Death of a Dissident - Alex Goldfarb [3]
But a closer inspection revealed the strain affecting the fugitives. It was in the way Sasha peered at every new person around, in Marina’s tear-puffed eyes, and in little Tolik’s need for constant attention from his parents.
Turkey is one of the few places where visitors from Russia can enter without a visa, or rather, by buying one for $30 at the border. Marina and Tolik had entered on ordinary Russian passports from Spain, where they had gone on a tour. Sasha’s documents were false; he showed me a passport from one of the ex-Soviet republics, with his photograph but a different name.
“How did you get it?”
“Have you forgotten where I used to work? A hundred friends are worth more than a hundred rubles, as they say.”
“But how do we prove that you’re you?”
He showed me his driver’s license and his FSB veteran card as Lieutenant Colonel Litvinenko.
“Tell me, have your watchers in Moscow discovered that you’re gone?”
“Yes, they’ve been looking for me for the past week.”
“How do you know?”
“We called my mother-in-law.”
“If you called from here, then they know you’re in Turkey.”
“I used this,” he said, showing me a Spanish calling card. “You go through an access number in Spain so the call can’t be traced. They are thinking that we are in Spain.”
“You shouldn’t have called. I would not be surprised if they have already reported you to the Interpol for robbing a bank.”
“Listen, I had to let our parents know we’re all right. They didn’t know we were leaving.” Sasha’s light gray eyes momentarily flashed with defiance. “Damn the bastards, they’re chasing us like rabbits!”
Marina and I exchanged glances. This was his first emotional outburst over several hours of conversation, but I could see that staying calm was an effort for him.
The next day we rented a car and drove north to Ankara. We sped along the empty highway through a cloudless night in a rocky desert, and Sasha told me stories about the FSB to keep me awake at the wheel.
In Ankara’s Sheraton hotel, we were met by Joseph, a small, punctilious American lawyer, a specialist on refugee matters whom I had contacted before leaving for Turkey. Boris Berezovsky was footing the bill, so Joseph kindly agreed to fly in for a few hours from Eastern Europe, where he was on business.
Joseph explained that to claim asylum Sasha should have entered the United States first. Outside America, he could apply only for a refugee visa, and there was an annual quota. He would have to wait for months, maybe years.
“In their day, Soviet refugees were allowed into America easily,” I said.
“Well, that was the cold war,” Joseph explained. “In theory, there is an expedient form of entry, which we call ‘parole for reasons of public interest.’ You need a top-level decision for that.
“In any case, I recommend that your friends apply formally for admission as refugees, so that the documents are in the system, and then have them wait in Turkey while you go to Washington and try to pull some strings.”
“Joseph, after all, Sasha is a KGB officer and not some ordinary refugee.”
“I can tell you a secret,” the lawyer said. “The CIA keeps a stash of clean green cards. All they have to do is fill in the name. If they need the person, he ends up in Washington in a few hours, bypassing all the immigration procedures. But that’s a deal you have to make. You give them goods, they give you protection. You have to decide: either you’re fleeing from tyranny, or you’re dealing in secrets. It’s hard to combine the two.”
I translated for Sasha.
“I have to review my portfolio,” he said sarcastically.
Joseph gave Sasha one final warning before saying good-bye. “In any case, if it comes to horse trading,