Heritage Commission, an agency adjunct to UNESCO-but inasmuch as he was the chief representative for the private organization that was bankrolling the exhibition, she was pretty much at his beck and call. Carutius was an odd fellow and very hands-on when it came to the nuts and bolts of managing the exhibit. He and his organization had conceived of the idea of taking the fragments of the Buddhas on tour. They had, through generous contributions to Afghanistan’s cultural ministry-an agency that existed as little more than a bureaucratic appointment and a way for the corrupt and barely functional government of the beleaguered nation to apportion money received from international aid payments-arranged permission for the shattered remains of the statues to be taken out of the country.
The man matched her smile. “Unfortunately, I have a late business meeting and will be unavailable tonight.”
Her mind grappled with his reply. Unfortunately? What did that mean? Was he trying to let her down gently, or was he interested in…? “A pity. Another time perhaps. I would really love-” She almost faltered. Love? Coming on strong, aren’t you Julia — “to sit down and…you know, talk about history a little more.”
“I would like that. And I know where to find you.”
“I just realized, I never asked your name.”
The smile did not waver. “Trevor.”
She raised a curious eyebrow, but before she could inquire, he continued: “Not the name my parents gave me when I was born, of course. They changed it when we came to the United States.”
Julia nodded in understanding and decided not to press further. “A pleasure to meet you, Trevor. I hope to see you again.” She winced inwardly. God, I sound so desperate.
But Trevor’s smile seemed sincere and when he shook her hand again, it was with the same gentle firmness as at their first meeting, which she took as a good sign. She sighed as he strode from the gallery, then composed herself and went over to where Carutius was rummaging in the large equipment case he had brought in.
Though dressed in an immaculate and expensive Brooks Brothers suit, the tall rugged Carutius, with his curly mop of hair and bushy beard, looked more like an escapee from a biker gang than either a researcher or a financier-Julia wasn’t exactly sure which he really was. He glanced up as she approached. “Dr. Preston. I’m glad you’re still here. I need to perform some radiometric dating tests on the fragments. We’ll need to close the exhibit early tonight.”
The man delivered the words with casual indifference, as if he had asked for nothing more complicated than the time of day. Two thoughts immediately raced through Julia’s head.
First, why on earth did Carutius want to close the exhibit on a Friday evening, one of the museum’s busiest times? How was she supposed to explain to the staff that the much-publicized headlining exhibition, which admittedly had not drawn as much attention as might be hoped, would have to be shut down with no advance notice? If it were anyone but Carutius making the demand, she would have laughed at the very idea.
The second thought was regret that Trevor-or whatever his real name was-had a previous appointment, because now it seemed her evening was free.
“I see,” she answered slowly, not seeing at all.
“I’ve already spoken to the museum director and made all the necessary arrangements,” he continued.
Julia felt some relief at that news, and her curiosity gradually got the better of her disappointment. “Do you need any help? What exactly are you hoping to establish with radiometric dating?”
“That won’t be necessary. Take the night off.”
“The fragments are under the protection of the GHC and we’re responsible for their safety. Any requests for testing should go through my office.”
“My tests shouldn’t pose any risk to the fragments. Quite the opposite, actually.” He folded his arms across his chest and although he was smiling, there was no humor in his eyes.
Despite the implicit finality, Julia couldn’t just let it go. “I really would like to know what you’re testing for.”
“It is a personal project and lies at the very heart of my interest in preserving the Buddhas. Something I’ve been working on for years. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.” He loosed one arm and gestured to the exit. “Good night, Dr. Preston.”
7
Timur Suvorov replayed his conversation with Dr. Julia Preston-the curator knew him only as “Trevor”-in his head as he stalked through the corridors of the Louvre, and wondered where he had slipped up. His instructors at the cultural immersion training facility had praised him for his pitch perfect English and his command of American dialect, but she had picked up on his true heritage after hearing him say only a few words.
Suvorov had never actually been to the United States. The closest he had come to that experience was a six-month long stay in a town called Springfield, a perfect middle-American suburb that happened to be located, not in the American heartland but in a remote location on the coast of the Caspian Sea.
Springfield had been built during the Cold War by the KGB for the sole purpose of training long-term deep cover operatives-sleepers, in the common parlance-who would be able to perfectly blend into American society. Every aspect of life in Springfield had been simulated Americana, at least insofar as the Soviet social scientists understood it. The only language spoken in the mock-city was English. The radios played a wide selection of American music and American television programs were broadcast. Residents could get Big Macs at the local McDonald’s and bought their cigarettes and Coca-Colas at the 7-Eleven. Thousands of KGB sleepers had literally been raised from infancy in Springfield, and many graduates of the program had subsequently been deployed to conduct active espionage or, more often than not, await a critical assignment that would never come. In the post- Cold War era, Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the SVR, continued to conduct operations abroad. But these days there were more expedient methods of getting agents into place, particularly with the advent of globalization and a growing population of Russian expatriates in America and other countries. Nevertheless, Springfield continued to be useful as a training tool for SVR operatives and GRU Spetsnaz soldiers preparing for undercover work.
Evidently there were still some gaps in the training though, as Julia’s observation had borne out.
In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to visit the museum. To establish their cover stories and blow off a little steam before the final phase of the assignment, Suvorov had directed the members of his team to do a little site seeing. Despite the stereotypical Russian proclivity for alcohol consumption, drinking was strictly forbidden before an operation, as was sexual congress, but there were plenty of other distraction in the City of Lights, and for Suvorov, a chance to see the Bamiyan Buddhas, even if they were now only pieces of rubble, had seemed the obvious choice.
The lie he had told to cover his dismay at Julia’s revelation was close enough to the truth to satisfy the woman’s curiosity. He had indeed been born in Saint Petersburg-in his earliest memories, it was still called Leningrad-and his father really had seen the Buddhas during his military service. Her discovery nonetheless posed a risk for potential exposure moving forward. When she learned of the operation in the news, would she put two and two together, and perhaps report her suspicious encounter with a man claiming to be a Russian emigre? Probably not, but it was best not to leave such a thing to chance. Julia was a loose end that would have to be tied up, one way or another, and he found that thought discouraging.
Actually, there was a lot about this mission that troubled him.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Not just this mission; he’d been experiencing misgivings about everything in his life. The sense of pride he’d once felt in his military service, in excelling in his training and commanding a team of Russia’s very best special operations soldiers, in literally being a part of shaping the future of the Rodina…those ideological concepts just didn’t square with reality. That was another lesson of history. Brave men-his team, and even his father before him-were always the ones who made the sacrifices, while the politicians who sent them to their appointments with destiny were always chasing some selfish agenda. This mission was no different. They would succeed of course, but in the end, would it make any difference?
He reached the main exit, threading past the idling masses of tourists, and once outside took out his phone and called Kharitonov. When his subordinate answered, he spoke only two words: “It’s time.”
