“Don’t you want to see Madame?”
Kobalt looked him in the eye. He had an honest face, odd for an ex-whatever he’d been. Maybe that was his new hobby. “I’m working up the nerve.”
He gave her a knowing smile.
She cocked her head. “You know her?”
“I work for her. Have for a long time.”
“Even when you were in law enforcement?”
He laughed softly. “There is no law enforcement here.” He winked. “She and I go way back.” He kept polishing the bartop. He was about to turn away when he added, “If you know her at all you know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Which is why I’m here talking with you.”
“Ah, a strategy.” He gave her a sardonic look. “Good luck with that.” He moved away to gather up the shot glasses in front of the drunk businessman.
Time passed with the slowness of a clock running down. Kobalt could feel her heart beating through the sludge-like unreality of the moment. Her heart had risen into her throat, threatening to make her gag.
She realized she’d finished her third vodka. When she could no longer prolong the inevitable, she took her glass and the bottle by its long neck and crossed the room, slid into the banquette close enough to feel the other woman’s heat. Her signature scent of lime, cinnamon, and musk was exotic and at the same time familiar.
She filled both their glasses, using every ounce of concentration to keep her hand steady.
“For a dead person you’re looking mighty fine.” It was disconcerting to Kobalt to hear how rough and yet reedy her voice had become.
“I suppose that’s one way to say hello.” Lyudmila Alexeyevna Shokova took her time in responding.
“Another way would be, What the hell are you doing showing your face in public?”
The bartender arrived with a tray which held two coffees, a creamer, a container of sugar cubes, a pitcher of whole milk, two white china bowls, two spoons, and two individual boxes of Kellogg’s Special K cereal. Without saying a word the bartender set everything on the table and then returned to his place behind the bar, where he unfolded a newspaper and began to read.
“Special K.” Lyudmila tore open the top of one of the boxes. “My favorite breakfast.” She spilled the cereal into one of the bowls. She pointed to the other box. “And you?”
“I prefer to drink my breakfast.” Kobalt’s stomach was in knots.
“Spoken like a true Russian.” Lyudmila ripped open the second box, spilled that, too, into her bowl. She added milk, took a spoonful into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
“To answer your question, I’m not out in public. Zoltan is in charge of this room.” The slight incline of her head indicated the bartender. “I’m safe here.” She took another spoonful of Special K. “Safer than you, anyway.”
Kobalt’s brows knit together. “What the hell does that mean?”
The drunk businessman chose that moment to topple off his stool, puddle on the burgundy-and-teal carpet. Zoltan continued reading his newspaper. When the businessman began to snore, Zoltan made a call, possibly because he didn’t want the noise to disturb Madame. Moments later, a pair of burly men sporting the colors of the hotel entered the bar, picked the businessman up, and dragged him away.
Lyudmila took a sip of her coffee, set the cup down. She’d added no milk or sugar. “People are after your ass, Kobalt. Exceedingly serious people.”
“And you know this how? You’ve been out of the FSB loop for over a year.”
Lyudmila laughed her low, sultry laugh. “Zoltan told me.”
Kobalt was through with feeling her heart in her throat. “No wonder.” She’d rather have a knife in her side. “I have no doubt you’ve been fucking Zoltan, just like you’ve fucked every male superior on your way up the FSB ladder—all the way to the Politburo.”
Lyudmila’s expression was proof she hadn’t taken offense, at least on the outside. “In Russia, this is the only way to get anyone to pay attention to you. That is why you see only beautiful women in positions of power. I pity the ugly female; all she gets are scraps from the table—and a lowly table it is, at that.” Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “Of course, you being American would find this state of affairs deeply upsetting.”
“I’m not American. I’m Russian.” She found herself smiling with her jaw clamped firmly shut. “You said I drink like a Russian.”
“Or perhaps an American in Russian clothing.”
Kobalt was instantly on her guard. “What the hell does that mean?”
Lyudmila chose to dismiss her comment. “It’s only a matter of time for you, Kobalt. If you want to remain a vital part of Dima’s directorate, you’ll have to bed him.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
Lyudmila took another sip of coffee. “It’s not a pleasant experience, believe me. He is a man of, shall we say, unsavory tastes when it comes to his sexual proclivities. Consider yourself warned.”
“I’ve already taken steps to counter that.”
This appeared to surprise Lyudmila. “Is that so.” She put her elbows on the table. “I would so like to hear about it.”
Sure, Kobalt thought. Any minute now.
She felt dislocated in time, another surge of the unreality she experienced at the bar. The present dissolved into the past …
*
Three and a half years ago, she lands in Moscow at a military airfield ringed by high fences topped with coils of razor wire, after spending one disorienting day in Istanbul, mostly in a second-floor FSB safe house inside the Grand Bazaar, with one brief accompanied foray to a local café for a Turkish coffee. In the safe house, her ears are filled with the shouts, cries, and imprecations of vendors, which slowly resolve into a wall of sound which lulls her into a shallow, anxious sleep.
It is late at night when she arrives in Moscow, the promised land—somewhere between eleven and midnight. The taciturn handler who guided her through immigration in Istanbul and stayed with her all day, guides her along the tarmac to a gleaming Mercedes G-class SUV, but he does not get in with her. She is alone with an even more taciturn driver. She expects to be taken to another FSB safe house. She pictures a dacha, perhaps in the Moscow hills, painted red and black, snow piled on the pitched roof, surrounded by pines drowned in snow.
Instead she is taken into Moscow Center, to Lubyanka Square in the Meshchansky District. The enormous neo-baroque building looms up in front of her, home to the FSB and, below, to the infamous Lubyanka prison. Legend has it that the prison is like the Roach Motel—suspects go in, but they don’t come out. But of course they did, a handful, anyway; an old joke names Lubyanka as the tallest building in Moscow, since Siberia can be seen from its basement.
To her dismay, it is to the basement she is taken. It is so dark and silent down there she soon feels as if she is drowned. She is led into a room built of concrete. Apart from a metal table bolted to the bare concrete floor, two chairs, one on either side of it, and a shaded light hanging from the ceiling, there is nothing in the windowless room. A large drain is in the center, where the floor dips down. The concrete has dark and ominous stains around the drain. The room stinks of metal, blood, and fusel oil, overlaid with the lingering miasma of terror.
It is in this ghastly place where she first meets Lyudmila Alexeyevna Shokova. Apparently, it is Dima’s judgment that a female interrogator would be less intimidating than a male one. Or maybe utilizing Lyudmila this way was a cruel joke, since, as it turns out, she cannot imagine a male interrogator being anywhere near as intimidating as Lyudmila.
She sits at the far side of the table, reading a well-used hardback copy of Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons.
The door closes behind Bobbi and she sits in the opposing chair. The metal is cold and hard, and she shivers slightly. She waits for Lyudmila to look up from her reading. At some point, she wonders if she will wait forever, so she says, “I’ve had a long flight from America here. I’m ti
red and filthy and I’d like to go to my hotel room.”
After a moment, Lyudmila’s head comes up and she fixes Bobbi with her ice-blue eyes. Bobbi sees that even in this atrocious light this woman can effortlessly command a room. She is regal-looking. Bobbi can imagine her as a tsarina, facing down men who would block her ascent to power.
“‘Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late,’” she says in her deep enthralling contralto. “This is Turgenev’s opinion anyway.” She closes the book, slides it halfway between them, rests her folded arms on the table. “I would so like to hear if this is what has happened to you, Bobbi. Has your happiness come too late?”
“I don’t know,” Bobbi says truthfully. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“That is to be determined.” Lyudmila’s eyes narrow. “I imagine you’re wondering why Dima isn’t running this debriefing. He wasn’t allowed. When it comes to you, he can’t be relied upon to be objective.” Her hands are very still on the table, like small animals waiting for their chance to strike. “There are those among us who think you’re too good to be true: living inside the Beltway, married to a man who runs a conservative Super PAC. What could be more ideal?”
“And yet you decided to exfiltrate me.”
“What, we are thinking, if you are a double? What if the Americans got onto you and turned you? After all, they have your husband, your children.”
“They don’t do that sort of thing in America.”
Lyudmila ignores her snide remark. “What a coup for them, don’t you agree?”
Since the answer is obvious Bobbi decides no answer is necessary. The one thing necessary here, her gut tells her, is to keep her gaze locked with her interrogator’s. If she looks away, she suspects she may be here in the Lubyanka basement for longer than she wants.
“But on the other hand,” Lyudmila is saying, “we have your husband under constant surveillance.”
“Useless,” she says. “I hate him. His idea of sexual fun was to hit me in places that would never show.”
“Is that so?” Lyudmila cocks her head as if this is news to her. “Why then didn’t you leave him?”
“You know very well why. I couldn’t leave him because he was part of my cover. Divorce would have brought too much attention to me. I was explicitly told to keep as low a profile as possible.”
“Yes, you were. And you did. Admirably.” Lyudmila’s voice is perfectly neutral. “We needed to make sure where your loyalty lies. Ordering you to leave your family behind was the first step. This is the second.”
Her lips purse. “But your children.”
Bobbi leans forward. “Listen to me very carefully. I decided before they were born that I was fated to leave them behind.”
“Do you hate them?”
“They think I am dead. They are dead to me.”
“Yes, undying loyalty, Bobbi. This is what we ask of you. And in return we give you everything you want, and everything you need to carry out the assignments we expect you to complete.”
“Whatever is expected of me I swear I will carry out to the best of my abilities.”
For several endless moments Lyudmila sits perfectly still, her face a mask. At length, she nods, seemingly satisfied. “Come now.” She rises and, as if by magic, the door to the interrogation room opens. “Time to rest. A dacha in the Moscow hills has been arranged.” She raises a finger. “But never forget that you are on probation. Everything you say, every move you make will be scrutinized. Is this understood?”
*
The plush Belle Epoque interior of Le Pechêur swam back into focus. Zoltan was behind the bar, still reading his paper, but as she glanced at him, he looked up, engaged her eyes, and smiled. Lyudmila had finished her double portion of Special K. The scent of lime, cinnamon, and musk was dizzying, but it was preferable to that of metal, blood, fusel oil, and terror.
And yet fear was slowly but surely sucking the oxygen out of the room. Lyudmila was here in Odessa, at this hotel, on this day, at this ungodly hour—surely not a coincidence. Which means she’s keeping track of my movements, Kobalt thought. I’m once again in her sights. For the love of God why?
Think carefully now. Put one foot in front of the other slowly and thoughtfully.
Kobalt’s eyes glittered in the lamplight, but her hands below the table were trembling. Curling them into fists gave her the illusion of protection, at least. “‘If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.’”
“Turgenev.” When Lyudmila Alexeyevna Shokova smiled the entire room lit up. “You remembered. What a clever little vixen you are!”
“That answers your question about the steps I’ve taken to counter Dima.”
She considered Kobalt with her gaze. “Then you have begun.”
“I have.”
“With Zherov.”
“I have ensured his undying loyalty.”
“How did you manage that?” Lyudmila used the disconcerting tactic of turning a simple dialog into an interrogation.
“I offered him my trust.”
Lyudmila opened her eyes wide and laughed, a bell ringing in the clear dawn light of a mountainside. “You have learned. And learned well.”
Kobalt acknowledged the compliment with the faintest of nods. She needed to get her shoulders lowered from around her ears. She worked on this now.
“Who’s put the termination order out on me, Lyudmila?”
Instead of answering, in true Lyudmila style, she asked another question. “Did you ever find out who ratted you out to Omega?”
She shook her head. It took her a minute. “Do you think it’s the same person?”
Lyudmila shrugged. “It’s a thought.”
“And a good one. Zherov called in some favors, but everyone was too frightened to dig deeply enough to find out who wants me dead.”
The termination order was what had forced Lyudmila out of seclusion in order to help safeguard Kobalt, whose career trajectory was a vital part of her overall plan.
“One thing is for sure, Kobalt. Dima was a first stepping-stone for you. He is riddled with delusions of grandeur. I imagine he will try to make a move on Baev, but that dick will squash him like a bug under his boot sole. No, the further you distance yourself from Dima the better.”
“Then I have no one but Zherov.”
Lyudmila pushed her milky bowl away. “So. Like me.”
Kobalt was unsure of her meaning, but she knew she had to come at it obliquely. “I never did understand what happened with your career.”
Lyudmila called for more coffee and another drink for Kobalt. “Joseph had a coat of many colors that was coveted by his brethren. I have many secrets, all of which are coveted by my former brethren. Some of them were getting too close to discovering what they were. You and I were exfiltrated in precisely the same way. To the world at large, we’re dead.”
Zoltan appeared out of the kitchen, a tray held high. He took a step, opened his mouth to say something. A soft phutt! sounded from behind him, and he stumbled, the tray and its contents flying in all directions. Then he fell flat on his face. Two bullet holes blackened the middle of his upper back, like the flags of the victorious enemy.
30
KÖLN, GERMANY
“You drink like a Russian.”
Evan poured herself another vodka, raised it to Otto, who was standing at the stovetop, cooking them some food. “Za nashu druzjbu!”
Otto took a moment out from stirring the contents of a pan to raise her glass in response. “Yes, to our friendship.”
This was the third toast to Otto Evan had made. The first was “Za zdarovje!” To your health, the second, “Za vstrechu!” To our meeting.
For his part, Ben had not participated in any of the toasts. He was leaning against the frame of the open doorway into Otto’s small but well-stocked kitchen. This was a woman who liked food.
Otto had called an Uber to take them to her apartment acros
s town.
“Aren’t your feet cold?” Ben had asked Otto on the way over. Evan sensed the nasty edge to his voice and wondered if Otto picked up on it. She hoped not.
And possibly she didn’t because she smiled at Ben as she wriggled her bare toes. “With my childhood this is nothing, believe me.”
Evan suspected Ben wanted to snap, I don’t believe anything you say. But happily he kept his mouth shut. She wondered at his immediate antipathy to Otto, even though she had helped them out of a difficult situation and had been in as much danger as they had. She wondered at his absolute antipathy to Lyudmila, even though Otto had told them she had her entire network looking for Wendy and Michael. But then again Lyudmila was Russian, ex-FSB, ex-Politburo, and it seemed to make no difference to him that she had been purged from both those posts. That she had become a pariah within Russia made no impression on him. Perhaps he felt her precipitous fall from grace was dezinformatsiya that Evan had fallen for. Clearly, the fact that Evan was using her as a source enraged him. She wondered whether she’d ever be able to square that with him, or when this hunt for her niece and nephew was finished, they’d take separate paths. Right now, that was an outcome she preferred not to contemplate.
In the warmth and cozy comfort of Otto’s apartment, they had showered while Otto threw their clothes into the wash. In between shots of vodka, Evan was sewing up the back of the beautiful coat Isobel Lowe had generously given her where Blue Eyes’s knife had ripped it. Otto had offered to give her one of her own coats, but Evan, already in love with this one, declined, thanked her, and asked instead for needle and thread. The slash was a straight line, no problem, even for Evan who was no seamstress.
“Whatever you’ve prepared is making my mouth water,” Evan said as Otto brought the heavy pan to the table. Using a metal spatula, she delivered a third of the contents onto each of the three plates she had set out.
The Kobalt Dossier Page 21
