Death of a Dissident - Alex Goldfarb [4]
In the late afternoon of October 30, as the holder of an American passport, I led the Litvinenkos to the citizens’ entrance of the American Embassy in Ankara, past the line of less fortunate humans stretching along the embassy fence under the supervision of two police cars.
I had given the embassy several hours’ advance notice, so they were expecting us. A young man said, “Welcome to the United States Embassy. I am the consul. Please let me have your documents, Mr. Litvinenko.” A marine took away our mobile phones and handed us guest passes on metal chains.
We were led through an empty courtyard. Our host entered a combination into the digital lock, the metal door screeched open, and yet another marine led us into a strange room without windows. In the middle was a table with chairs, with a ceiling fan rotating overhead. A video camera stared at us from the wall, with a monitor underneath. Sasha and I exchanged glances. This was “the bubble,” the type of soundproof room that appears in countless spy novels. As soon as we sat down, the door opened and another American, around forty and wearing dark glasses, came in.
“This is Mark, my colleague from the political section,” the consul said.
Just as my Washington friend had told me, I thought. People from the consulate and “other people.”
“Well, Mr. Litvinenko,” the consul said. “How can we help you?”
The rest followed our lawyer’s scenario. Sasha told them his story and asked for asylum for himself and his family, and the consul replied that he understood their situation and he sympathized, but embassies don’t grant asylum. As for a refugee visa, that process takes time, please fill out the form, we’ll try to speed it up, but the decisions are made in Washington.
I said that I would try to get advanced parole for them in Washington.
“That makes sense,” agreed the consul.
Despite the fan, it was hot in the bubble, and we were thirsty. Tolik grew quiet, sensing that something very important was happening. Fat tears rolled down Marina’s cheeks.
“In view of Mr. Litvinenko’s special circumstances,” I said, “there are reasons to fear for their safety. Could they be settled in some secure place, perhaps where embassy personnel live, while their case is being considered?”
“Unfortunately, we cannot do that.”
“Which hotel are you staying in?” Mark spoke for the first time.
“The Sheraton.”
“I think you’re exaggerating the danger. The Sheraton is an American site, and we are in a Muslim country. There is a threat of terrorism, so they have decent security at the Sheraton. I’d like to have a few words with Mr. Litvinenko alone.” And before I could even ask the question, he added, “We won’t need a translator.”
Sasha nodded, and we left. The consul led us to the gate, returned our passports, and wished us luck. I took Marina and Tolik to the hotel. We walked in silence past the handrails for visa seekers; by now the lines were empty. The street was still blocked off. There was no traffic, and the air was still. I glanced at high-rise buildings visible over the tops of the trees. Behind one of those windows Russian agents must be lurking, aiming their binoculars, taking pictures of us. I hoped the Americans would at least have the sense to escort Sasha back to the hotel.
Mark called nearly four hours later, when it was already dark: “You may come and pick up your friend.”
The hotel was within walking distance of the embassy, but Sasha wasn’t ready to face his family yet. “Let us drive around a while,” he said, climbing into a yellow Zhiguli cab. “I need some time to pull myself together.”
“What took so long?” I could not wait to hear what happened.
“It took them a while to crack me,” said Sasha.
“What do you mean, ‘crack’?”
“Well, make me talk. There was a secure hookup with Washington. And the guy on the other side—by the way, he looked as if he was your twin brother—was quite a character. Spoke Russian without an accent. And he had a whole team standing by. First, he was checking me out. He