The Birthday Party
Moscow, August 10, 1961
By Aaron M. Wilson

Oleg Vladimirovich Penkovsky wet his comb with hot water that streamed from a polished silver tap. Music played downstairs. He raked his thinning red hair back into place. Parties could never move quickly enough for Penkovsky. First there were the arrival announcements. Then when the last name on the list was crossed off and sounded, a period of casual conversation ensued lubricated with Vodka and caviar. Even if this stage of a party was Penkovsky’s favorite, for all the gossip that was spilt, it was always followed by a speech, dinner, more socializing, another speech, even more socializing, and finally departures. He finished combing his hair. He dried his comb and slipped it into the back pocket of his Russian colonel issue dress slacks. To think, all this was for a birthday party. Penkovsky thought he had better things too do than attend birthday parties. Russia had better things to be about than birthdays. He pulled his uniform’s coat closed buttoning the large brass clasps. He double checked his State Committee for Science and Technology ID badge. Unfortunately for Penkovsky, useful and interesting things were often accidentally divulged at birthday parties.

The music was getting louder. Penkovsky could not stay hidden away in the General’s lavatory forever. He had made his entrance earlier with General Ivan Serov the head of the Soviet Military Intelligence. Penkovsky had said, “If I’d known that being an intelligence officer would require me to attend all these parties…”

“You’d what?” asked Serov.

“I’d have rethought your invitation.”

“My invitations are not really invitations. Besides, parties are very useful. Vodka and friends are the best truth serum.”

“But here? Are we spying on our own countrymen?”

“Spy, bah, is such a western word. We safeguard. But, yes, we, you and I, must only think of what is best for the Soviet Union and ultimately Mother Russia.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that even I could, one day, unknowingly betray Russia, and that is why we exist and why we attend parties. You must learn to love cake, Oleg.”

Penkovsky did not hate cake, but he did not care for it either. Penkovsky loved women. Women were the real Russian delicacy. If there was a redeeming quality to parties, it was the women. At fifty-two, Penkovsky thought he had finally mastered the art of seducing women. Tonight he wanted Lena, the daughter of Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. She was dressed in a white lace gown with her black hair piled and pined atop her head showing her long neck strong cheekbones.

“If you go down that road, even I will not be able to save you,” said Serov. “Have some more Vodka.

“Thank you,” Penkovsky took bottle and a glass. “Look at the way she holds herself. She is majestic.”

“She is dangerous.”

Penkovsky took a drink feeling the slick heavy oil caress his tongue before sliding down his throat. Servers emerged carrying trays of lamb and stewed tomatoes. They placed a plate and a small bowl in front of each guest, like dominoes conversations stopped and guest took their seats. When the last server exited and the door swung closed everyone stood and faced the head table.

Serov whispered, “I think you will like this.”

Penkovsky watched as Lena straightened her dress over her trim body. He might hate parties, but he loved party dresses. The way they showed off a woman’s shape, the way they fluttered as woman clicked by in her heals.

Premier Khrushchev stood last. “Today we are here to honor the sixty-second birthday of my good friend, Sergei Varentsov.” Premier Khrushchev turned to his left holding his wine glass high. “To Sergei, may he see many victories!”

The gathered guests cheered, “Victory,” and sat down.

“Thanks to the Chief Marshall’s missile program,” Premier Khrushchev continued pacing his hand on Varentsov’s shoulder, “It is time to strike a crippling blow to The West…”

Serov leaned back. “Now if you were really good, you’d already know what is coming, Oleg.”

Penkovsky stopped ogling Lena. This was another reason why he hated parties, important people making important announcements while the food got cold. He felt less than Russian preferring his food hot.

“…We’re going to close Berlin…”

Penkovsky chocked.

“…put up the barbed wire wall. The West will just stand there like dumb sheep.”

Penkovsky stood along with everyone else in the room, “For Russia!” He cheered with them.

Premier Khrushchev waved the room down. “You are the first to know.” He moved back behind his seat. “You are they only ones to know. Trucks, loaded with men and wire, are already on the move. We will show The West. We are strong!” He took his seat. “Now, eat, be merry.”

In true Russian style, the gathered sat without another word and began eating.

Penkovsky had forgotten about Lena. He opened his uniform’s coat and pulled out a small red monthly planner. He flipped to the back page labeled “Birthdays.” He scanned the down the page by Chief Marshall Sergei Varentsov’s, the next birthday listed was Jean, September 10^th. He closed the planner and his eyes. Jean Suiet and many of the bogus names listed on the birthday page were really code for his scheduled international technology gathering trips where he’d debrief his real employers, the American CIA. Jean meant that his next trip would be Paris.

Serov smiled. “Oleg, Oleg. You are not a good Russian. Leave business for later. Eat. Enjoy the Party.”

Penkovsky pursed his lips and picked up his fork and knife. “You are right.” He cut into his food. “You. You should have told me, you know.”

“I need to have some surprises.” He took his wine glass and smelled the wood and spice bouquet. “Keeping you on your toes is not easy, Oleg. Tonight gave me pleasure, knowing that I can still keep some secrets a secret.”

“You know Ivan. I might learn to like these parties.”