Varakov sat at his desk, slipping his shoes off. He smiled, looking first at his niece Natalia, then at Constantine Miklov, then back at Natalia. 'You are lovely, my dear— as usual, of course,' he told her.
The girl smiled, saying nothing.
Varakov said nothing for a moment either, assessing her. She was dressed in black, as she had been since learning of the death of Karamatsov, but she looked beautiful in black and Varakov decided he would rather see her wear a black dress every day for the rest of her life than think of her with the animal she had married.
Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders and beyond, and with the contrasting bright blue of her eyes, the whiteness of her skin seemed somehow unreal, almost too perfect. In that instant, Varakov decided he understood why Karamatsov had beaten her— though he could never forgive it in the man, despite the fact Karamatsov was dead.
Karamatsov had somehow wanted to defile the perfection, the goddess-like beauty. It could have been hard, Varakov decided, for a man like Karamatsov— a despoiler, what the British before World War II in their days of empire would have called a 'rotter'— to live with flawless beauty such as Natalia possessed. He sighed, watching the girl's eyes meet his.
He smiled at her, saying to her across his desk, 'An old man sometimes finds his thoughts drifting to other things. It is part of life.'
Varakov turned to Colonel Miklov, beginning, 'You were briefed on the Cuban problem, the border incursions from Florida, all of that?'
Miklov nodded. Varakov liked that in Miklov. He said little.
'Good— Natalia will be there officially in the capacity of an aide. If they realize she is KGB, then they do. They can do nothing to either of you. We would crush them and they know that.'
Then Varakov turned to Natalia. 'And you, my dear. It is not such a unique intelligence assignment. I simply wish you to learn all that you can, especially that which they do not wish you to know. If they suspect you are KGB, they will feed you information on their strength, their intentions— all of that. That is why I chose you particularly for this assignment. I need all this to be seen through, so to speak. I. wish to ascertain their actual intent, their actual strength.'
'How far should I go, Comrade General?' she asked, the warmth in her eyes belying the formality of her tone.
Varakov smiled, saying, 'That is entirely up to your own discretion.'
'I don't mean that,' she almost laughed, her cheeks slightly flushed.
'I know what you mean. Do what needs to be done,' he told her. 'So long as it does not immediately result in you or Colonel Miklov being imperiled. Neither the Colonel's diplomatic negotiations nor what you learn, by whatever means, will be of any use if you should be killed in some unfortunate accident. You understand?'
'Yes, Comrade General.'
'Good,' Varakov grunted. He glanced at the notes he'd made, then turned and addressed Miklov. The meeting lasted for more than an hour, Varakov noted. Miklov and Natalia Tiemerovna were set to leave early that evening from the military airfield northwest of the city. Varakov asked if Miklov would care for a glass of vodka, but Miklov declined, Varakov dismissing him then. It was late afternoon and Varakov decided he had worked enough that day. Sitting silently with Natalia across from him, Varakov looked up from his desk, saying abruptly,
'Would you walk with me along the Lake. It is cold, I know, but—'
'Yes, Uncle,' he said, her voice soft sounding to him. 'Good— I want to talk. There are so few people to whom one can talk these days,' he told her.
The general slipped his feet into his shoes, then wheeled out from his desk and bent over to tie them. Suddenly he looked up at Natalia standing beside him. 'Here, Uncle— let me.' And before he could tell her no, she had dropped to her knees beside his feet, her hands already at work.
'I am not a child,' he said, but his voice not harsh. She looked up at him a faint smile on her lips. 'A woman can tie a man's shoes. It means nothing like that.'
'Humph,' he grunted, but didn't persist.
'There,' she said, rising effortlessly to her feet. Varakov looked down at his shoes, simply shaking his head, then braced his left hand on the desk top and got to his feet.
'Girl!' he shouted, never seeming, he thought, to remember the name of the tall woman who was his secretary. But she came whatever he called her.
'Comrade General!'
Varakov looked at the secretary, then at Natalia. Their ages were similar— late twenties. He supposed that under their clothes their shapes might be similar. He was too old, he smiled, to worry about that.
'Child,' he told the secretary, more softly. 'I need my coat, please.'
'Yes, Comrade General.' And the woman did a smart about face.
He called after her, the woman stopping a moment in mid-stride. 'Your skirt is still too long!' She began walking again.
Varakov looked at Natalia, her cheeks slightly flushed. 'Isn't it?' he asked his niece.
'Yes, Uncle— but you embarrass her. It is not my position to say, but I—'
'When you get back from this Florida thing, you tell her, hmmm?'
'As you wish, Uncle,' Natalia said, the color still in her cheeks.
They left the Museum then. Natalia, Varakov noticed, smiled at the secretary as she brought his coat. They walked down the steps, then toward what had been Lake Shore Drive. There was scattered military traffic, but they crossed easily, the sun low behind them, the wind blowing cold from the water ahead of them.
