situation, thinking that maybe I could use the trick in the future. The major looked at the doorman like he was a child and said, "Let us through. Don't interfere."


"What do you mean? Where do you think you're going?"


That is when the major, making an apologetic glance at me, leaned over to the doorman and whispered some magic words into his ear. "Well, why didn't you say so!" the doorman replied.


"What a blockhead!" the major said, turning to me as we hurried past. "To be honest, I hate doormen." All of sudden, a sort of fraternal sympathy sprung up between us.


We walked along through a lot of long corridors, up some stairs and down some others. "I've never had such a meeting as this before. In a hotel, no less. In general, I've had more contact with the police," I said.


"Really! This is your first time!" Alexei Ivanovich answered with genuine surprise. "That can't be! Your first time!"


Finally we stopped and the major opened a door without knocking. There was another man there and Alexei Ivanovich introduced him as Vasily Ivanovich or Ivan Vasilyevich. They immediately began asking me questions: "How's it going, Yury?"


"Fine."


"No, I mean, in general," Alexei Ivanovich asked again.


"In general, fine."


"And how are things at home? At work? How is your writing going?" This sort of stuff. They didn't ask me to name any names. They didn't ask me about anyone in particular.


We sat there, lazily talking for a long time like strangers who just met at the airport. About the time we started exchanging opinions on the weather and about perspectives for the upcoming harvest, I began to look impatiently at my watch. At this point, the major made a dramatic pause, fixed a penetrating gaze on me and asked: "Tell us, Yury, how would you evaluate the influence of Buddhism in our karate clubs?"


I was shocked. "What?" He repeated the question and I began to explain that I didn't know anything about Buddhism or karate, that I had never seen a Buddhist monk, that I never been to a karate club meeting.


They both stared at me in disbelief. "How can that be?" Major Alexei Ivanovich said in confusion. "They told us you were quite a specialist!"


They both began muttering something about how hard things were these days with young people, that the KGB can't get any good information because none of their agents can fit in, etc. As I was leaving, Alexei Ivanovich whispered in my ear: "Don't forget, Yury. Not a word to anyone."


Major Alexei Ivanovich called me two more times that year. The first time he joyfully reported that he had just returned from vacation. The second time he told me that he really liked my articles and asked me to tell him what issues they had appeared in. After that, I never heard from him again.





Yury Shchekochikhin is the head of the investigative department of Literaturnaya Gazeta. He contributed this article to The Moscow Times.