“No, considering Boris’s and Ned’s recent experiences, I don’t think the direct approach would be the wisest course,” said Oliver. “However, I am curious if his superiors know what he’s up to.”
“His superiors?”
“He works for your friend Brandon.”
Will scratched his head, a little befuddled. “Really? Him too?”
“It’s a small town for ex-pats and the agency is thinly staffed these days, so Brandon’s working as the case officer for both the cultural and industrial sides of intelligence here, which includes Jake and you, and me too, technically. So, let’s see if we can’t get someone to help put two and two together for us. There’s a phone booth on the corner, I’ll be right back.” He popped out of the car and disappeared down the street. Will sat trying to think through what he had just been told, but Oliver was back before he could come to any conclusions.
“That was fast,” said Will.
Oliver started up the car. “Yes, I was lucky to catch Brandon at his desk, though he was a bit tight-lipped. Didn’t want to talk on the telephone, he said. Suspect he’s nervous about agency wiretaps, or maybe it’s that mole they always fear is listening in, who knows? We made a date to meet up at our old handoff spot tonight, out in the Bois. He also said I should bring you along.”
“He knows I’m with you?”
“Well, I didn’t offer it up, but he asked and I didn’t see any point in lying, especially since the last time we saw him I was dragging you out of your office. In any case, sounds like it’s for the best, he said he’s got some good news for you.”
“Really?” Will was curious. “Wonder what that could be.”
Oliver lit another cigarette. “Dunno.”
Will looked at his watch, happy with the feeling that things were beginning to sort themselves out. “Looks like we have a couple of hours, maybe we can meet up with the girls for a drink first?”
“I’m sure the girls are fine; if we’re lucky they spent the whole day shopping for lingerie at Victorine. We can catch up with them later. I say we get some oysters and wine over at Le Chat Noir, it’s on the way.”
XVI
Zoya woke after the sun had set. She pulled herself up in the bed and tried to piece together the last twenty-four hours. What had happened? Why had Elga attacked her? What was the meaning of the disassembled clock? How had she possibly escaped such a perfectly designed attack? She remembered the small girl who had been there, trying to trap her with a spell. The girl’s presence was easily explained: needing to make the killing stick, Elga had found a malleable little urchin and pulled her into the scheme. Zoya realized that this was why she had survived the attack. Elga worked fast, but she was an unreliable and brutal woman who would as easily cut a hungry soldier’s throat as hand him a cold potato—and she was the same with the girls she trained, pulling their hair one day, gently combing it out the next. Zoya knew such inconsistency made for poor training. If it was rushed, the girls would pay the price. Along the way, she had seen Elga try to train a few others, but the old woman’s uneven methods made for shoddy work. There might be some out there still on the road, thought Zoya, but she doubted it. She had seen most of these unlucky students fall before her eyes, either from forgetting precious words or from sticking out too far for suspicious eyes to find.
Zoya knew she had been on a razor’s edge of losing the skirmish, and if Will had not shown up she doubted she would have lived through it. She still could not believe the sight of his sweet face with its quizzical expression popping in the door at that fortuitous moment. That was too odd a twist of fate; she suspected those ghostly witches were pulling strings again. But to what end? What were they weaving? It did no good to guess. All Zoya did know was that being saved by a man was not an entirely comfortable feeling. Normally it was her task to pull them back from the abyss, confusing the auditors, poisoning the prosecutors, covering her lovers with shades of invisibility as they rode into battle. Men had occasionally tried to aid her as well but they were almost always the worst, appearing later with grim, avaricious smiles that said, “Debts are meant to be paid.” She could not recall ever having been rescued like this by a man before, ever. It annoyed her, for it implied a debt and she did not like owing anyone.
She had to admit, though, Will was different: he had fallen into the situation unaware, like the rabbit he was, once again hopping blindly into the middle of the hunting party. It was not even clear if he had any sense of where he had been, and thanks to her whispering spell, now he would never recall it. So, yes, she thought, I can owe him, for he was not one who would hold her to any obligation. She knew he was happy simply to have been there for her in a time of need. She smiled to herself, recalling how relieved she had felt as they made their getaway, wrapped up in his arms, safe in the taxi, driving off from the chaos of the fight, the world around her seeming to close down into warmth and darkness. She realized that the sense of comforting protection he had given her, held there in his reassuring embrace, was an almost exclusively feminine feeling, one that most men only experienced as babes in their mothers’ arms.
On the bedside table she found a note Will had left:
Zoya gave her a polite smile in return. “Thank you.” She poured herself some tea. She looked out the window and saw that it was dark. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eight, you two must have had quite the boozy night.”
“Mmmn.” Zoya nodded to herself. So much sleep and she still felt weak. She knew it would be a day or two before she was fully recovered. “So, you are with Oliver now?”
The British girl smiled. “I never like to say I’m
“Yes,” Zoya said. “I suppose I should have asked, ‘Are you having sex with Oliver?’”
Gwen gave a forced laugh. “Yes, but only occasionally, here and there. He asked me over last night to review some galleys, and then, well, you know, he’s such a chatty flibbertigibbet. It took nearly two bottles of wine until I could finally shut him up.”
Zoya looked at Gwen. She had known many women who actually were what Gwen pretended to be, and she respected those genuinely independent and capable women, the ones with great confidence, intelligence, and self-reliance. Zoya could never call these women “friends”—for almost all were so sharp and intuitive that Zoya had to steer clear to avoid being too closely observed—but she liked the ones she had known in passing, all too aware of the fact that making one’s way as a smart, fair creature in a patriarchal culture took some deft choreography. The men would not let you fight them on their terms, for if you were as strong as them then they painted you as ugly or called you cold, while if you tried to succeed by promoting your merits they labeled you as vain. Some of these remarkable women did find men who could live with them as equals, and sometimes they found partners who even accepted them as superior, but even then, too often, those men fell victim to that darkest of instincts, pride. Then Zoya watched as these “gentle” men wore their women down with those soft and cruel weapons—jealousy, mockery, absence, neglect—often with lethal results. Men might be apelike and plodding, Zoya thought, but they were not entirely stupid beasts, they knew how to climb back on top.
“Of course, a real relationship with a man like Oliver would be impossible,” Gwen went on. “He jokes about making an honest woman out of me, but I know he won’t. You know, he had his heart horribly broken some time back and I think it’s limited his ability to feel any deep emotion, really. It’s fine, though, it’s not like I’m in any rush to create some pathetic simulacrum of a happy marriage like my poor mother suffered.”
Zoya nodded politely and sipped her tea. Many marriages she had observed seemed to her awkward, strained arrangements, often painful to be near. But she was not entirely cynical and had seen, too, a rich variety of marital bonds that worked well. One extreme was where the man rose to his slippers late, almost at noon, and stayed busy nearly to dawn, while his bride awoke earlier than the birds and retired to sleep only a little after sunset, their lives thusly arranged so as to barely touch, and when they did it was warm and affectionate, like running across an old friend while traveling through the station. At the other extreme were the partnerships where
