Nadya Lopateva stood at the locked entrance in front of the cold grey apartment complex and pushed the button.  The faint buzzing sound from inside went unanswered for nearly a minute.  She pushed the dingy black button again.  This time she held it down to let the incessant buzzing continue.  It still took another minute before a shape appeared on the other side of the frosted glass that held sentry on either side of the steel door.

The rusted hinges creaked in protest as what appeared to be the oldest occupant of the building opened the door.  The elderly woman, dressed in a grey and extremely unflattering dress, looked as if she had stepped right out of a world war two newsreel just to answer the door.

She looked at Nadya with intelligent eyes that betrayed her obvious frailty.  “What!”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you…”

The old woman pointed a crooked finger at the little black button on the outside wall.

“You rang the bell didn’t you?”

“Umm, yes I did.”

“Then you shouldn’t be sorry for disturbing me.  What is it you want?”

“I am here to see Sergei Gorbachidze.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “Do you have an appointment?”

“I didn’t think I needed one.”

The old woman smiled showing her lack of teeth as she shuffled backwards to slowly open the door wider.  “Don’t get many visitors for old Sergei.  Come to think of it, I don’t ever remember any visitors for Sergei.  What did you say your name was?”

“Nadya.”

“Well Nadya, you will find him on the third floor, room three eleven.  At least, what’s left of him.”

The third floor looked exactly like the first and second with the notable exception that a large number three was painted in red on the wall next to the fire door exit.  This was certainly not the place Sergei Gorbachidze, the former head of the Soviet Union’s First Chief Directorate, the division of the KGB responsible for foreign espionage, should be spending the last of his days.

Nadya wondered, when her time came to retire from the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, if she would be treated any better.  She paused in front of door three eleven and knocked lightly.  A soft voice responded too faint for her to understand so she tried the doorknob.  It was unlocked and she opened the door slowly.

The old man sat in a ratty overstuffed chair that had seen better days.  He looked at the door expectantly as it opened and smiled wide when he saw Nadya.

“Veronika, how nice of you to visit.”

“I’m not Veronika, Mr. Gorbachidze, my name is Nadya Lopateva.  I work for the SVR…”

Gorbachidze’s brow furrowed.  “The what?”

“The Foreign Intelligence Service.  I wanted to ask you a couple of questions if I could.”

“Has the German war machine broken through our defenses yet.”

This was not turning out too well.  “The war ended over fifty years ago Mr. Gorbachidze.”

He perked up at that statement.  “Oh!  Did we win?”

“Yes, we won.”

Gorbachidze smiled.  “Serves those krauts right.  Where’s my radio, I want to hear Stalin’s speech.”

Gorbachidze looked around him and his eyes settled onto Nadya.  “Veronika, where are the boys?  Surely you didn’t visit your own father without them.  I think I have some candy around here somewhere.”

“I am not your daughter, Mr. Gorbachidze.”

His face drooped with sadness as he seemed to recognize where he was for the first time since she had arrived.  “Of course you’re not.”

He settled deeper into the shabby brown chair, if that was even possible, before looking at her with a light smile.  “Is there something I could do for you Miss…?”

“Nadya Lopateva.”

“Nadya Lopateva.  Pretty name.”

“Thank you.  I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Of course, please have a seat.”  They both looked around and realized at the same time that his chair was the only one in the sparse living room.

“Where are my manners?”

Gorbachidze struggled to stand up and Nadya shot forward to lend him a hand.

“It’s okay Mr. Gorbachidze, I can stand.”

“Please, call me Sergei.”

He settled back into the chair with a labored exhale.  The overstuffed chair appeared to swallow half his body before he was done sitting down.

Nadya decided to take full advantage of this glimmer of lucidity.  “Do you remember the sleeper agent program, funded in the late fifty’s by your division, called Harvester?”

Gorbachidze looked at her for a moment before looking around him and then reaching into the pocket of his robe which barely closed around his stripped pajamas.  “I think I have some candy here for the boys, where are they?”

This was a dead end.  They had no further leads and the last hope for any information had no idea what year it was.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you Mr. Gorbachidze.”

Nadya turned to leave.

“Could you close the drapes so I could take a nap?”

Nadya turned back.  “Of course.”

As Nadya pulled the drapes closed she turned back to see Gorbachidze looking at her with an intensity she wasn’t expecting.  He held a finger up to his lips to signal he wanted her to stay silent.

“How is your husband these days Veronika?”

He stood up with surprising agility and crossed hurriedly over to a desk against the wall.  As he approached the desk he motioned for her to respond.

“Um, I’m not married Mr. Gorbachidze.   I’m not your daughter.”

Gorbachidze pulled a pencil and paper out of a drawer and started writing.

“Of course you’re not. Where are my manners.”

Nadya was still in shock at the sudden transformation of the man she thought she had just met, but her training with the Russian intelligence service took over.

“No, please stay seated Mr. Gorbachidze, I can stand.”

He finished writing and shoved the pencil and paper back into the drawer and rushed back over to the chair just as Nadya heard the sound of tiny gears whirring as the drapes opened back up again as if by a ghost.

“Thank you so much for the visit, Veronika.  Please bring the boys next time.  Now give your old man a hug.”

With the drapes open, Gorbachidze was once again a feeble old man who struggled with the everyday motions younger people take for granted.

Nadya rushed forward to help him stand up.

He hugged her weakly and with the hand out of view of the window slipped the piece of paper into her pocket as he whispered, “They are always watching.  Call the number.”

Gorbachidze struggled back down into the chair and then looked up at Nadya.  “Have the Germans broken through our defenses?”

“No sir, we won the war.”

“Good.”  And then his eyes drooped and he promptly fell asleep.

As Nadya stepped into the hallway, she pulled the piece of paper out of her pocket and looked down at the string of hastily written numbers.  She would never be able to thank Mr. Gorbachidze for the risk he took in helping her.

Nadya hoped that when she was his age, she would be able to stay as sharp and agile as he was, despite having to convince whoever was watching him every hour of every day that he had lost his battle with senility and death was coming soon.