Free Deadly Waters by Theodore Judson Page A

place.”

 
    XIII
     
    11/12/06 17:28 EST
     
    The real Vladimir Petrovski was in Camden, New Jersey, speaking on the phone to his literary agent, Stanley Reese. “But Meeester Reeessss,” Mr. Petrovski was exclaiming , “why don’t they want thees book?”
    “I’m sorry, Ivan,” said Stanley Reese into his cell phone.
    “Vladimir,” Petrovski corrected him.
    “Waldomeer,” said Reese, “they loved your first book. The Code of the Spies , wasn’t it? That was the Eighties. The Cold War was big then. Where is it now? Nobody talks about it anymore.”
    “The Cold War is over,” said Petrovski, surprised that Reese had not heard the news.
    “You see,” said Reese. “My point exactly. Even you admit it. The Cold War is so over, babushka.”
    “Did you call me a grandmother?” asked Petrovski, scratching the salt and pepper beard he thought made him look more American, because it made him resemble the late Jerry Garcia.
    “Babushka—bashmushka,” said Reese. “I thought it meant ‘friend.’”
    “I was on Letterman,” protested Petrovski.
    “When did that happen?” asked Reese. “I missed that. Was this in the Eighties, too?”
    “Dave said I was vanderfool. I told my Kruschev story. You know the one: Stalin is dying and he has Kruschev visit his bedside. Stalin asks him: ‘Who is buried in Lenin’s tomb?’”
    “I’m sure this goes somewhere, Waldo,” interrupted Reese. “Russian stories are always funny. Look at Tim Allen—”
    “Tim Allen?” said Petrovski.
    “He’s Russian, or maybe French. He’s from Michigan, close to Canada. Lots of Russians up there. My point is, Dave was being kind. You’re not as funny as most Russians, Waldo. That’s why the publishers don’t want fiction from you.”
    “I’m writing a new book, very nonfictional,” said Vladimir, “about Alger Hiss. I have evidence straight from secret files.”
    “That’ll put the readers on pins and needles. What is that? Ancient history? You going to write another book about who really killed Caesar? Wait, is there anything in those files of yours about Princess Di?”
    “We did not take surveillance of her and the degenerate crowd of lumpen aristocrats about her,” said Petrovski. “I do haf information on the attempt to kill the Pope.”
    “That’ll maybe get some nuns worked up,” said Reese, “and nuns buy Bibles; they don’t buy regular books. You need to do something more contemporary. Make it domestic; that means in the US.”
    “Did you read my book?” asked Petrovski.
    “Saw the movie and bought the t-shirt.”
    “I vas headlines in New York Times twenty-six years ago upon my defection,” said Petrovski. “I was on cover of Time . My book is bestseller for twenty-four weeks. Today, Vladimir Petrovski, former European director of KGB, is living in cold vater flat in New Jersey. He is seventy-eight years old and has no pension.”
    “Couldn’t your old country pay you a pension?”
    Petrovski held the phone at arm’s length and wondered if Reese could have said that.
    “My country no longer exeests,” he informed Reese.
    “Sorry to hear that,” said Reese. “I’d love to help you, Waldo, but you’ve got to give me product. I can move product. No product; I can’t move it.”
    “Product?” repeated Vladimir.
    “Make something up,” suggested Reese. “You know why the Nazis have had legs and you guys don’t?”
    “Hitler vas more outrageous character?”
    “No,” answered Reese, “because writers have been able to put Nazis in the modern world. I mean: The Boys from Brazil ,, The Man in the High Tower , Fatherland , all those Len Deighton novels Michael Caine made into movies. People don't believe the Nazis ever went away. You need to give the Commies the same treatment. Make up some conspiracies, things that the last Commie hangers-on have got planned for America.”
    “That would be... lying,” said Vladimir.
    “Who’s going to fact check this?” asked Reese.