Just then his cell rang. He prayed that it would be Gwyneth and the promise of a pleasant evening. Unfortunately, it was Zhanna Khrenkov’s somewhat harsh voice.
Without preamble, she said:
“I’ll meet you for dinner at the Dorchester’s Chinese restaurant. It’s in the back on the left, opposite the bar.”
Chapter 10
Compared to Lynn Marsh, Zhanna Khrenkov was a frump. She had her hair in a bun and no makeup on. In ballet flats, she looked even shorter than usual. When Malko thought of Lynn’s sophisticated beauty, he could understand Alexei’s infidelity.
Zhanna had chosen their meeting site well. The China Tang was at the end of the hall downstairs, and not easy to find. The dining room, with its tasteful Asian décor, was empty.
She had arrived before him, and was seated in a dark alcove where they wouldn’t be seen.
When they’d ordered, Zhanna shot him an amused look.
“Your friends are taking me seriously, aren’t they?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Have they accepted my offer?”
Malko had to admit she certainly had nerve.
“We’re not there yet,” answered Malko carefully. “I passed on your proposal, that’s all.”
“So?”
“The Agency isn’t convinced your network actually exists.”
Zhanna waited until the waitress set out their bowls of soup, then remarked caustically:
“But they sort of believe it.”
“These aren’t people who act on hunches, Zhanna. They need proof that the network exists. And if you don’t provide it, our involvement ends now.”
Malko sampled his crab and asparagus soup. The restaurant’s setting was none too cheerful, but the food was delicious.
Zhanna savored her hot and sour soup without looking at him. Then she put down her porcelain spoon and asked:
“What do they need as proof?”
“A few names.”
Her look was cold, almost hostile.
“Malko, please. You keep treating me like a ninny. People don’t show their cards ahead of time in this business. You just have to believe me. I’ll say only this: a dozen swallows are now operating in the United States. And two of them have made judicious marriages that put them in a position to learn information of great interest to the Russian government.”
“Get serious, Zhanna! Do you expect the Agency to start examining every questionable marriage between a Russian and an influential American?”
Malko dug into his lemon chicken and Zhanna her spring rolls. Neither spoke until they had finished their entrees and drunk the last of the tea.
Malko called for the check. He was annoyed at having stood Alexandra up for nothing. It was only when he was putting his American Express card away that Zhanna spoke again.
“Does the name Rem Tolkachev mean anything to you?”
He looked up in surprise.
“No, why?”
Zhanna looked at him almost scornfully.
“He’s the man who created the network,” she whispered. “On Vladimir Putin’s direct order, to make up for the SVR’s incompetence.”
She seemed irritated, and Malko sensed she wasn’t trying to mislead him.
“All right, tell me more. What agency is he with?”
Zhanna shook her head.
“That’s all I’m going to say. Give your friends that name, and if they’re interested, come see me again.”
With that, she grabbed her purse and strode briskly out the door. Malko didn’t try to catch up with her. When he left in turn, the waitress gave him a sympathetic smile, sure she had just witnessed a lovers’ quarrel.
—
Alexei Khrenkov’s face lit up when he saw Lynn Marsh standing in the restaurant door. The Park Terrace was on the top floor of the Royal Garden Hotel on Kensington High Street. A very British place where Khrenkov wasn’t likely to run into anyone he knew.
Smiling brightly, Lynn walked toward his table. She was wearing a Chanel-style black-and-white wool jacket, a tight black skirt and stockings, and a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes that Khrenkov had bought for her.
She stepped into his arms, and they hugged for a few moments under the other diners’ discreet stares. Such public displays of affection were rare in such a conservative place.
Khrenkov led her to the table and sat her down without releasing her hand.
“God, you’re beautiful!” he murmured, unable to take his eyes off her.
“I missed you,” she said simply.
When the waiter came for their order, they both opted for filet of sole, the safest choice among the menu’s dangerously “British” entrees.
“When did you get in?” she asked.
“This morning. I stopped by the apartment to drop off my things, then I went to the office.”
“Did you see her?”
“No. She was sleeping.”
Khrenkov gazed at her, mesmerized. Lynn was so beautiful, he thought, her eyes so full of life.
“I want you very badly,” he whispered.
“I’ve arranged things with my office mate,” she said with a secret smile. “My first patient isn’t until five o’clock.”
“That’s wonderful. I reserved us a suite here.”
Lynn gave him a playful smile.
“We could have eaten lunch upstairs.”
—
Richard Spicer reread the short message he was about to send to Langley. It mentioned Rem Tolkachev, the name Zhanna had provided as proof of her claim. It hadn’t rung a bell with Spicer, either.
“I’m sending the information encrypted to Irving,” said the CIA station chief. “For the time being there’s nothing to do but wait. When will you see Mrs. Khrenkov again?”
“I’m to leave her a message at the Dorchester Spa.”
Spicer gave him a searching look.
“What do you think of her story?” he asked.
“There’s something to it, but it’ll be tough to cut a deal. Zhanna obviously won’t hand over the network for nothing, assuming there is one. Let’s see what Langley has to say.”
“Care to have dinner tonight?” asked Spicer.
“Thanks, but I already have an engagement.”
Malko didn’t say that it was with Gwyneth Robertson, the former case officer. Having left the CIA, Gwyneth was now a highly paid partner in a think tank. She was also a world-class slut. For Gwyneth, having sex was as natural as brushing her teeth, and she did it with a class you couldn’t help but admire.
—
Khrenkov slipped the magnetic card into the lock. When the green light blinked, he opened the door, revealing a large living room.
“It’s huge!” Lynn exclaimed.
She didn’t get much time to admire the spacious suite, however. Khrenkov already had hold of her, shoving his hips against her and grabbing at her breasts.
“Jesus, you’re an animal!” she cried with a smile. Specifically, a ram in heat.
Pressed against her, Khrenkov could feel a monstrous erection rapidly rising. Unable to ignore it, Lynn turned around and started passionately kissing him.
Panting, Khrenkov fumbled under her skirt, reached to the top of a stocking to find naked flesh. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose, for which he mentally thanked her.
Yanking his zipper down so hard it nearly ripped, Khrenkov liberated a cock that was already pointed at the ceiling. Lynn promptly grabbed and started stroking him, but he stopped her.
“No, don’t!” he grunted. “You’ll make me come!”
He dragged her into the bedroom. Lynn sat down gracefully on the bed but was given no time to undress. Before she could even take off her Chanel jacket, Khrenkov was already tipping her backward.
Having shoved up Lynn’s skirt, he pulled her black nylon panties down her legs—they wound up dangling from an ankle—and fell onto her with a groan of delight, roughly parting her legs with his knee.
“Go easy, darling!” she begged.
Khrenkov was already inside her, and she gave a little cry when she felt him plumbing her depths, trying to go even deeper.
Now he was on his knees, pants halfway down his legs, and thudding at her like a woodcutter. Like her, he was still wearing his jacket. As if to spread her even wider, he pinned her legs under his muscular thighs and pressed them into the bedclothes.
His mouth crushing hers, their teeth bumping, he pounded away. Lynn was barely aware of his two-hundred-odd pounds of muscle. Though Khrenkov didn’t seem to notice, her cunt had begun to stream like a fountain. The rough sex had triggered an irresistible orgasm that went on and on under the battering. She wrapped her arms tightly around his back, holding him tight, and screamed with pleasure.
Turning her head, she caught a glimpse of them reflected in the wardrobe mirror. Her skirt was up around her waist, revealing a strip of pale skin above her stockings. The sight excited her even more. If she could move, she would have raised her hips to take her lover in even deeper, but he’d flattened her like a pancake.
Suddenly Khrenkov froze, as if struck by lightning. Lynn felt the rush of his orgasm fill her and she cried out again. He slumped down, his mouth against her neck. After a long moment, he pulled away, muttering a few words in Russian, and rolled onto his back, his cock still proudly erect.
Completely shameless.
In a daze, Lynn closed her thighs, got rid of her black skirt, and stumbled to the bathroom.
Before meeting Alexei, she had never made love with such violence and intensity. As she stripped off her stained clothes, she couldn’t help wondering whether he had ever made love this way to his wife, in the old days.
—
Zhanna Khrenkov stood at the window smoking a cigarette and gazing across Grosvenor Place to the leafy Buckingham Palace grounds. Tourists were making their way along the razor-wire-topped fence to admire the lake and the back of the palace. If they were looking for the famous, much-photographed changing of the guard, they were out of luck, because it was around on the other side.
Zhanna was feeling dissatisfied with her meeting with Malko. There wasn’t much more she could do in negotiating with the CIA, but thinking about it now, her idea seemed completely crazy.
She knew she was taking—and making Alexei take—a huge risk. Even if by some miracle her ploy succeeded, they would have the Kremlin on their heels, with all the menace that entailed.
Vladimir Putin would never forgive them. If there was one kind of person he hated, it was a traitor. He never made peace with them. His former ally Boris Berezovsky had left Russia a decade earlier, but the master of the Kremlin still dreamed of killing him.
Zhanna stubbed her cigarette out in an Hermès ashtray and walked into Alexei’s bedroom. His luggage had barely been opened. Irina, the Moldovan maid, gave her a polite smile as she unpacked the bags.
Zhanna had only pretended to be asleep when he’d arrived from New York, so as not to force him to lie. She knew Alexei would be with that bitch, and was probably making love to her right now.
With the same energy he once brought to having sex with her, light-years ago.
His extraordinary sexual power was what had first attracted her to him. Zhanna wasn’t a particularly sensual woman, but Alexei could have awakened a corpse. And she was sure he retained that same sexual energy now, twenty years later, when he hardly ever touched her anymore. Just imagining him sprawled on top of her rival, plowing her with his huge cock, gave her a sharp pain in the belly.
It felt like appendicitis.
But it was only hatred.
She suddenly started to pray that the CIA would accept her offer, in spite of the risks it entailed. She was cheered by the image of Lynn Marsh lying cold and dead in the metal drawer of some morgue. With Zhanna’s steely will, she would succeed. Because she wasn’t blowing smoke. If she could tell the Americans the truth about the lastochkas network, she would have them eating out of her hand.
—
Lynn emerged from the bathroom looking pink and fresh. She had taken a shower and dabbed on some perfume, then knotted a bath towel over her chest.
Khrenkov was still sprawled on the bed. He had taken off his coat and tie and unbuttoned his shirt. But he hadn’t zipped up his pants, and his thick cock lay curved on his thigh. Seeing Lynn, he gave her a radiant smile and stretched out his arms.
“Dushka! Come here, quick. I miss you already.”
Lynn approached the bed. The moment she was within reach, Alexei tore off the towel, then pulled her in tight and covered her with kisses.
She pretended to struggle, which increased his excitement. Moving her aside, he displayed his stiffening cock.
“Give me some help!” he whispered, taking Lynn’s neck and pushing her head down.
“Wait! I’m going to draw the curtains!” she said, trying to free herself.
But her British modesty wasn’t to Khrenkov’s taste. With an iron grip, he forced Lynn’s face down to his crotch. His cock quickly swelled, becoming too big for her mouth. Anyway, he’d never been a big fan of blow jobs, feeling that a man in love didn’t need one to get a hard-on.
He stood up and pulled his shirt off—popping several buttons in the process—to reveal a muscular, hairy chest. Then he wriggled out of his pants and shoes.
Standing near the bed, Khrenkov gazed down at his mistress. While he was getting undressed, his erection had drooped a bit. Now he came close, holding his cock in his left hand, and presented it to her. This time he didn’t have to use force; she wanted him again.
“Turn around,” he ordered after a few moments.
Lynn obeyed, her face and chest down and her rump raised. When Khrenkov approached, he realized he was at just the right height. Without the slightest effort his cock parted Lynn’s folds and, with a little push, entered her. He closed his large hands around her hips and shoved, sinking all the way in.
Feeling skewered, Lynn gave a shout. Alexei was already moving in and out, using all his strength. He gradually forced her down to the bed, where she lay prone. With a growl of irritation he grabbed a pillow and slipped it under her belly. When he penetrated her again, it was as forcefully as before. Leaning on his forearms, he plunged in and out almost vertically, as if doing push-ups.
Lynn moaned, torn between pain and incredible excitement. She had never experienced anything like it.
“Please come!” she begged him, feeling as if her pussy were being punished.
“I love how tight you hold me,” muttered Alexei.
In a moment, he came inside her for the second time.
Later, he got up to light a cigarette. Lynn hated cigarette smoke, but she said nothing, trying not to breathe.
Now sated, Khrenkov turned and put his hand on her bare breast, as if taking possession of it.
“Was the evening at Christie’s fun?” he asked.
“I wish you’d been there.”
“So do I. Did you behave yourself?”
“How can you ask me that?” she snapped. “I called you a half hour later.”
Alexei gave her a teasing smile.
“Yes, but on your cell phone. You might’ve been anywhere.”
Seeing Lynn’s outraged expression, Alexei leaned close and kissed her nipple.
“I’m joking!” he said. “I know you’re faithful. Were your tablemates pleasant company, at least?”
“A Kazakh millionaire and an Austrian prince. He invited me to Annabel’s afterward, but of course I said no.”
“Did you see him again after that?”
Lynn opened her mouth to say yes, but closed it.
That was something you couldn’t admit to a man as distrustful as Alexei Khrenkov, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong.
“No, of course not.”
Under Alexei’s fingers, his mistress’s skin suddenly felt cold. He remained perfectl
y calm, but he wanted to scream.
Thanks to the surveillance team, he knew she was lying.
She was hiding the fact that she had seen Malko Linge again, one of the CIA’s most dangerous agents. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and it had the most serious possible implications.
Alexei would have to protect the swallows at any price.
Torn between fury and anguish, he turned to look at Lynn Marsh’s perfect profile. He knew he should probably strangle her on the spot but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He would have to try something different.
Chapter 11
Malko woke up in a bad mood. First, because the weather was lousy. What the British sarcastically call “liquid sunshine” was coming down in sheets. Second, because Gwyneth Robertson had stood him up the night before, though not deliberately. A wildcat strike at Air France grounded her flight, and she couldn’t make it to London to have dinner with him. Malko was reduced to eating alone in the Lanesborough dining room.
He was getting sick and tired of London. The more he thought about it, the more far-fetched Zhanna Khrenkov’s offer seemed. You don’t trade a whole spy ring for a dead rival. Besides, there were plenty of killers for hire available in Russia. Unless something much more devious was going on.
To kill time, Malko went window shopping, wandering past the many luxury boutiques on Old Bond Street. He wound up having lunch in the Grill Room at the Connaught.
Over coffee, he phoned Richard Spicer.
The CIA station chief had news.
“We have a conference call scheduled for three this afternoon,” he said. “I was about to ring you.”
“Who’s it with?” asked Malko.
“The person you met here the other day. That’s all I can say now.”
Malko still had half an hour to spare, so he decided to walk to Grosvenor Square. His mood hadn’t improved by the time he reached the American embassy. But Spicer, possibly from the effects of a liquid lunch, seemed quite cheerful.
“Come with me to the yellow submarine,” he said. “By the way, your friend Sir George Cornwell learned you’re in London and is surprised not to have heard from you.”
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