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he hotel suite was cluttered 
with empty bottles and over- 
flowing ashtrays. It smelled 
stale. The living room’s 
centerpiece was a cart of 
picked-over room-service 
food. The red carpet was faded, the cur- 
tains closed. 
I soon learned the curtains were al- 
ways closed in room 520 of what was 
then called the Sheraton Park Hotel, now 
the Sheraton Washington. I also learned 
that the male ‘‘secretary’’ who greeted 
me at the door was an FBI agent. And 
my client was not a French diplomat 
named André Ringland, as I’d been told, 
but a Soviet defector named Arkady 
Shevchenko, hidden away here while the 
CIA debriefed him. 
On that May night seven years ago, I 
began regularly sleeping for money with 
the man I called Andy. Today Arkady 
Shevchenko’s book, Breaking with Mos- 
cow, is a best seller, and Hollywood has 
paid $450,000 to buy the rights to his 
story of spying for the United States 
before defecting from his United Na- 
tions job. 
I saw Andy on 60 Minutes not long 
ago, and he dismissed our sexual inter- 
lude as a two-week aberration. I hope his 
memory for other events—particularly 
those detailed in his memoir—was bet- 
ter; I was at his beck and call for seven 
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WASHINGTONTAN 
August 1985 
By Judy Chavez with Rudy Maxa 
months. And in the end I had almost as 
much difficulty breaking with Andy as 
he had breaking with Moscow. 
May 2, 1978. My beeper went off as I 
was drinking at the bar of Anna Maria's 
Italian Restaurant on Connecticut Ave- 
nue. I called my escort service. In the 
Yellow Pages, my employer advertised 
under two names: Foxy Lady and—ap- 
propriately, as it turned out—Mata Hari 
Escort Service. I was wanted for an all- 
night job at the Sheraton Park Hotel, 
room 520. I’d already seen two men that 
evening, and I hated all-night assign- 
ments; I could never fall asleep lying 
next to a stranger. 
From the moment I arrived in the ho- 
tel’s parking lot, I felt I was being 
watched. Paranoia comes with the terri- 
tory when you're a prostitute, but there 
was something different about this job. 
The escort service said the client, sup- 
posedly a French diplomat, had hired 
two girls previously, and they'd report- 
ed no difficulty. One of the women was 
there at the bar with me, and she con- 
firmed what I’d learned on the phone. 
But she didn’t tell me about the male 
secretary at the diplomat’s door. 
‘*Are you the girl we're waiting for?”’ 
he asked. 
‘*Are youacop?”’ 
[answered. 
He told me he was Mr. Ringland’s 
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3 
& 
secretary and that Mr. Ringland was 
very distressed this particular night, so I 
was to make sure he had a good time. 
Anyone would have been depressed in 
those slovenly surroundings. The radio 
droned Muzak-style music; my client 
looked tired and old. He mumbled some- 
thing about a drink. He was sipping 
Cointreau, so I did, too. I collected $250 
for the escort service and asked for $500 
for my time. I would have settled for 
$400, but he padded into the bedroom 
and came back with the cash. The next 
morning, he uncomplainingly gave me 
another $100 when he wanted to have 
sex again. And he told me he'd like to 
see me regularly. 
What the hell, I thought, I might as 
well be taking his money as anyone else. 
Who can say why Arkady Shevchenko 
fell in love with me? Of course, he was 
emotionally vulnerable. He had defected 
from his post as undersecretary general 
of the United Nations in early April of 
1978. On April 20 he was brought to 
Washington for protection and debrief- 
ing. He began seeing prostitutes almost 
immediately. Six days after my first 
night with him, Andy learned that his 
wife, who had returned to Moscow after 
his defection, had committed suicide, 
though he was convinced she'd been 
murdered. 
Judy Chavez on the fire escape of her New York co-op, which she helped finance with proceeds from her fling with 
Soviet defector Arkady Shevchenko and a subsequent book about it. She lives in the loft with her Yugoslavian husband. 
asin 
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O.,4 
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” 
But I should have been the last candi- 
date to see him through his tough times. I 
was hardly the sweet, cuddly type— 
quite the opposite. My specialty was 
**English,”’ the domination of men. And 
while Andy didn’t have a taste for that 
specialty, I worked hard to retain control 
of our meetings. I wouldn’t see him as 
often as he demanded. I rarely let him 
kiss me on the mouth. I tried to keep sex 
to a minimum; whatever kind of spying 
he may have performed for the CIA 
when he was still a Soviet citizen at- 
tached to the United Nations, he was no 
James Bond in bed. 
Perhaps it was my aloofness that cre- 
ated the fixation Andy had on me. When 
we were together, he focused entirely on 
me and was oblivious to other company 
and surroundings; I couldn’t read a book 
or listen to a tape without his interrupt- 
ing. He was always touching me, some- 
thing I loathe from clients. To satisfy 
him and minimize my irritation, I had 
him massage me for hours. It kept his 
hands busy and allowed me to day- 
dream. 
The nicest memory I have of Andy is 
that he didn’t mind my Persian cat, 
China Doll, sleeping 
on the pillow above 
our heads, even though he hated any- 
thing that had to do with China. But his 
personality wouldn't win any contests. 
He was a master at the bluster, and his 
favorite line was ‘‘That is totally unac- 
ceptable!’’ It was a command his FBI 
bodyguards grew tired of hearing, and 
so at 
We soon worked out a financial relation- 
ship: He paid me $5,000 a month for 
about ten overnight visits. There were 
bonuses, such as $9,000 to buy a Cor- 
vette, occasional shopping sprees, and a 
trip to the Virgin Islands. 
Most of my clients preferred me in 
short, black leather skirts and garter 
belts and stockings, but Andy grew apo- 
plectic if I didn’t dress like a ‘‘lady.’’ I 
had to wear a dress and heels, and my 
shoes had to match my handbag. Grad- 
ually, as I became a regular visitor, the 
French diplomat’s cover began to crack, 
and the bodyguards with the guns admit- 
ted they were FBI agents. 
In a way, I became an ally with the 
agents, who worried not only about 
Andy’s security but also about his drink- 
ing. The daily CIA debriefings, in an- 
other location, drained Andy, and he 
grew moody. Even in the best of times, 
he was maddeningly indecisive and 
pompous and expected everyone to 
march to his orders. When he was de- 
spondent, he was nearly insufferable. 
I became a source of information to 
Andy’s two regular FBI agents. To 
judge his frame of mind, they would ask 
me how many times he had been able to 
perform. They asked me to try to keep 
him from drinking so much; I did my 
part by introducing Andy to marijuana. 
It was important, the FBI told me, that I 
make Andy happy because he was meant 
to be an example to other defectors. 
In fact, when news of my monthly 
retainer became public, the Boston 
Globe opined that *‘anyone who doesn’t 
believe we live in a great country should 
take a good look at Andy Shevchenko— 
I became a source of 
information to Andy’s two 
regular FBI agents. To 
judge his frame of mind, 
they would ask me how 
many times he had been 
able to perform. 
he’s absolute living proof that the Amer- 
ican dream still exists.’’ 
Andy coveted money and fame, and he 
thought writing a best-selling book 
would bring him both. Iam a meticulous 
record-keeper—I keep a diary and, in 
Andy’s case, kept photocopies of the 
$35,000 in checks he gave me. The 
scene was so bizarre, what with FBI 
agents and guns and secrecy, that I 
thought the day might come when I'd 
need all the proof of reality I could 
gather. So when he began outlining his 
book, I memorized his chapter titles six 
at a time and wrote them down in the 
bathroom. 
There’s been some debate about his 
memoir. His first publisher, Simon & 
Schuster, rejected his initial attempt as 
too boring. Andy and friends, including 
his Washington lawyer, Bill Geimer, 
knew they'd have to spice up the manu- 
script if they hoped to interest another 
publisher. 
When the book was finally 
published 
by Alfred A. Knopf, Simon ra 
Schuster 
was reportedly 
surprised to read that for 
two and a half years before he defected, 
Andy had been spying for the CIA on the 
Soviet delegation to tbe United Nations. 
That morsel hadn’t been 1n 
his first man- 
uscript, and it gave rise to speculation 
that his role as a 
spy was concocted 
to 
hype his book and make the CIA Took 
good. 
While I 
think Andy shaded the 
truth of 
his importance thoughout Breating with 
Moscow, 1am convinced he told 
the 
_truth on the subject of spying. Long be- 
fore his literary problems, 
he confided 
to 
me in bed that he'd been a spy 
for the 
CIA before he defected And @ 
Sepem: 
ber 1978 Argosy magazine 
ablisted an 
article that said, among 
other things, that 
Andy had been a spy for the CIA prior 
to 
his defection. Argosy reported Andy had 
provided the United States with informa- 
tion on the Soviet strategy during the 
SALTtalks. 
SSCS 
Afraid he'd spot the article himself 
an 
ow up, 
the 
show 
1m the 
1ece; 
Andy 
went crazy 
and 
for two 
days 
taged against what fe perceived asa 
leak. 
But no one noticed 
the 
article, 
and not until Andy’s book was published 
earlier this 
year 
did 
that news make 
headlines. 
7 
At first, Andy didn’t intend to reveal 
his role as a spy. He outlined 37 chapters 
during the seven months we were togeth- 
er. There was no mention of his spying, 
no dramatic car-chase scene that opens 
Breaking with Moscow. He planned a 
much more cerebral, analytical book 
than what finally was published. Among 
the chapters that got left on the cutting- 
room floor are ones he titled ‘‘The Wa- 
tergate Affair—A Soviet Interpreta- 
tion,’’ *‘Turbulence in the Middle 
East,”’ and ‘‘Peacemaking in Europe."’ 
Reading Breaking with Moscow con- 
firmed the conclusion I'd drawn after 
listening to his boasting for seven 
months: He wasn’t all that big a fish. He 
was basically a speechwriter for impor- 
tant people. His tendency toward self- 
aggrandizement knew few bounds, and 
as I’ve watched him make pronounce- 
ments on talk shows during his book- 
promotion tour, I note that he’s changed 
little. I expected his book to be tougher 
on the Soviets—perhaps Moscow isn’t as 
angry over his defection as it once was. 
Andy’s obsession with me led to repeat- 
ed proposals of marriage, despite my 
businesslike approach to sex. When 
Andy moved from the Sheraton to an 
apartment across the street from the 
Shoreham Hotel on Calvert Street, 
Northwest, I helped him buy linen and 
furniture, so I suppose we did transcend 
the usual hooker-john relationship. But 
after so many months spent in such close 
quarters, that was inevitable. Only once 
did we manage to evade our bodyguards, 
sneaking out for a private dinner that 
sent alarm bells ringing; when we re- 
turned to the hotel, it was swarming with 
FBI and CIA agents. 
Andy repeatedly insisted I stop seeing 
other men. By the fall of 1978, I could 
not handle the pressure. I was now, as 
far as the FBI was concerned, one of the 
boys. Andy's constant orders to me and 
his concern for my whereabouts were 
taking their toll. On a trip to the Virgin 
Istands, he wouldn't even let me take 
Cale 
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scuba-diving lessons unless he was 
standing on the dock. I felt trapped. Just 
as Andy knew there was no return after 
he began cooperating with American in- 
telligence agents, I was beginning to feel 
destined to be his mistress forever. And 
even though he said he’d been paid more 
than $70,000 in severance pay by the 
UN and was receiving $60,000 a year 
from the CIA for *‘consulting,’” I knew 
the CIA wouldn’t fund his taste for a call 
girl forever. I wondered what the CIA 
did with call girls whose presence was 
no longer required. 
In early autumn I arranged through 
lawyer Jack Buckley to tell my story to 
NBC reporter Jim Polk. I planned to 
meet Andy for lunch at the Iron Gate Inn 
on N Street, where Polk’s television 
crew would lie in wait. I figured that 
going public was the only way to protect 
myself. 
Andy and his security agent were cap- 
tured by the camera crew, and that night 
the network news reported that the CIA 
had been financing Andy’s bedmate. 
Andy denied it, but the charge stuck. 
Asked about my fee during a White 
House press conference, President Jim- 
my Carter joked, ‘‘If the figures the 
woman quoted were accurate—which 
they aren’t—it would be highly inflation- 
ary and contrary to my policy.’’ 
The figures I quoted were, if anything, 
underestimates. I was asked only once 
by the FBI what I was charging Andy for 
sex. I lied and said $3,000 a month; the 
agent said as long as it was less than 
$1,000 a week, that was okay. 
Sarah Bernhardt once described the 
life of a courtesan as *‘a lucrative form 
of slavery,’’ and indeed it was. My fling 
with Andy and a subsequent paperback 
book about it allowed me to purchase a 
loft in SoHo, wheré [ now live with my 
husband, a Yugoslavian artist. 
As the years have passed, I’ve come 
to realize how much alike Andy and I 
were. Seven years ago, we were both 
professional outsiders, each living un- 
derground for different reasons. 
We were both separated from our 
families. Even though my adoptive par- 
ents lived in McLean, they knew nothing 
about my life as a call girl—I'd left home 
to marry as a teenager, and at age 22 1 
was living a fast lifestyle fueled by easy 
money and drugs. Fortunately, we've 
become closer during the ensuing years. 
For his part, Andy had lost a wife and 
had little hope of ever seeing his son and 
daughter again. 
[used marijuana and rock music to get 
me through the day. Andy used booze. 
When we went out on shopping trips or 
to dinner, he’d slip into the men's room 
Once, eating at Napoleon’s restaurant 
near the Sheraton on Connecticut Ave- 
nue, he got sick at the table and I nearly 
had to carry him home. 
Betrayal of his homeland, fear of the 
future, and loss of his friends and family 
obviously contributed to Andy's depres- 
sion. But though he was helpless on the 
minor matters in life—he stumbled 
around stores and could barely function 
without his FBI or CIA escorts—he nev- 
ertheless envisioned himself as one of 
Wearing an antique peignoir in her boudoir, Judy Chavez cradles her white 
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ig 
the world's wise men, an internation- 
al figure whose greatness was not yet 
recognized. 
Six months after I left Andy in a blaze 
of publicity, he married a Washington 
woman to whom his lawyer had intro- 
duced him. Now that his book has 
earned him invitations to the White 
House and the right Washington dinner 
parties, now that at least a measure of the 
fame and adulation he so craved is his, I 
wish him peace. 
‘ 
ie 
Bac 
Persian, Billy Boy. Gone from her wardrobe are the leather outfits, whips, and 
and take a swig from a bottle of vodka. 
handcuffs that she once used to ply her trade in Washington and Manhattan. 
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