“I’m suggesting no such thing. It could be dangerous for you as well.” I went over and stared out the window, mumbling, “Of course… we could take steps to minimize those dangers.”
“And how would we do that?”
“A terrific disguise. Different hair color, new outfit, the works. Since you speak the language, you’d blend right in. And I would stake out your meeting and make sure you’re not observed or followed.”
“I see you’ve already thought about this.”
I shrugged.
“Is it risky?”
“Very.”
She examined me a moment, then said, “What are the odds this is going to help? Tell me I’m not putting my life at risk over a wild goose chase.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
There were no chalk stripes beside the commie amazon’s feet at four-thirty the next morning; apparently, Arbatov wiped them off each time he saw the signal. These spies, they think of even the little things. I made three fresh new scrapes and wandered back upstairs to the dismal streets of Moscow.
I did some furtive dodging around, sort of warming up, and ended up thirty minutes later in a position to observe Katrina enter the coffee shop. Less than a minute later she wandered back out and peeked around, perhaps trying to spot me, which she didn’t. Her hair was dyed blond and she wore thick glasses. She was dressed in a long, oversize parka, too warm and bulky for the season, but it added forty pounds to her slender frame. Had I not picked the outfit myself, I wouldn’t have recognized her.
Five minutes later, Alexi exited the subway stairwell, and I tracked him with my eyes as he strolled down the street to the kiosk. Nobody emerged behind him. He, too, entered the coffee shop and emerged a moment later, pausing momentarily to read the note Katrina had left with the chubby babushka behind the counter. The note detailed the instructions for his next stop if he wanted to meet with us. If he went back into the subway, he was blowing us off.
I had broken the normal routine and could see the anxiety and indecision on his face. After a moment, he headed across the street, and I followed along behind him, dodging into alleyways and shop entrances so I wouldn’t be spotted. I saw nobody. He was alone, to the best I could tell.
He ended up in the middle of a park and stopped by one of those ubiquitous statues of a man on a horse. Russians are really into statues, I was learning. A moment later, Katrina approached him. He looked surprised and tense, then his body relaxed as Katrina explained who she was and why she was there. I saw his lips moving, and I imagined he was probably telling her how much he admired the way I had set this up. Or he could be telling her I was an overcautious idiot.
Their chat lasted nearly ten minutes. I circled the park a few times and kept an eye out. Aside from a few beggars stumbling around in the morning chill, nobody or anything looked out of place and suspicious.
Finally they shook hands and then Arbatov walked away, leaving Katrina to her own devices. I followed Arbatov as he returned to the subway. Were he being tracked, it would have to be a team that was electronically connected, passing him from one agent to the next. The whole area would have to be blanketed, taking dozens of agents. It seemed fair to assume Arbatov wasn’t being tracked.
I took a zigzag route back to the hotel, and a few minutes later there was a knock at my door. It was Katrina, grinning and beaming. Sweat was still running down my face, from exertion and anxiety. I knew enough to be distressed; she obviously didn’t.
She stepped inside and said, “Well?”
“Nobody was following. I’m nearly certain of it. And how did your side go?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it? Fine?”
“He was very nice.”
I tapped a finger on my knee. “Did he trust you?”
“Of course. He thought using me was brilliant. He said he’s got a lot of information to pass to us, and this was much more workable than meeting with you.”
“What else did he tell you?”
She smiled. “He said he had spotted a strange man following him, who was at that very moment circling the park and watching us.” She pointed a finger at me. “Oh my God, you’re dressed just like the guy he described.”
Very, very funny. “What else?” I grumbled.
“He said he knows a great restaurant that serves genuine Russian cuisine, and that I’ll love it.”
“He… what?”
“We made a date. He’s taking me to dinner.”
“A date?”
“Look it up in the dictionary.”
“I know what a date is. This wasn’t in the plan.”
“You have a problem with this?” She crossed her arms and smiled. “Is this because you didn’t think of it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Perhaps you like it better when you get to skulk around, lurking behind bushes and acting like a real-life spy. Did I spoil your fun?”
She was pulling my chain, I detected. I started to say, “Look, this is-”
She was shaking her head. “Don’t even try arguing against this. We can have one more rushed ten-minute session in the park or I can spend an entire evening listening to what he has to say.”
She was right. And I knew that in most ways it was even a very good idea. But I had a misgiving I just couldn’t shake.
Something in my expression must’ve communicated this, because she said, “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried for him.”
She chuckled.
I groaned.
She left and I looked around at the walls. I have never been good at killing time, particularly when I am keyed up and trapped in a hotel room in a strange and miserable country I don’t want to be in. The third time I used the phone to call Imelda with nothing new to discuss or report, she informed me that she was ridiculously busy and if I bothered her again she would climb on the next plane and come kill me. The shop in the hotel lobby had two American books, a trashy novel by Jackie Collins and a thick biography of Ronald Reagan titled Dutch by Edmund Morris. I chose the trash. After one hundred pages of Hollywood murders and affairs, I went numb and fled. I went outside and walked around, trying to get someone to follow me, or ambush me, or whatever. Did I mention that I was bored?
At six o’clock, Katrina knocked on my door and I opened it. She stepped inside, and I… well, I froze. She looked breathtaking, ravishing, and most problematically, dripped with sex appeal. Her hair was still dyed blond, and she wore it up like a diva. She had apparently slipped out and bought a dress, because she wore this very lovely black number that stopped about seven inches short of her knees and a few micrometers from her nipples. If she sneezed or even laughed hard, Arbatov was in for an eyeful. She wore stockings and high heels, and makeup tastefully applied, and a very nice perfume, and as we say in the Army, she had cleaned up right nicely.
I like eye candy as much as the next guy, but her timing and judgment was awful. Inconspicuous was the code word for the evening and she was anything but. Katrina Mazorski was going to draw plenty of stares, and she was going to be remembered everywhere she went.
I very grumpily said, “You look like you got confused. This isn’t a real date.”
She smiled. “But it has to look like one. Don’t I look genuine?”
