us the chance to secure a decisive victory!”
Both Morin and Guichy stared at him, still uncomprehending.
Desaix explained what he had in mind, rapidly sketching out the broad outlines of his proposal.
Guichy’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “But what about the
“True, Michel.” Desaix nodded. He lowered his voice. “And that is why the Germans must not know what we’re about — not until it is too late.”
Vnukovo Airport, one of the four major landing fields surrounding Moscow, lay twenty-nine kilometers southwest from the city center, just off the Kiev Highway. Ordinarily only domestic flights and planes from the other former Soviet Republics used the field. International carriers were supposed to fly into either Sheremetyevo One or Two to the north.
So the unscheduled arrival of a four-engine Airbus A340 with Air France markings should have generated excited speculation among Vnukovo’s traffic controllers, ground crews, and mechanics. But not with hundreds of FIS agents and uniformed soldiers prowling every corridor, workshop, and office. Under Marshal Kaminov’s autocratic rule, the airport workers knew very well that the old admonition “Careless talk costs lives” meant their own lives — not those of others. They kept their mouths carefully shut.
Guided by instructions from the tower, the Airbus turned off Vnukovo’s main runway and stopped beside a waiting army honor guard, military band, and a line of long black limousines. Ground crewmen hurriedly maneuvered a mobile staircase into place at the forward cabin door.
Drums rolled, a hundred gloved hands slapped rifle butts, and gleaming bayonets flashed in the summer sun as the honor guard presented arms. Two flags — one Russian, the other French — dipped slowly in a salute.
Men emerged from the Airbus and walked slowly down the staircase toward a small party of Russian Army officers waiting on the tarmac. Some of the Frenchmen wore dark, elegant, perfectly tailored suits. Several more wore military uniforms representing the three different services.
With a crash of cymbals and a blare of trumpets, the band broke into “La Marseillaise.” After a long, roundabout journey through Confederation and neutral airspace, Nicolas Desaix’s handpicked ambassador and negotiating team were safely on Russian soil.
Major Paul Duroc stood at attention several paces behind Ambassador Sauret and his personal entourage, inconspicuous in civilian clothes among the other junior aides. With his hand resting over his heart for the anthem, he could feel the shoulder holster and automatic pistol hidden beneath his suit jacket. It was somehow reassuring — something solid to hang on to during his rapid fall from grace. The step down from independent special operations commander to this current posting as a glorified security chief was a long and humiliating one.
Fairly or unfairly, he’d been blamed for the Budapest fiasco. Even his capture of the chief Hungarian leader, Kusin, hadn’t been enough to stem his superiors’ wrath. Caught unprepared as their policies unraveled, the DGSE’s top brass had needed a convenient scapegoat. Someone high enough up the chain of command to be believable, but not powerful enough to turn the blame aside. They’d picked him.
So here he was, plucked out of disgrace for an assignment that required the appointment of a senior intelligence officer as a figurehead. Paris had shunted him off to Moscow with explicit orders to keep his mouth shut, his eyes open, and above all, to do nothing that might upset his Russian hosts. His instructions gave him permission to “liaise” with the Russian security services during the negotiations and nothing more. In short, the major knew he was supposed to be the perfect unobtrusive and inoffensive watchman.
Duroc locked his jaw against a sudden wave of anger. Very well, he would be a watchman. He would follow his orders to the letter. For now. And if he saw a chance to retrieve his reputation by breaking those rules? He shrugged inwardly. Then Paris and all its prissy bureaucrats could go hang.
Erin McKenna paused in the door to apply her name tag, eyeing the crowded reception hall ahead of her. It was a sea of tuxedos, dress uniforms, and evening gowns. Half of Moscow’s movers and shakers were inside, clustered around tables piled high with food, wine, and hard liquor. Music stands and chairs in one corner marked out the territory set aside for the big band the U.S. ambassador had engaged for tonight’s event. With the war heating up, America’s diplomats were spending more time trying to win the goodwill of the Russian political and military leadership — especially those who took their orders directly from Marshal Yuri Kaminov.
Hence this official “Gathering to Promote Peaceful Understanding Between the Great Peoples of the United States and the Russian Republic.” Yeah, right, she thought cynically. From what she’d seen since arriving in Moscow, Kaminov’s preferred method of achieving “peaceful understanding” was usually a bullet in the back of the skull.
Erin had been hoping that Alex Banich would come with her tonight, but he’d taken just one look at the guest list before shaking his head. “Too many of those guys already know me as Nikolai Ushenko.” He’d smiled wryly. “Why confuse them?”
His reasoning made sense, but it still robbed her of his company.
She circulated through the room, secretly enjoying the looks coming her way from the embassy staffers and guests alike. Prudence would have dictated wearing something drab and unnoticeable — anything in gray, perhaps. After all, as a suspected agent of the CIA she was basically a prisoner in the embassy and an embarrassment to the regular diplomatic functionaries. Under the circumstances, it might even have been more discreet not to show up at all. And for a time she’d seriously considered staying in her quarters, after all. But then a streak of defiance had surfaced. Why not, she’d thought, why not go out in a blaze of glory?
Glory in this context translated into a backless, emerald-green satin dress, high heels, emerald earrings, and upswept, elegantly styled hair. From the appreciative murmurs and discreet nudges she noticed in passing, it appeared she had achieved the effect she’d been aiming for. Undiplomatic, yes. Indiscreet, absolutely. But definitely stunning.
Erin took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to survey the crowd.
She found herself face-to-face with a tall, good-looking man in uniform. A Russian Army uniform. Her eyes flicked down to the name tag stuck above rows of service ribbons and decorations she couldn’t recognize: “Col. Valentin Soloviev.” The name was familiar. Then it clicked. This was the officer Alex called “Kaminov’s hit man.” Strange. He didn’t look at all the way she had pictured him.
Erin was suddenly aware Soloviev had been inspecting her just as closely. “You are Miss McKenna?” He smiled briefly. “They tell me you’re a spy.”
“And you’re Colonel Soloviev. They tell me you’re a tyrant.”
“We sound like a terrible pair, don’t we?” the Russian colonel said dryly. “I cannot imagine why either one of us received an invitation.”
Erin found herself smiling almost against her will. She laughed. “Neither can I, Colonel. Perhaps we’re supposed to cling together under a little black cloud.”
She’d never seen gray eyes twinkle before. “I can think of worse fates, Miss McKenna.”
Off behind them, the band began playing Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”
Soloviev half turned toward the music and then swiveled back. He held out a hand. “Would you care to dance?”
She surprised herself by nodding. “I’d love to.”
He led her through the crowd to relatively open air near the band. Two or three couples were already there, swaying and spinning in perfect time with the music. Erin noticed her colleagues’ eyes widening as she and the tall Russian officer passed by. It amused her. Devil or not, Soloviev seemed to have a born aristocrat’s disdain for petty convention. High-ranking members of Marshal Kaminov’s inner circle were very definitely
He was also a first-rate dancer.
As they slowly spun across the floor, he murmured in her ear, “I must say that you are a most unusual espionage agent, Miss McKenna. A refreshing change from the usual, pipe-smoking Ivy Leaguers we see here in Moscow.”
She laughed, imagining Banich with a pipe clenched between his teeth. He’d look absolutely ridiculous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I’m really just a boring commercial attache. The only spies I see here are those men practically padlocked to the drinks table.” She nodded toward a little knot of Russians eagerly downing the
