Conspiracy in Kiev

THIRTY-EIGHT

It was not a Valentine’s Day evening that Alex was looking forward to. In fact, she was downright unhappy with it.

Robert was already in transit with the Presidential Protection assignment out of Washington. He would arrive with the president the next afternoon. She and her fiance had already made plans to meet in a restaurant near her hotel in the late afternoon, when his shift would be over. In the embassy, all other protective people had drawn assignments as security tightened around the president.

Yet suddenly, what Alex was doing was secondary to the entire trip. The goals of the American president were to get to the cathedral the next day, lay a wreath, and exit the country as quickly as possible. And trouble continued to hang in the air.

For a moment, at a few minutes before nine that evening, Alex knelt quietly in a quick prayer in her hotel room. Then she inserted a loaded magazine into her gun and packed it into her purse along with her cell phone. She wore the new dress that Federov had sent over. Against the cold, she pulled on a pair of boots and a heavy wool overcoat.

Two minutes later she was in the lobby. A Mercedes limousine was already waiting. Federov stepped out and beckoned. She sighed and went forward to the vehicle.

“Get in,” he said. “We’ll have a great evening.”

The things she would do for her country.

Dancing with the stars. Dancing with the gangsters. Well, this was part of the assignment too. Find out as much about this thug as possible. Keep him in sight. Who knew? Maybe some tidbit she picked up could put him in jail for two hundred years. She could always hope.

They were alone in the back of the limousine, where it was warm. They spoke Russian. The vehicle began to move. There was much room in the backseat. Alex stretched out her legs, loosened her coat, and tried to get comfortable. After a moment Federov reached to her and opened the coat, pushing it aside. His eyes devoured her in her new dress.

“You are quite beautiful,” Federov said.

She sighed. “I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, Federov-”

“Please call me Yuri,” he interrupted.

“I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, but I explained to you, I’m engaged. I’m not interested in any relationship other than our professional one.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you?” She sounded skeptical.

“What am I doing wrong?” he said. “You are very safe. I’m making sure of that. And I am being a gentleman. We are conducting business, you and I. And so perhaps I like going out with a beautiful American woman seen on my arm? Is that so wrong?”

They came to a stoplight. The driver ignored the red and eased through with impunity.

“By itself, no,” she answered.

“Then where’s the problem?”

“We just need to understand each other.”

“We do,” he said. “So I need to understand something too?”

“What’s that?”

“Why does your government want to kill me?” he asked. “And why do they use you as their instrument?”

“What?”

He repeated.

“I know of no plans to have you killed,” she said.

“Of course. They would use you, not tell you.”

“You’re making me angry, Yuri. I’m not lying to you.”

He studied her carefully and shifted gears. “Then maybe a kiss,” he said. “One kiss.”

“No.”

“Maybe later.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Then you don’t know the Russian system,” he said. “If I can’t get what I want the proper way, I steal it. When you’re not looking, when you least expect it, I will have a kiss from you.”

“I’ll be on my guard,” she said, trying to parry his advance and defuse it.

“I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure.”

He sat back and relaxed.

The driver took them through the snowy streets of Kiev and into a neighborhood that was lively with neon and flashing marquees. Alex tried to memorize the route but it was impossible. Federov kept her talking and she guessed that was the reason.

Clubs and bars were packed one next to another along a trendy urban strip. The car stopped in front of a place named Malikai’s.

Federov’s driver jumped out and opened the doors for them. Alex felt like a gun moll. A skin-headed bouncer guided them past a waiting line of people, and they entered the club. People seemed to know Yuri Federov. Everyone was quick to jump out of his way.

They walked down a flight of steps, through a dark corridor. Alex could barely hear above the blasting techno beat from the sound system.

“Is this a restaurant or a club?” she asked.

“Both,” Federov answered.

But it wasn’t that easy. Restaurant, Federov explained, meant bar in Ukraine, whereas nightclub meant restaurant and bar meant nightclub, which is where they were. And not to put too fine an edge on it, even though Malikai’s was a nightclub, it also had a bar and restaurant.

“Very confusing, isn’t it?” Alex said.

“Not as confusing as Russian-Ukrainian politics,” he answered.

“Quite right,” she agreed, still in Russian. “Politics works in strange ways,” she said.

The noise in Malikai’s was deafening. Federov had to incline his head so that Alex could shout into his ear. They moved past the line that stood waiting for a table. Federov obviously never waited to be seated.

“The owner, Malikai, is a friend,” Yuri said. “His brother plays ice hockey in North America. We share a love for ice hockey. And beautiful Western women.”

They obviously shared a love for something, because Malikai himself turned up a moment later and embraced Yuri. Then Malikai turned and bellowed over the music.

“Natalka!”

Natalka, a hostess, materialized out of nowhere. She got another tight hug from Yuri too, one that lifted her straight off the ground. She was a trim woman in a sleek black dress and a ruby on the left side of her nose. She looked as if she was used to getting manhandled in this place and took it in stride in exchange for a solid paycheck.

The crowd on the floor parted for them, and Natalka led them to a semicircular front row table in a corner that was midway between a bar and a stage. One of Federov’s friends was at the table, a man named Sergei with his own friend, Annette. Annette wore a gold minidress that was as short as Alex’s. In a good American touch, she seemed to be knocking back a Jack and ginger. She also looked as if she were quite plastered already. Sergei had a pistol on his belt that he was making no effort to conceal.

In terms of booze, Federov didn’t even have to order.

An ice bucket appeared, as did caviar, blinis, and a tray of hors d’oeuvres, presented by a mustached man in a red tunic who assisted Natalka. He said nothing but no one would have heard him if he did.

Then, almost by magic, Natalka produced from nowhere a bottle of vodka that bore a blue and yellow