crowding the kitchen were all busy preparing their own dishes for the weekday lunch crowd. No one was paying close attention to him. This was his opportunity.
Dry-mouthed now, the short, stocky man dipped his right hand into a pocket of his apron and pulled out a small clear glass vial. With one quick, decisive gesture, he unsealed the vial and poured the clear, colorless liquid it contained into the salad he had just made. With that done, he lightly drizzled fresh walnut oil dressing over the bowl, tossed the ingredients to blend their flavors together, and then tapped a bell.
A waitress appeared at the summons. “Yes, Chef?”
“Tour Salade de Printemps for Table Five,” Bratianu told her calmly.
Without demur, she slid the salad bowl onto her silver tray, picked it up, and made her way out through the swinging doors into the elegant dining room beyond. The Romanian-born sous-chef breathed out in relief as the waitress disappeared. He had just earned another twenty thousand American dollars?tax-free money that would appear in his private Panamanian bank account as soon as he reported this latest success to his controller. Meanwhile, yet another deadly HYDRA variant was moving toward its intended victim.
The Vodootvnodny Canal curved through a great arc from east to west before rejoining the Moscow River just a kilometer or so south of the Kremlin. The canal also marked the northern boundary of the Zamoskvoreche district, home to a growing population of foreigners, mostly European and American businessmen and their families. A row of pale yellow three-and four-story buildings lined the southern bank of the frozen canal. First built as luxurious town homes, they had long since been divided up into smaller flats.
Inside the living room of one of those apartments, Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith turned away from the window. It was very late, near midnight, and the darkened streets outside were almost completely empty. A blue- and-white militia car drove slowly past and then turned left onto a bridge that ultimately ran straight to the Kremlin. Its glowing red taillights vanished in the solid winter blackness. He let the heavy drapes fall back behind him and looked narrowly at Kirov. “You’re sure this place is safe?”
The Russian shrugged. “Absolutely safe? No, I cannot promise that. But this is certainly the most secure shelter I could find at such short notice.” He smiled. “The landlord is an old friend of mine, a man who owes me many favors ?including his life and freedom. Best of all, most of his other tenants are corporate executives rotating through Moscow on short-term assignments, so at least you and Fiona will not stand out as strangers.”
Smith nodded. Kirov had a good point. In a city as crowded as Moscow, neighbors seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary grew suspicious easily, and they were likely to report strangers to the authorities. But if the other residents in this apartment building were newcomers themselves, he and Fiona were less likely to draw unwanted attention. “So how long can we stay here without causing too much trouble for you or for your friend the landlord?”
“Certainly for two or three days,” Kirov replied. “Perhaps longer. After that, it might be wise to move you to another safe house ?possibly one outside the city.”
“And what about you?” Fiona asked quietly. Pale and drawn-looking after the bloody close-quarters melee in the ambulance, she was sitting on a sofa, watching the two men closely. Elena Vedenskava’s case notes were spread out across a coffee table in front of her, along with a pad of notepaper she and Smith had been using to jot down rough translations of the obscure medical jargon and terminology thev contained. Their work had been interrupted when the silver-haired Russian returned from a quick trip to purchase food, a few other staples, and some necessary toiletries. Acquiring new clothes would have to wait until the next morning.
“Me?” Kirov shook his head. “I am in no real danger. I’m quite certain that the men hunting for you and Jon never got a real look at my face.” His eyes were bleak. “At least none of those who are still alive.”
“But what about that SUV vou abandoned? Can they trace it back to you?”
“No,” Kirov told her confidently. “I bought the Niva for cash, through a series of go-betweens. The registration will not lead anyone to me.”
“There’s still a problem,” Smith broke in.
Kirov raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You and I have a past history of working together, both here and in Washington during the Cassandra smallpox crisis,” Jon pointed out. “And these people, whoever they are, know my name and at least some of my background. They might start asking awkward questions about Oleg Kirov, formerly a general in the Federal Security Service.”
“That is extremely unlikely,” the Russian said simply. His teeth flashed in a quick, wry grin. “You see, before I left the FSB, I made sure that certain top-secret files were … erased. I can assure you that no one searching the records at the Lubyanka headquarters will find any information connecting me to the notorious Colonel Jonathan Smith.” He shrugged his large shoulders again.
“If you recall, even then the details of our temporary association were kept hidden from all but a select few.”
Smith nodded, remembering.
Suddenly aware of his own enormous fatigue, Jon crossed the room and dropped into a battered old armchair across from Fiona. The adrenaline surge during their escape had faded away, leaving him feeling weak and weary. It was a relief to get off his feet, even if only for a few brief moments. He glanced back at the other man. “Okay, so you’re in the clear for now. That’s a relief and a big one. But I’d still like to know exactly what role you’re playing in all of this mess.” He grinned tiredly. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you ?not after you saved both our necks. I’m just kind of curious about how you just happened to show up in the nick of time. Especially armed and driving a conveniently untraceable vehicle.”
“Fiona asked me to provide distant cover for her during your rendezvous with Dr. Vedenskaya,” the Russian said quietly. “I was glad to oblige her.”
“Oleg runs a private security consulting firm, mostly advising companies interested in doing business here in Moscow,” Fiona Devin explained. For the first time since their capture and narrow escape, her large eyes twinkled with mild amusement. “But he has a rather wide range of clients.”
“Including your mysterious Mr. Klein,” Kirov interjected calmly. He smiled broadly at Jon. “So once again we are colleagues.”
Smith nodded slowly again as the pieces began falling into place. The retired Russian officer was one of Fiona Devin’s Moscow assets, a member of her handpicked Covert-One team. Pensioned off or not, it was a safe bet that Kirov still had reliable friends and trusted colleagues at every level of the Russian government. No wonder she had been so confident that she could vet his list of potential sources so quickly. And no wonder she had been so sure that Elena Vedenskaya’s FSB security file had been scrubbed clean of any damaging information. How many other files had Kirov doctored before allowing himself to be purged by the Dudarev regime?
Jon studied the taller man silently for a few moments, wondering how he squared working for an American intelligence organization with the lifetime he had already spent as a faithful high-ranking officer in Russia’s army and security services. Cases of divided loyalty all too often turned sour. Men, even the best men, cracked under the strain of deciding between abstract ideals and the closer ties of blood and nationality. Without thinking about how that might sound, he said as much out loud.
“I am still a Russian patriot, Doctor,” Kirov shot back. The muscles around his jaw visibly tightened. “But I am not a blind or unthinking patriot. Dudarev and his supporters are leading the Motherland back into darkness, down an old, tyrannical path that will only bring us to disaster. So long as that is true and so long as the real interests of my country are not damaged, I see no harm in doing what I can to help you in this matter.” He looked steadily at the American, and when he spoke again there was a distinct edge in his voice. “In the past, we have fought side by side and shed blood together, Jon. And now I ask you to put your trust in me one more time. Is that too much to expect, after all I have already risked for you?and for Ms. Devin?”
“No, it’s not,” Smith admitted, realizing abruptly that he had pushed the other man too hard. He rose to his feet so that he could look Kirov directly in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Oleg,” he said quietly, offering his hand. “It was wrong of me to doubt either your honor or your integrity.”
“In your place, I, too, would have such questions,” the Russian assured him. “Suspicion and doubt are inherent perils in this game we play?the game of spies.”
Both plainly abashed, the two men shook hands.
“Now that you and Oleg have decided that you’re both loyal, noble, trust-worthy, and paragons of all the other virtues, do you think you could finish helping me with Dr. Vedenskaya’s notes?” Fiona asked Smith, unable to
