Chapter 21
ON THE THIRD DAY after they returned to New York, Burt took a call from the leader of his team of watchers in the city. The Russians at the UN had celebrated their Russian New Year on the night before, in a Russian restaurant on Sixty-third Street. They were expected to return to their offices at the UN building in two days’ time.
On the morning of January 8, Burt, Anna, Marcie, and Logan, as well as four members of Burt’s company staff, listened to a running commentary from the spot teams on the ground.
That morning, as every morning on Vladimir’s working days, they picked him out leaving his apartment block on the west side of Central Park, which the Russian diplomatic mission had colonised in the previous ten years, and saw him step out into the cold, snow-driven street to a waiting car.
On some mornings, he took the subway downtown, out of choice, it was assumed, but this morning the weather clearly drove him into the ease and warmth of one of the pool cars the Russians used. It gave them less chance, Logan observed. If the weather didn’t improve, Vladimir would go straight back the same way without stopping at any of his usual haunts.
But the skies cleared at lunchtime, the snow disappearing to the north, and at 2:37 in the afternoon the team, alerted by other watchers inside the UN building, reported Vladimir now leaving on foot and turning towards midtown. He finally took a taxi on Fortieth Street.
Burt placed Anna in one of three yellow New York cabs that seemed to be part of his own inventory, and she and the stubbornly sullen driver waited for instructions.
A report came through that Vladimir had got out of the cab on Broadway near Washington Square and walked a few yards up the street into a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Anna’s taxi drove downtown for six streets and waited again, a block away from the store.
“He’s looking at books,” a watcher said unenthusiastically.
Then they heard that he had exited the store and was walking back two blocks towards a secondhand bookstore off Washington Square itself. Over the car’s speaker phone, she heard he had walked inside.
“He’s browsing,” another watcher announced over the car’s speaker phone. “He looks like he’ll be some time.”
Burt came on the line. “Could be the opportunity,” he said.
“He used to spend hours in bookstores in Moscow,” Anna agreed.
“Let’s go,” Burt said.
She could tell from his voice that he was nervous now that control was slipping from him to her.
She didn’t need to look at the map she had with her. Stepping out of the cab, she walked briskly for one block, until she saw the huge store on the corner of the square. She crossed the street and walked to the right, towards the entrance.
Inside, she tried to catch sight of where he was, but the store was too big. Racks of books stretched away into the back and spilled out over the sidewalk on a side street. She walked in with her head slightly lowered, but keeping it facing straight ahead. But she took in as much of the store as she could without breaking pace.
Stopping and browsing with unseeing eyes, she tried to cover the whole store without turning her head away from the racks. Above all, it was important not to catch his eye first.
Eventually she saw him and breathed a sigh of relief. He was right at the back. If she stayed near the front of the store, he would pass near her on his way towards the exit. She picked up one or two books, not letting her eyes leave him now.
At the apartment, Burt and Logan were silent, listening tensely to the commentary of the team.
“He’s picking up a book with a yellow cover,” one lookout who had followed Anna into the store reported.
“We think it’s
Burt sucked his teeth and temporarily switched off the speaker going out. “Training gone out of control,” he hissed at Logan. “They should be looking out for anyone tailing him, not at the damn book titles! Tell them.”
Logan sent out the order. Then he and Burt left the apartment for a waiting car.
At just after three thirty, the street team jabbered over the lines that Vladimir was heading towards the exit of the store. They fixed Anna’s position at a rack in the centre aisle of three, one of which he would have to take.
“He’s heading for the left-hand aisle,” a voice said. “He hasn’t seen anyone.”
“Nobody tailing him from their side,” another voice came through.
Anna saw him from the corner of her eye coming from the gloomy recesses at the back of the store into the better-lit front area and then stopping again at a rack about twenty yards away from her. He thumbed through several books, eventually picked a fourth, and, without looking inside the covers, turned to the left and headed for the pay counter.
There was a queue of three people in front of him, a man and two women. He waited in line. She watched him looking around as he waited. He didn’t look at the book. It was a book he knew he wanted. His gaze followed the counter up to the right, then left. Was he watching? she wondered. No, just bored, just filling time. She was too far behind him for his gaze to light on her without turning.
Finally, he reached the front of the queue, took out an old leather wallet, and paid the young assistant, who put the book in a brown bag, handed it back to him, and spoke some cheerfully perfunctory words. Then he turned and tried to fit the book into the pocket of his coat, but it wouldn’t quite go. He took some gloves from his pocket.
“He’s intending to leave the store,” came through on Burt’s car speaker. “He’s putting his gloves on.”
“Where is she?” Burt said.
“Right by the door. But it’s a broad exit. He won’t necessarily walk by her.”
Anna watched the gloves go on. Vladimir took the book in his right hand and walked back into the centre of the shop to the rack where he’d found the book, then turned right towards the exit. He was coming down the central aisle, where she was standing.
She didn’t turn, but made sure her profile was clearly visible as she looked down at a copy of something by Stendhal—she had no idea of the title. She was holding two other books underneath it, as though she’d decided on buying them.
He was just yards away now, closing and glancing to the left and right, walking slowly but not stopping. He seemed in no hurry despite his intention to leave. At that point she stopped looking at him and became engrossed in the book in her hand. She didn’t want to be tempted at the last moment to be the one to make the discovery.
In a few seconds, when she realised she was holding her breath, she became aware of a presence next to her. She didn’t look up, but saw his feet about two yards away. He’d stopped. She turned away from him slightly, as if she were annoyed that someone was looking at her. Then she felt a hand on her arm and looked up.
When she saw his face, the first of several expressions that crossed it in rapid succession was fear.
She stared back at him, her own face empty of everything except complete shock.
Then she looked around, in apparent fear herself, hunting for anyone with him. She looked back at him and took a step away from him, removing his hand from her arm. “Vladimir! What are you doing here!” she breathed.
He looked at her steadily. The fear was still in his eyes, but now alternated with uncertainty.
“It is you,” he said.
“Why are you here?” She sounded frightened even to herself.
“I’m alone,” he said. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”
“Why are you here?” she repeated. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you,” he said, and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes recede and a sense of calm take over for a moment.
She didn’t reply, but glanced around the store anxiously, looking for anyone else who might be with him.
“I’m alone,” he repeated. “Anna, I’m alone.”
She focused her eyes back on him. “You’re looking for me,” she said. “They’re looking for me. Please, Vladimir. I have a small son.”
He seemed stung by the remark, but recovered quickly. Then he spoke very fast. “There’s a cafe on Third
