The Spy's Son by Bryan Denson

Author:Bryan Denson
Language: ara, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2015-03-19T17:39:15+00:00

11

The Russian Consulate, San Francisco

“My father was pleased I actually had the guts to do it.”

—Michael Walker, recruited by his dad,

John A. Walker Jr., to spy for the Soviet Union

Northern California, Fall 2006

The Russian Consulate in San Francisco rises in the middle of one of the city’s thigh-burning hillsides, a monolith of multicolored bricks in desert shades from cream to adobe, a blend that renders the building tabby-cat orange. The diplomatic establishment rises between the Presidio and Pacific Heights in a neighborhood covered by ­multimillion-dollar swankiendas, with their postcard views of the great dome of the Palace of Fine Arts and the rust-colored arch of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Nathan parked his little blue Cavalier several blocks downhill of the consulate on a weekday morning in early October 2006. He climbed out looking road-weary but businesslike, having stopped at a rest area just before sunup to shave, slap some cold water on his face, and climb into his black suit. He hiked along Green Street, his back a little stiff from the eight-hour drive. Affixed to the front of the building was a brass plate emblazoned with Russia’s ubiquitous double-headed eagle. It read:

CONSULATE GENERAL

OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A tricolor Russian flag rustled from a pole atop the building. Nathan walked through a wrought-iron gate and made his way down a sidewalk to the public entry, which looked more like a servants’ entrance. His dress shoes treaded over steps covered with slip-proof sandpaper strips, and he found himself standing on a landing that overlooked the rooftops of mansions and a little patch of San Francisco Bay. Nathan pushed through a heavy wooden door into a room that looked like a marble tomb. It was appointed with the kind of institutional furniture you find in doctors’ offices.

Nathan hooked to his right toward a pair of windows, where he heard a woman’s voice behind thick glass asking if she could be of any assistance.

“I’m here to see the chief of security,” he said.

As he spoke, he slid a folded note under the glass. The receptionist picked it up and read it. This one, signed by his father, greeted his Russian friends and introduced Nathan as his son. She asked Nathan to take a seat and quickly disappeared.

Nathan crossed the marble floor and sagged into one of the cushioned chairs that made up an L-shaped couch. On the wall was a generic black-and-white clock. He waited for what seemed like a very long time, perhaps forty-five minutes or an hour, before a middle-aged man with a dark mustache and flecks of gray in his short-cropped hair opened a door.

“I’m to understand that you want to speak with me,” he said.

The Russian led Nathan down a hallway. They walked up a set of stairs to an office, then into an adjoining room with thick, padded walls—clearly soundproof—and took seats. The older man seemed to be sizing up this twenty-something visitor who had popped into the consulate in a discount suit and hair shaved to the quick.

Nathan reached into his jacket, producing his dad’s taped note, along with the envelope Jim had mailed to him.

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