clouds, its left wing tipped toward earth, the right wing toward heaven. She peered out the window into an infinity of cottony white.
The aircraft descended below the cloud cover. The landscape below came into view. And there was Kiev, the ancient city of Kievan Rus, the early medieval monarchy that represented the glory of Ukrainian history until it was sacked by the Mongols, giving the Russians, who stole the name, their chance to shine. The city stretched out before her, a bluish silvery gray vision in deep, deep winter as the afternoon died. For a fleeting moment, even as a light snow fell, everything was very clear, the colors of the city stark and intense. It looked like a Vermeer landscape.
They flew just below a thick layer of angry low clouds above the city of two and a half million people. Below, the River Dnipro was impacted with ice. Bridges laced the river. She could see traffic moving among the old buildings. Bare trees stood like skeletons along the boulevards, the naked dark branches extended like grasping arms and hands. The gilded domes of the old Ukrainian churches reached for the sky and glimmered with the final flickers of afternoon light. From her seat on the Airbus, Alex could make out Independence Square-formerly Lenin Square-and the huge statue of the Archangel Michael, the city’s patron saint, golden wings extended a halo behind his head. Michael dominated the square, much as a statue of Lenin once had.
To Alex’s right, in the distance, she could also see the huge statue of Rodina Mat, the Soviet vision of the motherland, celebrating the victory and sacrifices of the Great Patriotic War. The statue of a woman reminiscent of the Stature of Liberty, except Lady Liberty held a torch and Rodina Mat held a sword and a shield.
Alex had done her homework. She knew the statue was eight stories high and stood above a museum to the Great Patriotic War, known in the West as World War II. Alex also knew that Rodina was done in titanium. The rumor was that she wasn’t too steady on her pins these days. Like much of what the Soviets had built over seventy-five years, Rodina too might take a hard fall sometime soon.
Eight stories high, a sample of Soviet subtlety.
A sword and a shield, a sample of Stalinist philosophy.
An even bigger statue had once been planned, one of Stalin, who was to stand over the new Metro where it entered a tunnel after crossing the river on a bridge, just like the Colossus of Rhodes. But underground water had delayed completion of the tunnel, and happily for almost everyone, Uncle Joe had kicked the bucket before the statue could be built.
The plane leveled out and finished its descent, passing over the outskirts of the city. In twenty minutes, the Air France jet was at the gate. Alex was on her feet, reminding herself of the details to her new identity and ready to disembark after seventeen hours from Washington.
TWENTY-SIX
Alex’s arrival in Kiev was not at an airport gate but down steps to an ordinary bus. An icy blast of cold met her. It wasn’t much warmer inside the bus as the door remained open for several minutes.
Welcome to Kiev-just like Chicago, except even colder and even more corrupt.
Alex passed through Ukrainian customs. Then she moved to immigration.
She stood quietly and watched the Ukrainian officer scan her passport. He waited for something on a computer screen.
What? Was this whole thing going to blow up right at the start? The reality of her situation hit home; she was entering Ukraine illegally. Sometimes there were long prison sentences for people who did such things, just so others wouldn’t.
She had been undercover before but had never passed from one country to another with a fraudulent identity. She had planned for this moment and prepared for it. But still, her palms moistened. Her blouse stuck to her ribs. She felt as if a monarch butterfly was fluttering around in her stomach.
Oh, Lord! The officer was looking at the screen too long. Much too long.
It went through her head: something had glitched with the passport. Some chunk of old Soviet style computer science had pegged her fake documents.
She turned and scanned the room. No one she knew. Nowhere to run.
The immigration officer frowned. The sweat poured off her. Now it felt as if a dozen butterflies were doing a bizarre mating dance in her stomach.
He was a nice-looking man in his mid twenties. Clean cut, fair-skinned, and blond. Looked a little like a cop or a guy she’d gone to college with, which made it all the more weird. He refused to smile.
His blue eyes slid from the computer screen to her. He spoke Ukrainian.
“Dyplomat?” he asked.
“Tak,” she said. Yes.
She fumbled slightly but pressed on. “Diplomat, sort of. United States Department of Commerce,” she said.
“You are Anna Tavares?”
A beat. “I am Anna Tavares.”
Still in Ukrainian: “You are
She couldn’t tell if he was flirting or trying to catch a spy. She stayed with it.
“Who else would I be?” she asked, trying to make a joke of it.
He closed her passport and placed it on the desk in front of her, out of her reach. He switched to English. “You will now please wait,” he said. “I call superior officers.”
“What!? Why!?”
“Because for you, this passport, I must.”
He looked to his left. Two security people approached, black uniforms, blue and yellow trim. Guns. Police clubs. A dog the size of a Volkswagen. A large man and a larger matron who looked like Olga’s steroidal big sister. Their eyes were on her; they hulked in her direction and they didn’t look happy. Her head snapped back to the immigration officer.
“What’s the problem?” she said. “What have I done wrong?”
Her nerves were in open revolt against her common sense now. She wanted to be anywhere else in the world than here. In the back of Alex’s mind, a prayer had kicked in.
The young man turned back to her. “There is no problem,” the officer said. “Our country’s courtesy to you. You are an American diplomat. We will escort you past the long lines.”
“Oh…”
Her insides completely unraveled.
“Have a good stay, Anna Tavares,” he said, returning to English and giving her a smile. He opened her passport, stamped her entry, and pushed it back in her direction. Then he winked at her. “American women are always so beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered.
Her jaw closed tight. She took back her passport. The two security people then, with the utmost politeness, bypassed a hundred other travelers, led her through an official portal, and guided her into the reception area.
There she found herself face-to-face with a young man holding a piece of paper with US Commerce on it. She approached him and smiled.
“Anna Tavares?” he said.
“That’s me. A bit frazzled. But me.”
“I’m Richard Friedman. I’m with the commercial attache’s office. I’m also your control officer while you’re here. Welcome to Kiev.”
“Thank you.”
They shook hands. He grabbed her bags.
Friedman was about her age, maybe a shade older, likeable, with a round face, glasses, and a smart look through the eyes. He wore a suit and tie beneath an open overcoat.
He carried her luggage and guided her to a waiting car and driver.
The car was French, a Peugeot, perky, deep green, and brand new. In contrast, the driver, Stosh, was a
