At least two people had attacked—he could tell from the angles of the blows. Blood was pouring from a gash near his ear, running into his eyes. He could see someone’s feet, and he kicked out without thinking, feeling the blow connect. The shock traveled up his leg.
He had to get out of this. He had to get out of it now.
They didn’t understand who they were dealing with here. His Green Beret training was kicking in—telling him to stand. It was very important, being upright. There was no way to fight properly from the ground. But a series of hammerlike blows were landing on him.
How many of them are there?
A sharp blow cracked against his shoulder, sending agony down his arm. His hand wouldn’t move. He was being hit with wooden clubs. This wasn’t a mugging; it was just a full-force beating. Pumped full of adrenaline, Tom got up on his knees, trying desperately to see his attackers. There were definitely three men—now that he was standing, he could see that they wore gray suits, black gloves, and black stockings pulled over their faces. He couldn’t tell if they were trying to kill him or not. Assassins wouldn’t do this—they used bullets. Were they taking him prisoner? What did they want? He couldn’t tell, and already he was feeling faint. The suit he wore was coming apart, the wedding ring in its box toppling to the dirty ground and rolling out of reach. No… !
He stretched his fingers out desperately for the ring, but dark spots were blooming before his eyes. The blows had stopped. The world was graying out.
Katia, Tom thought weakly.
Gloved hands grabbed Tom’s wrists and ankles. They picked him up. He was being carried somewhere by men barking orders at each other, but Tom couldn’t hear them through the ringing in his ears.
Where are they taking me?
They swung him back and forth. Then he went flying through the air. This is going to hurt, he thought dazedly. There was a muffled thud as he landed in a soft, wet pile of—what? He couldn’t tell.
Dumpster, Tom registered barely. I’m in a Dumpster.
He tried to move, but it was impossible. He was in way too much pain to think straight. To his relief, all sound began to fade as darkness rolled over him like black fog.
The Big Mistake
“WOULD THE LADY CARE FOR ANOTHER glass of wine?” the waiter asked.
“No—I’m fine, thank you,” Katia said.
She had never been to the Four Seasons before—
I don’t fit in here, she had thought, walking in. They can tell I don’t belong.
And it had felt like that at first. When the waiter pulled out her chair, it scraped the floor and made a loud noise, and Katia was convinced that the entire restaurant was staring at her.
But then after a few minutes—after the waiter brought a glass of the best Chablis she’d ever tasted—Katia felt a little less conspicuous.
So where is he? Katia thought after waiting ten minutes. Tom almost never made her wait. But then, Tom always told her what his plans were—or asked what she wanted to do. Tonight was different. Tonight he had created a bona fide mysterious evening. He had told her where to meet him and then smiled that maddening, beautiful smile and kissed her on the mouth.
She kept sipping her wine. She tried not to look at her watch too often. When she finally looked a second time, an hour and a half had passed.
At first she had just figured that Tom had been held up. It’s the job, she had told herself. It’s the subway. It’s a cab. It’s an accident ahead of him—the traffic is stalled.
It’s an accident and he’s in it.
Katia tried to pretend she hadn’t thought that. She stared straight ahead. Other couples were looking at her. They were pretending not to, but they were all glancing over. And who could blame them? It was obvious what was going on. A lady didn’t get all dressed up for dinner at one of New York’s most expensive, most elegant restaurants to dine alone. And even if she did, Katia thought, her annoyance growing, she would eat something, wouldn’t she? Rather than just sit by herself for more than an hour and a half, nursing a single glass of wine. No, it was painfully clear what was going on.
At a quarter to nine she’d had enough. He wasn’t coming. It was as simple as that. And it hurt. It hurt so much more than she would have expected it to. Because it reminded her of the first night at the Bitter End—the first time he’d stood her up. Of course that all had been explained to her, but the feeling, the emotion of being stood up, never went away.
She located the waiter—he was off to one side, pouring champagne for another table, some happy couple fawning over each other, which only made her more angry—and when she got his eye, she signaled for the check.
This wasn’t the way the evening was supposed to go, Katia thought as she pulled the balled-up dollar bills out of her purse. She checked to make sure she had enough, and the crumpling of the money seemed to attract everyone’s attention again. All she had was eighteen dollars, which she handed over, in full, to the waiter on his silver tray. Ten dollars for the drink, eight dollars’ tip to make up for monopolizing the table for so long.
Except for the two quarters in her purse, Katia was broke. She’d have to persuade her cab driver to wait for her while she went into the flower shop on the corner to persuade the proprietor or his daughter to lend her fifteen dollars for the fare.
The coat check lady handed Katia her coat, smiling sympathetically, and Katia had to force herself not to slap the woman in the face with her purse. Everyone was now staring. Yes, people. I’m the girl who was stood up. Get a good look. Be sure to catch the second show at midnight!
She stepped through the restaurant’s glass doors out into the cool night air and surveyed the crawling traffic on Fifth Avenue, trying to find an empty taxicab.
“Well, hello again, my lovely young friend,” an all-too-familiar, accented voice rasped behind her. Katia felt every muscle in her body recoil in revulsion. No, not just revulsion… fear.
“Don’t you look nice tonight,” the creepy voice said.
It was him. The troll-like, redheaded weasel. God, he really was following her.
This she hadn’t expected. She knew he was slimy. She knew he’d come to a few of her shows at The Bitter End, but she hadn’t known he was a full-fledged stalker.
And she hadn’t thought she’d ever find herself alone with him… on a virtually deserted street… at night.
“Get… get away from me,” Katia muttered, walking as quickly as possible.
“So rude,” he said, catching up with her as she walked.
“Please,” she uttered. “Please just—”
“‘Please’?” he interrupted. Katia could see how yellow and dirty his teeth were—he was close enough for her to notice his dry, pale skin and watery eyes.
Oh God, she prayed to herself silently. Please don’t let this be how I go. I left Russia to escape the men like this in my life. You can’t be that cruel, God.
She checked around her; there was nowhere to go. She wasn’t in a bookstore or a crowded bar. She was on a wide limestone plaza, in Midtown Manhattan, on a chilly spring night, with absolutely no one around. And she was wearing high heels—not exactly the best footwear for running away.
“Okay… look,” she said finally, with a crack in her voice that she quickly tried to cover. “Look, I’m… sure you’re… very nice. But I’m really not—I’m not interested. Please don’t bother me anymore.”
“Bother you?” The man smiled at her—and there was something very odd about the smile. “I have not bothered you. Not at all.”
Suddenly Katia noticed something. In the shadows, in the courtyard of the adjacent building, something was moving. It was a man—a man in a gray suit.
“If I wanted to bother you,” he told her, “I would need some help, I think.”
The gray-suited man was getting closer. For the first time since leaving the Four Seasons, Katia was afraid.
“Oh, you needn’t mind Boris,” he said, referring to the gray-suited man. His yellow teeth
caught the light as he smiled. He was close enough that she could smell his sour breath. “Boris is not going to hurt you—unless, of course, you make me angry.”
Katia’s heart raced.
“W—what do you want?” Katia was trying to keep her balance as she backed away from the man, but she was beginning to stumble. The other man was circling toward her, his arm slightly raised. The closer he got, the easier it was for Katia to see how big the man was, like the soldiers she’d seen in Leningrad as a girl.
“What do you think I want?” the man said, grinning. Right then Katia lost her balance on the smooth stones.
“Whoops! Watch your step,” said a familiar voice behind her.
Katia almost cried out in relief as strong hands caught her shoulders, helping her back on her feet. She’d never thought she could ever be so grateful to hear that wonderful, brave American voice.
“Are you all right?” Oliver asked, looking down at her. His face was full of genuine concern.
“Oliver—thank God,” Katia said. “Yes, I’m fine,” she told him gratefully.
Oliver nodded quickly and turned his eyes toward the redheaded weasel.
“Listen, why don’t you clear out of here?” Oliver told the man. “I don’t think the lady’s interested.”
Oliver had a strong, protective arm around Katia’s shoulders. She was leaning gratefully against him. “I’m sorry,” Oliver murmured to Katia, pressing gently on her shoulders. “I have to let go of you for a second, okay?”
Katia stood up straight. As Oliver stepped away from her, she happened to glance over at the man in the gray suit—and she caught a glimpse of something flashing. It was a bright glitter of steel. “He’s got a knife!” Katia screamed to Oliver. “Look out!”
Katia saw Oliver glance at her with a flick of his eyes to check if she had regained her balance. And then he stepped casually forward. His hands were at his sides. And she saw something in his eyes—something she never forgot.
In Oliver’s eyes, she saw no fear at all.
The man in the gray suit suddenly lunged at Oliver, leading with the oversized steel bowie knife. Katia heard the leather of his shoes sliding on the granite. And then something amazing happened.
Never in her entire life had Katia ever seen anyone move so fast. She watched incredulously as Oliver darted forward, reaching past the knife to grab the gray-suited man’s wrist. Somehow he pulled the knife hand downward while he elbowed the man’s gut and arched backward to kick him in the head. It barely registered that Oliver was even moving before it was over and the man was on the ground, unconscious. The knife clattered onto the granite at Oliver’s feet.
The weasel swung his arms around, his eyes widening, and then he lost his balance and fell on the plaza’s paving stones.
Katia hadn’t seen Oliver touch him—but he must have, she thought, because he was bleeding, and he’d fallen very heavily on the stones.
How could she have ever thought of Oliver as weak? Had she ever misperceived someone so completely? He had done something that would have been difficult or impossible for most Olympic athletes, and he had done it faster than her eyes could see.
“Are you all right?” Oliver asked, smiling shyly over at Katia.
He isn’t even winded, Katia noted. The weasel and his gray-suited accomplice were still lying on the pavement, practically in a heap.
“I’m fine,” Katia told him. “Thank you, Oliver. I just… I can’t believe your perfect timing. I really thought I was going to… well, thank God you were here.”
“What do you mean, ‘timing’?” He looked at her in genuine surprise. “Weren’t you expecting me?”
“What?”
“Tom invited me.” He was guiding her toward the wide, shallow steps on the side of the plaza, away from the two men lying on the pavement. “Show up for dessert at the Four Seasons. Didn’t he tell you?” Oliver looked around. “Where is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Katia yelled out, all her frustration and fear finally released. “I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for hours, and he didn’t even call. And if you hadn’t been here now, I probably would have been…”
And the tears finally came. She reached out for Oliver, pulling him against her. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking, as hard as she tried.
“Shhh,” Oliver said. “It’s okay.”
He pulled away from her and smiled—that humble, gentle smile that was so different from Tom’s brazen grin. “Are you sure you’re all right? You want me to take you home?”
“Well—” Katia was wiping her eyes, trying to put this whole miserable night behind her. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Oliver said. He was smiling again.
1983
How many times had he done this? How many evenings had ended right here, with the kiss on the cheek and the closing door?
Like Clockwork
“JUST PULL UP RIGHT HERE, DRIVER,” Oliver said.
He and Katia were in the backseat of a yellow taxicab, slowly driving down Jane Street. So far, everything had gone perfectly, Oliver thought. The First Principle was a very effective weapon. It had taken only a few weeks to get here—to be sitting next to her again.
He was being careful not to look at her. If he looked at her, he might lose his composure—and say the wrong thing. He couldn’t let that happen. He had worked too hard, and suffered too much, to get to where he was tonight.
First he had worked on winning Rodriguez back.
“Trust is easy to win—if you are willing to make sacrifices,” Nikolai had lectured him. “Begin with this Rodriguez. You will learn how easy it can be. You need only throw everything else away—your pride, your devotion to telling the truth, your faith in the goodness of other people. And once you are free of those weaknesses, you can win anyone’s trust.”
Oliver had carefully planned his approach—and then had gone into the CIA and spent forty minutes lying to Agent Rodriguez. He looked directly into the agent’s eyes, trying not to think about how much he detested him, and apologized for his outburst that horrible day, explaining how tense he had been and how sorry he was for losing his composure. Then he affirmed his deep, newfound commitment to robotics.
And it worked. Rodriguez had signed the transfer papers, smiling at Oliver in genuine relief. There was a small potential for setback when Oliver happened to glance down at Rodriguez’s desk, where he saw another transfer form. With a sudden stab of anger, reading upside down, Oliver saw that it read, Tom Moore, Senior Director, Coding and Encryption Division. It had taken a moment of furious effort to keep Rodriguez from seeing the rage on his face.
And he was getting better at that with each passing moment. Before he knew it, Rodriguez was welcoming him back to the CIA active duty roster.
“You see?” Nikolai had beamed at him in delight, cracking the seal on a fresh bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. “You can do it. You have won Rodriguez back—and your feet are firmly planted on the road to winning Katia back. The feeling of seeing the results with your own eyes, it’s exhilarating, no?”
It was.
Next he turned his attentions from Rodriguez to Tom—and the more he apologized, the more Tom responded with relief and sympathy, his concern and mistrust fading away. It was harder to play this role—Oliver had to make Tom forget the raging hatred spewing out of him the day of the meeting with Rodriguez. It was almost physically painful to endure Tom’s condescension as he shamelessly exploited their “brotherly” rapport to keep Oliver from noticing all the ways he was taking advantage of him. Oliver listened, almost trembling with frustration—and thought furiously about the “First Principle.” But each step closer to Tom was a step closer to Katia. Thinking that way, he could make himself do it. Imagining Katia’s soulful brown eyes and her long, soft hair, he could stare right back at Tom and not even blink.
And today it had all paid off. Tom called and invited Oliver to the Four Seasons for dessert with the happy cou
ple.
The evening’s tricks had succeeded. Nikolai’s henchmen had quickly neutralized Tom, according to their report on the transceiver. Later, Oliver’s fight with Boris and the move that had taken Nikolai down (which they had choreographed carefully to make sure Oliver didn’t hurt him too badly) went like clockwork.
There was just one unforeseen complication.
It was Katia. Oliver hadn’t been prepared for the effect of being near her again. She was just so beautiful. His first glimpse of her had taken his breath away. When he reached out and took her firm, bare shoulders in his hands, he wondered how he had possibly made it so long without being near her. And with each passing minute, as he summoned a cab to take her downtown, his desire for her grew.
And grew. When he opened the door to help Katia out of the taxicab, the slit in her skirt revealed her long, slim thighs for a moment. Then, as she took his hand, smiling at him, he nearly lost it.
“Thanks,” Katia said.
“What? Oh, don’t mention it,” Oliver said carelessly.
And now they were at the doorway. Katia’s doorway—the brown-painted wooden doorway with the brick steps leading up to it and the old fashioned brass lamps on either side. He remembered it well.
“Are you all right?” Oliver asked, his voice full of concern. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much better,” Katia said, still smiling at him. “Thanks, Oliver.” And she reached to squeeze his arm.
As Katia climbed the steps, Oliver followed. How many times had he done this? How many evenings had ended right here, with the kiss on the cheek and the closing door? And the long walk home, alone…
This would be the last time.
Katia opened her handbag and pulled out her key. She brushed her hair away from her face as she did it, and Oliver yearned to touch it himself. He imagined brushing it back and leaning to kiss her, really kiss her, for the first time. Her back was to him, and she couldn’t see him clench his eyes shut just for a second.
“Listen,” Katia said, turning to face him. “Do you want to come inside?”
Before Gaia Page 12
