Now Erin could see why he’d been so insistent. Radio signals from her wire wouldn’t stand a chance of penetrating walls built to withstand cannon shot and siege engines. The exterior of the convent, which was founded in 1524, looked more like a fortress or prison than a place of worship. Some of the tsars had used it as a kind of gilded prison, she knew, a cage to hold noblewomen they considered too dangerous or too influential. She only hoped that wasn’t a bad omen for her.
Water sparkled close by, lit by the sun rising behind her. After looping around a collection of stadiums, arenas, and swimming pools originally expanded for the 1980 Summer Olympics, the Moscow River flowed north past the convent grounds.
Erin found Valentin Soloviev standing near the main entrance — an arched passageway flanked by thick columns. Dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt himself, the Russian colonel looked subtly different than he had in uniform, less rigid and slightly less imposing. He seemed to be watching a pair of bearded, somewhat bedraggled artists at work. Or were they plainclothes security men only pretending to be artists? Her steps faltered in sudden doubt.
She knew that the Novodevichy was a favorite subject and gathering place for Moscow’s street painters, but the gates were still shut this early in the morning. She slowed to a walk and drew closer. From what she could see of their easels, the two men were working on twin watercolors of the convent at sunrise. Their brushes moved in swift, sure strokes, laying down pale colors across white emptiness.
Erin felt a surge of relief as her first fears faded. Either the FIS had agents who were also gifted artists, or these guys were exactly what they appeared to be — starving students trying to squeeze out a few extra rubles by painting one of Moscow’s most famous landmarks.
Soloviev heard her footsteps and looked round. He smiled, but she noticed the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were still wary. When he spoke, he spoke in Russian. “You made it! I’m glad.”
She answered in the same language, consciously trying to damp down her American accent. “You sound surprised. Why?”
The colonel shrugged. “I thought you might be busy. I’m sure you have a great deal of work to do these days.” He glanced toward the two artists and nodded toward the street behind her. “Shall we run, then?”
She noticed he was being careful not to use any names. “Certainly. If you think you can keep up with me, that is.”
Soloviev smiled again, for real this time. He led the way out of the arched passage and turned right, heading toward the river. She matched his stride easily.
They ran in silence for a few minutes before swinging onto; a street that paralleled the river. The pale brown towers of the Ukraina Hotel rose in the distance. There were very few cars or trucks on the road. Gasoline rationing and restrictions on private use saw to that.
At last Erin couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “Well, Colonel? You’re calling the shots here. Why did you want to see me?”
Soloviev turned his head toward her and she could see amusement dancing in his gray eyes. He arched an eyebrow. “Do I need a reason, Miss McKenna? Beyond the simple desire for your company?”
“Yes, you do.” Erin knew that many men considered her attractive, but she couldn’t see a man like Soloviev risking his career for lust, or even for love. Besides, she suspected the handsome, aristocratic colonel didn’t have any trouble finding suitably beautiful Russian women to meet his needs — women who were considerably safer to pursue.
“Fair enough.” He nodded and his face grew more serious. “Very well, I have such a reason.”
She waited for him to go on, running steadily by his side.
Finally Soloviev seemed to come to a decision. Still running, he changed direction, turning into a small park below the convent’s western wall. A gravel path wound around two fishponds and a fragrant garden. He stopped beside a park bench and pivoted to face her squarely. “I know you have shown great trust in coming here this morning, Miss McKenna. After all, I could easily be some kind of
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Erin admitted.
“That is understandable.” The Russian officer shrugged. “Some of my countrymen have a deserved reputation for such trickery.
He looked closely at her. “But you must also understand how dangerous this is for me. If one word of what I tell you reaches the wrong ears…
He pulled one hand across his throat in a fast, slashing motion. His eyes were suddenly bleak. “This is not melodrama. I know that such things happen. I know it all too well.”
Erin felt her brain kick into overdrive. Smells, sights, and sounds were all magnified as her senses came fully alive. It was a familiar sensation — one she always felt whenever the critical clue to a particularly complicated puzzle came within her grasp. Oh, her fears were still there, she realized. Everything Soloviev was saying might still be window dressing, part of a plan orchestrated by Russian counterintelligence to entrap her. But her instincts said that was less and less likely.
She spread her hands. “I can only promise to do my best, Colonel.”
Some of the bleakness faded. “I can only accept that.” He sat down on the bench, facing the river.
Erin did the same thing, noticing the faint white blob that was Banich’s delivery van parked several blocks down the street. She hoped the wire was still working.
“The French want us to intervene against Poland,” Soloviev said abruptly. “They’ve sent a high-ranking delegation to negotiate directly with Marshal Kaminov and the rest of our Military Council.”
Erin shivered suddenly. Despite the sunlight, the day felt colder. Russian involvement in the war had been one of Washington’s nightmare scenarios from day one. Neither the United States or Great Britain could possibly ship troops into Poland fast enough to fend off the Franco-German attack from the west and a Russian avalanche from the east. She took a deep breath and asked, “Have Kaminov and the others agreed to this proposal?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. They want more than the French are offering to pay.” He sounded contemptuous of their mercenary motives.
“And what are the French offering?”
“Financial aid and technology transfers worth several billions of your dollars,” Soloviev told her.
“But that’s not enough?”
He shrugged. “No.” He hunched his shoulders and explained. “Kaminov knows that the longer he waits, the more important our aid becomes to Paris. In any event, it will take several days to move the additional forces we would need through Belarus and into position on the Polish border.”
Erin nodded. “So what does he want?”
“More money. More access to advanced military technologies. Co-equal status with France and Germany as a member of the Confederation.” The Russian colonel saved the worst news for last, “And a free hand against Ukraine, the Baltic States, Kazakhstan, and the other republics.”
His mouth tightened to a grim line as he spoke. “Many men of high rank in my country have never accepted the dismemberment of the old Soviet state, Miss McKenna. They long for the old days of empire.” His gaze turned inward., “No matter what price others must pay for
Erin sat numbed. The specter of a Europe held captive by France and Germany was awful enough. The prospect of that
She twisted her ponytail around and around her fingers, thinking hard. Something Soloviev had said, or rather had not said, seemed significant. “You keep mentioning the French. What about the Germans? Are they part of this?”
The colonel shook his head. “I don’t believe so. All the negotiators I’ve seen are Frenchmen and all the meetings are being held under the strictest security — at a dacha outside the city.” He smiled thinly. “I doubt the Germans have the faintest idea of what their ‘allies’ are up to.”
Interesting. That also made sense. The Germans were unlikely to welcome the notion of a resurgent Russia. But the French willingness to cut their supposed partner out of such an important effort spoke volumes about French arrogance or French desperation. Maybe a little bit of both, she decided.
A truck rumbled by on the street, calling Erin out of her reverie. Time was passing and Moscow was waking
