“We should have had kids,” she said.
“You think?”
She lit a new cigarette from the dying stub of the last one.
“It makes me sad,” she said, “Who’s going to worry about you when I’m gone?”
*
Marcus liked Jim Alicante better than any of the station chiefs he’d worked for. He was a guy’s guy who didn’t act like most of the stick-up-the-ass preppy types who got promoted to management jobs. He was blunt, a little rough around the edges, and he had a wicked sense of humor. And he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of letting his blue-collar roots show. Marcus found it refreshing. When he was younger, he hadn’t been as comfortable with his own less-than exalted pedigree. His father had been an accountant at a small, strip-mall tax firm, his mother a kindergarten teacher. He always resented the rich kids at Georgetown, and at CIA he despised the Ivy-League types who pranced around the director’s suite on the seventh floor at Langley like they were the chosen ones.
The Chancery of the US Embassy in Paris was a neoclassical fortress on the Avenue Gabriel. From his fourth-floor office, Alicante had a good view over the gardens of the Champs-Élysées. The sunlight that morning was impossibly bright. Others might have adjusted the blinds or pulled the curtains. Not Alicante. He put on his sunglasses and said, “Nice day for a defection.”
“That it is,” Marcus agreed.
“Run me through the logistics.”
“I’ll be leaving in two hours for the Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal. As per usual, I’ll be picking up a car nearby and I’ll drive to the designated meet point. We’ll have two follow teams. When Burakov leaves the meet house with me, Team One will take both of us to the safe house in Montreuil. Team Two will pick up his wife and kids at the Galeries Lafayette where they’ll be shopping. Once everyone’s assembled in Montreuil, we’ll move out to 123 Airbase Orléans-Bricy, where a Learjet is fueled and ready.
Alicante grinned. “If I asked you what could possibly go wrong, would you have time to get to the meet?”
“We’d still be talking at midnight.”
“Figured as much. You flying out with him?”
“That’s the plan.”
“One-way ticket?”
Marcus nodded.
“I’ll miss you. All I’ll have left are the guys with positive attitudes.”
“You know I’ve got to go.”
“How’s she doing?”
“The chemo’s a rough ride. I should have left a week ago.”
“She’s not on her own, is she?”
“Her sister’s there again.”
“Well, Godspeed, man. I’ll light a candle for you and one for her.”
*
He needed a clear head, but one lousy Scotch on the rocks wasn’t going to be clouding anything. Before settling into the hotel bar, he checked out the lobby men’s room and saw three stalls. He resisted the urge to search all of them for the envelope, and simply splashed his face with cold water. While he waited, he got a text from Janie. Alice had a fever and she was taking her to George Washington Hospital. She finished with: When the hell are you going to be here? He texted back: Tomorrow. For good.
The wait was longer than usual and he broke down and ordered a second drink. A youngish fellow in a dark suit flashed by and dropped two coins onto his table. He paid the tab and retrieved the envelope from the second stall.
It was a new meet house in Saclay, about twenty kilometers from the hotel, near the University of Paris-Saclay. He parked the car on the periphery of the university and found the property hidden by a high hedge, a modest post-war house on a narrow residential road.
Burakov answered the door, dressed casually in a cardigan and dark slacks. He seemed too relaxed. If the shoe were on the other foot, he’d be amped up.
“Marcus, did you hit much traffic? I wondered where you were.”
“The traffic was ridiculous. It took twice as long as I thought.”
“Come, come, it’s not the nicest house we’ve had, but it’s well stocked. My colleagues made sure to put in your favorite Scotch. You want one?”
Marcus looked around the living room for the cameras. He didn’t spot any right away, but they were there.
“Yeah, just a small one.”
“A small one!” Burakov laughed. “Next you’ll be telling me you want tea instead.”
“I hate tea.”
Burakov poured two drinks, both of them large, and settled onto the sofa next to him.
“I have something to show you,” he said.
“What’s that?” Marcus asked.
“Have a look.” He pointed to a blue folder on the coffee table.
Marcus opened it and pulled out the single sheet. He read the text quickly, then read it again, letting it sink in.
It was a day-old wire-transfer confirmation to a numbered account in a Geneva-based bank for six million dollars.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A down payment.”
“You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
“It’s a down payment on your new life.”
He had to play it for the cameras, for Burakov’s masters. “That’s very generous, Vasily. I’m still working through some things before I can definitively commit.”
“Your wife.”
“Yeah, my wife.”
“How is she?”
“Not well.”
“I’m sorry. But look, Marcus, I’m authorized to tell you that a further six million will be transferred in six months’ time, subject to satisfactory progress. We’ll immediately enter into a debriefing mode wherein you’ll meet with me under the guise of continuing to attempt to turn me. You’ll tell your people that I had cold feet, but I was still in play. We require what’s in your head, Marcus. We will be extremely judicious about document requests. This is how people get burned. Going forward, as long as you remain an employee or a critical consultant to the CIA, you will be paid one million per annum. Should you be discovered, we will use our best efforts to get you to Moscow where, I can assure you, you’ll be set for life. If you’re caught and imprisoned by the US government, we will do our utmost to trade.”
While Burakov talked, Marcus tried to signal his puzzlement with a curl of the lip,
