A Very Private Plot by William F. Buckley

with her pearls after they sat down, and Blackford remembered when he had first seen her do this, the night before she had to defend her dissertation at Yale. He could never imagine her without her pearls. But then he couldn’t imagine anything without Sally.

CHAPTER 9
    SEPTEMBER 1985
    Nikolai took the metro, got off at Kievskaya, and set out on foot to number 2 Kutuzovsky Prospekt. He wondered idly if anywhere in the entire world there was a larger apartment building. Certainly there could not anywhere exist a building of this size in which more apartments were crammed. To get to the single room he shared with Andrei Belinkov he needed to go through the main archway and across the large courtyard, often bulging with old furniture and bags, lamps and mattresses and ancient trunks—people from number 2 Kutuzovsky moving out, others moving in. To reach his entrance he needed to walk across the courtyard at an angle of five degrees. He would climb six flights of stairs to apartment 6K. Yes, there was an elevator designed to serve his apartment section and the adjacent section, but it hadn’t worked during the two months Nikolai had lived at number 2 Kutuzovsky.
    A few minutes later Andrei said to him, huffing from the six flights up which he lugged the week’s provisions, which included three bottles of his precious vodka, “Nikolai, you goat, it suddenly occurs to me that you are an electrical engineer . So, you were not able to find a job in Moscow as an electrical engineer, and you do not wish to move from Moscow. I understand that. I know the reasons for that. What I do not understand is why you do not practice your profession right here at number 2 , and fix that accursed elevator.”
    Nikolai helped Andrei store the rations. “I did go down and have a look, four, five weeks ago. The generator is dead. I asked the superintendent when the new generator would come in.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe said, ‘Comrade, maybe before Christmas. But if you wish to quit your apartment, I know someone who would be happy to take it off your hands, and pay you a nice bonus in addition.’”
    Andrei sprawled his large frame on the couch opposite the single bed. “Yes,” he muttered. “Incredible as it may seem, there are people who envy our palazzo. Is that the right word for it in Italian? The fancy word for palace?”
    â€œThat is the word you are searching for, Andrei. But listen. I have something very important to read to you. But let’s wait until after supper.”
    It was Nikolai’s day to cook. He fiddled with the electric hotplate and began to boil water. “We can have one of our eggs, hard-boiled, with your vodka and my tea. And my sugar ”—he reached up into the cupboard and picked out two cubes of sugar. He drew water from the same basin in which they washed dishes, brushed their teeth, drew water to sponge their bodies, and urinated. The single toilet and shower room for their floor was at the end of the hallway, shared by the twelve occupants of that landing. The pot in place on the electric hotplate, Nikolai sat down in the upright chair, waiting for the water to boil. “Yes, Andrei, we are lucky.”
    â€œ I am lucky. You were given the apartment as a disabled veteran with the proviso that it had to be shared. And you share it with me. I will toast to you, Nikolai.” Andrei lifted his glass of vodka and breathed a grateful sigh. “Ah, Nikolai, this fucking country.”
    Nikolai turned on him. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Andrei! You have violated a covenant between us. Never never never ever criticize anything relating to the government !” The other part of his reprimand went unspoken but was clearly understood: You could jeopardize our mission.
    Andrei had recognized the violation even as he blurted out the word. He was genuinely contrite. He had made the pact with Nikolai on that frozen night at the