The interesting thing about the White Sands desert is that it was formed when a shallow sea dried up. That was few million years ago, I think. Geology is not my area of expertise, though my education touched on it briefly. The sand is white because it's made of gypsum, like in chalk. While the natural beauty was intriguing, it wasn't the reason why I was there. The nearby missile test range was my target, or more specifically, the scientists who worked there. I worked for the GRU, the most secretive of the Soviet spy agencies. After recruitment and training, I was sent abroad to gather information on American missiles and missile bases by any possible means. In practice, this meant I spent a lot of time driving around out west. I felt a bit like Moses at times, such was my desert wandering. Faith had never been part of my life, but knowledge of the Bible made it easier for me to blend in.
Though I learned English from my parents, I grew up in the Soviet Union. They emigrated there during the depression because they naively believed Soviet propaganda about building a workers' paradise. My father disappeared into the gulag archipelago when I was five years old, never to be heard from again. During WW2, I spent most of my time with my mother working in a munition plant in the Ural Mountains. When the Germans were closing in on Moscow, Stalin ordered that Soviet military industry be evacuated eastward. So of course, the workers followed along. Even Lenin's embalmed body was evacuated at that time. I remember huddling with my mother in a drafty box car for a few days and nights. All we had was what we could carry. We had been living in Tula, home to a famous bullet foundry and gunworks. That is where my father worked. He wanted to use his expertise in weapons to help the glorious socialist revolution defend itself. It was not enough to protect him from accusations of sabotage and treason.
A proletarian diet and education made me grow lean and strong. The first time I got interviewed was shortly after I won a math contest at school. There were two of them; plain-looking guys with gaunt faces and hard eyes. They took me aside when I was walking home from school. "Hello there, young man", said the first. He had a bone-crushing handshake. "Come with us", said the other, "we have something important to tell you." He touched me gently on the shoulder. Later, I would learn that this was a case of good-cop, bad-cop. They led me to a grove of trees near the school and looked around to check that no one was watching. The larger of the two, the one with the bone-crushing handshake, eyed my notebook. On the back was a picture of a Colorado beetle. At the time, I and my classmates were being taught that the CIA was dropping such pests on our homeland to devastate our potato crops, and this was just one example of their nefarious, imperialist aggression.
"How do you like school, Mike?"
I was surprised he called me by a name only my mother used. Almost everyone else called me Mikhail, the Russian equivalent of Michael. I suspected they were recruiters of some sort. The first security service I heard of was SMERSH, which is short for "death to spies" in Russian. I heard many propaganda stories about how they helped Soviet partisans behind enemy lines during the war. Just about all the boys my age looked up to SMERSH operatives for their heroism in defeating the Nazi invaders.
"Are you two with SMERSH? If so, I'm in", I stammered.
They both laughed. The "bad cop" patted me on the shoulder and spoke.
"Ah, such a brave lad. That's good. You must finish your studies before you can do anything like that. Also, you didn't answer my question. How do you like school?"
I wasn't sure how to answer. I told a few close friends that I had been born in the US. Sometimes during the war, there was a story in the paper about how America was helping the Soviet people win the war. On those days, I'd beam with pride and tell my closest friends that I was from America. I proved it to them by speaking English and writing some English phrases on scraps of paper. Of course, after the war, when the anti-America propaganda went into overdrive, I was exposed to all kinds of accusations and mistreatment. I got in a fight once after another boy called me a traitor and a spy. I came home with a black eye. When my mother asked me what happened, I said I got hit with a ball by accident.
"I like school alright, most of the time", I answered carefully.
"No fights? No one bothers you?", said the "good cop".
"I get treated about the same as all the other boys."
"That's good. So, you speak English at home?"
"Sometimes. It's my mother's first language and it's easier for her."
"I see nothing wrong with that. Many Soviet citizens speak Russian as a second language; almost half if I remember right. My first language is Ukrainian. Even great Stalin learned Russian as a second language", said the "bad cop".
That was reassuring to hear. It put me at ease.
"I want to help the revolution after I finish my studies."
"Excellent. You do just that. And make sure you don't forget how to speak English. It is a vital skill to our motherland these days", said the "good cop".
At that, they gave me a few chocolate bars and left. I never saw them again. When my mother asked me where I got the chocolate, I said it was the prize from the math contest. This was around the time when I started to become a habitual liar. That came in handy later. Not long after I met them, a mysterious, unmarked package showed up the doorstep of my home. It was an English dictionary, which I kept hidden from my mother.
The next few years were a blur. I excelled in school and in all subjects. On the evening of graduation day, there was a knock at the door. When my mother answered, there was no one there, just a note. It read:
CONGRATULATIONS, MIKE. IT IS TIME. YOU KNOW WHERE TO MEET US.
I did my best to calm my mother by telling her it was just an interview for a government job, and I'd be back in an hour or two. We embraced, and I nearly had to pry myself out of her arms. She loved me dearly because I was her only child.
It was a warm spring evening, just after sunset. I walked to the same grove where I met the two mysterious men years ago. I recognized them as soon as I saw them.
"Ah, you got our note. Good evening, Mike. We met again", said the "bad cop", now a bit fatter and with less hair.
"Good evening, gentlemen. Whatever it is, I'm in."
"You still want to help the revolution? Think carefully, because now there is no turning back", said the "good cop", now wearing a fancier coat and hat.
"Yes. Aside from my mother, there is not much left for me here in the Urals."
"All well and good. Before we get down to business, I have another gift for you", said the "bad cop".
He produced a small case from his pocket and opened it with a dramatic flourish.
"This is for you, Mike", he explained. "Order of the Red Star. No one will call you a traitor again, I promise."
I took the medal case, gave it an admiring glance, and put it in my pocket.
"Thank you. What's next?"
"You will come with us to Moscow for special training", said the "good cop".
"What do I tell my mother?"
"Tell her that you have been accepted into the foreign service, and that you will not be able to communicate with her often", said the "bad cop".
I did as they said and soon found myself in Moscow. The apartment they gave was a palace compared to what I grew up in, complete with various appliances and even contraband books and newspapers. My handlers later explained they wanted me to get used to living American style.
I spent most of my time studying and practicing English. My handlers valued me highly as I could speak excellent English with an American accent. Even so, because I had left the US as a small child, I knew very little about how life really was there. In one training exercise, the scenario was: you have been pulled over by American police. Talk your way out of the speeding ticket using good, idiomatic English. It was a challenge because all I knew about English up to that time was from the secret dictionary and conversations with my mother.
Because of my good grades in math in science, I was selected for deep-cover missile reconnaissance. To transmit my findings back to headquarters, I learned how to use a shortwave radio and the use of one-time use pads for encryption. My handlers said they could supply a false passport and some money, but after that, I was on my own, and I'd need to get a job and integrate into American society. Right before I left for the US, the "bad cop" met me once more.
"Remember, Mike, that technology can only get you so far. True espionage comes from people; people who trust you. Blend in, make friends, and keep your eyes and ears open. Work hard and in a few years, you will be permitted to return to visit with your mother. Also, as far as women go, stick with divorcees and single moms. You're less likely to get in trouble that way. This is the moment you've been waiting for and the job you always wanted. Glory to the Great October Revolution!"
We toasted mini glasses of vodka, and I was on my way.
As another gift and also to cover my tracks, I made a meandering tour through Europe, including Vienna, Rome, Paris, and Amsterdam. It was a shock to see so many ordinary workers living in what by Soviet standards was luxury. I put that all in the back of my mind and focused on my mission. I came into the US through Canada and hitchhiked to Omaha. There were no missiles there, but as it was the home of Strategic Air Command, I felt it worth my while to hang around. I went to the Salvation Army for help in getting a job and a place to stay. I blended in well with all the other drunks and bums. Soon enough, I had a hole-in-the wall apartment and a steady paycheck from driving a forklift.
All my spare time was devoted to hanging around in bars frequented by the men who worked at Strategic Air Command. Most of them were enlisted, but there were low-level officers here and there. The drunk mouth speaks the sober mind, and there is nothing young men enjoy more than bragging about themselves and their work. From them, I was able to deduce the order of battle for all the units stationed at the best. My handlers were most pleased. They even mailed me a congratulatory postcard. The actual message was concealed as a microdot posing as a period. Hiding messages in plain sight is called steganography. It is cheap and effective, but that means less profit for the US military industrial complex, which is why they spurn it.
I learned to weld, which meant better pay and more independence. After a year of that, I decide to reward myself with a trip to the brothels of Nevada. It was legal there, though I knew my mother and handlers would have disapproved if they knew. At the time, the fervor for the cause was the only thing that mattered in my life, and other relationships were just a distraction. Soon enough, I decided to head south to White Sands, which I learned was the main US missile testing facility. My reports from there made my superiors ecstatic. I was invited to return to visit my mother ahead of schedule in East Berlin. We met at a cozy restaurant. She was so happy to see me. I explained that I had been promoted several times in the foreign service. She said that her pension had been increased and that my father had received a posthumous rehabilitation. Everything was coming together. She asked me if I was thinking about marriage, but I brushed off the question. Our meeting ended with a warm embrace, and I was off once more behind enemy lines.
It's hard to explain how my change of heart started. I guess the key moment happened when I read Khrushchev's speech whereby he denounced Stalin. It was truly shocking to hear such things. I petitioned my handlers to let me return and transition to a training role.
And so you see now, my dear Yuri, why I left you this note. I advise you to burn it after you read it; that's good practice for the foreign service if that is indeed your heart's desire. Man is wolf to man. I wish there was a higher truth, but there isn't. I found my little piece of paradise with my mother, fiancée, and a decent job. I suggest you do likewise. Long live the Great October Revolution.
Yours most sincerely,
Mike
