The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘Where are you two headed?’

  ‘The Mandarin Oriental, please,’ said Rabinovich.

  ‘Nice hotel. You in Boston long?’

  A chatty cab driver. That’s all we need, thought Rabinovich, her hand on Bartók’s leg. ‘Not long, just a short holiday.’

  ‘Where are you folks from?’

  Bartók cleared his throat but Rabinovich nudged him with her knee.

  ‘San Francisco,’ she said, ‘but we like the east coast too. Oh, look – there’s a Rolls-Royce Cornice. Some pretty well-heeled folks in this town. You been driving here long?’ Rabinovich asked, turning the conversation away from Denis and herself. It was highly unlikely that a cab driver in Boston was any threat, but she had absorbed every last minute of her training at the Institute in Moscow, and similar training with the Mossad. Amongst the many principles that the successful spy needed to keep as gospel, two stood out: hope for the best, but plan for the worst, and trust no one. No one.

  ‘Quite a few years now, ma’am. What do you have planned while you’re here, sir?’

  ‘We’re going to Harvard tomorrow,’ Rabinovich interjected smoothly. ‘There’s a tour you can do, I think. The undergrads will show you around. Is that right?’

  The FBI agent kept up his cheerful persona. Perhaps Bartók had his usual few too many, he thought. ‘That’s right, ma’am. You head over to Harvard Square and you’ll recognise the Harvard undergrads in their red shirts and straw hats.’

  Barrasso watched the two disappear into the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental. Apart from appearing to have traded his wife for a stunningly attractive younger model, there was something about Bartók’s silence that Barrasso couldn’t quite put his finger on. Bartók had virtually fallen into the back seat of the cab, so he either couldn’t handle his liquor or he’d had more than a few. But unless you were disorderly, or at the wheel of a vehicle, there was no crime in that, otherwise half of Congress would be behind bars. And there hadn’t been anything said that would point to other than a night out in Boston. Or had his companion ensured that the conversation was kept to the banal? Was there a hint of a Russian accent beneath that Californian vowel shift? Might be dancing at shadows, he thought, although he couldn’t fathom what an absolute stunner like her might have seen in a gangly nerd like Bartók.

  ‘Hey, pal . . . the Back Bar.’ Barrasso knew it well. It was a modern speakeasy in an alley off Union Square across the river in Somerville where cocktails were the bartender’s specialty.

  The fare staggered toward the cab. Middle-aged with a shirt hanging out over his beer gut, drunk, and with a scantily dressed hooker in tow.

  Barrasso locked the doors. ‘Sorry, pal,’ he said, pointing upward toward the extinguished roof light. ‘I’m finished for the night.’

  ‘What the fuck!’ his would-be fare swore, tugging on the rear doorhandle. ‘Waddyer mean yer finished? I wanna get to the fucking Back Bar!’

  ‘It’s an establishment with taste, Sir. I doubt they’d let you in,’ Barrasso said with a wink at the prostitute, and he eased the cab away, leaving the drunk waving his fist and shouting obscenities. Who’d drive a cab? Barrasso thought, as he headed back to his Boston office to file his report.

  ‘A drink before we head upstairs, Denis? The M Bar here is great,’ she said, leading the way to the Mandarin’s stylish lounge on the ground floor and the last two white padded chairs at the U-shaped bar. It was lit by oriental lamps suspended from the high ceiling and it was packed with well-to-do Bostonians and tourists. Rabinovich scanned the room while she waited for the barman. No one was taking the slightest notice of them. She picked up the drinks menu and then leaned toward her target. ‘I think you’d like the Mandarin Bison,’ she whispered seductively.

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Bartók. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘It’s a Żubrówka Bison Grass Vodka with a dash of St Germain cinnamon liqueur, lemon juice, rhubarb bitters and Absinthe Kubleer. I’m going to have the Afternoon Tea by Pavan.’

  ‘Afternoon tea?’

  ‘It would be a bit sweet for you, but it’s Mumm Rosé, Pavan liqueur and raspberry dust.’

  ‘One Mandarin Bison and an Afternoon Tea by Pavan,’ said the barman, placing the cocktails on the bar with a flourish. The Pavan had been served in a tall, stemmed glass the top of which was in the shape of a teacup.

  ‘Cheers, Denis. You’ve been such wonderful company tonight. I can’t remember if I’ve ever been to dinner with such a fascinating man. And dinner was just the appetiser.’

  A short while later, and as a precaution against her target falling over and drawing attention, Rabinovich linked her arm through Bartók’s and kept it there until they were back in her suite. She led him past the stylish walnut hall table, through the lounge room and into the bedroom.

  ‘I’m just going to get into something more comfortable,’ she said, guiding him toward the couch beside the king-size bed. Rabinovich disappeared into the bathroom. She checked in the mirror and shook her head. She rarely met men she was attracted to, but she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than get into bed with this one. Sighing, she reached for some lubricant in her toiletry bag and then emerged in a very short, black silk nightdress to find Bartók at the minibar.

  ‘Here, let me do that for you,’ she said, pouring him a Scotch and herself a mineral water. ‘Your energy discovery sounds very, very exciting, Denis,’ she said, after they had settled onto the couch. Rabinovich let her nightdress ride up over her knees. She spread her legs just slightly, giving Bartók a tantalising glimpse.

  ‘It is,’ he said thickly, staring between her legs.

  ‘But I’m fascinated. How have you done it? And you needn’t worry. Nothing will go past me. When it comes to your work, Denis, I’m like a steel trap. And I’ve checked for cameras and microphones,’ she whispered. And she had. ‘The room’s clean,’ she said, moving closer.

  ‘Are you familiar with the isotopes of hydrogen?’

  ‘Deuterium with a proton and an extra neutron, and tritium, with a proton and two extra neutrons.’

  ‘Yes!’ The glaze in Bartók’s eyes lifted momentarily. He was slurring now, but excited on more than one front.

  Rabinovich listened as Bartók unveiled an outline of what was contained in the Dragon compartment.

  ‘That is definitely a Nobel,’ she said, hiding her disappointment that the precise details of his experiments lay tantalisingly out of reach. She would, she realised, have to work a little harder and she slid onto the carpet and undid Bartók’s shoes. She loosened his belt, slipped his trousers off and then slowly worked her way up the inside of his thighs.

  ‘Ah . . .’ Bartók lurched toward her and clumsily groped for her breasts.

  ‘Slowly . . . slowly,’ she said. Bartók lolled back on the couch, his head swaying and Rabinovich began to stroke his erection. Any smaller and you’d be struggling to find it, she thought detachedly. She was about to take him in her mouth when she had to control her surprise.

  With a groan Bartók came all over her hand and then fell back onto the couch.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she said, pulling him to his feet and guiding him to one side of the bed. He fell on top of it, and she pulled the bedspread and sheets from under him and covered him.

  Rabinovich washed Bartók’s cum off her hands and shuddered, once again reminding herself it was for Russia. She turned on the shower and let it run while she slipped out of her nightdress and then she stood under the huge showerhead for an age, letting the warm water cleanse the evening.

  ‘Good morning!’

  Bartók woke to find Rabinovich sitting on the couch where he vaguely remembered being the night before. ‘Where . . . oh, yes. Good morning.’

  ‘Can I get you a coffee? We have a percolator. Black? White?’

  ‘White with two sugars, thank you,’ said Bartók, sitting up and shaking his head as if to clear it.

  ‘You were wonderful last night, Denis,’ Rabinovich
said, once she’d made the coffee.

  ‘Was I? That would make a nice change from Darlene,’ he said, still struggling to recall any details past being in the lobby bar.

  ‘The best lover I’ve ever had,’ Rabinovich whispered, stroking Bartók’s thigh through the sheets. ‘And your research. Truly, Denis, if you don’t get a Nobel for this, I’d be amazed.’

  ‘Research? I’m a bit hazy on what I might have said last night,’ he said. Suddenly, Bartók looked very worried.

  ‘We talked long into the night, my love. Quite apart from being wonderful in bed, your scientific research is absolutely world class. But as I said last night, nothing will go past me, not even to my client. Other than letting them know that in my judgement, you are arguably the hottest property in nuclear research, the details will remain with me.’

  ‘Do we have any Tylenol?’ Bartók asked, holding his head.

  ‘Yes, there’s some in the bathroom. I’ll get it for you.

  ‘My client will want to meet you, of course,’ she said, returning with a tumbler of water and two headache pills. ‘I’m going to suggest to them we do that when you’re at the conference in Paris. Have you ever been there?’

  Bartók shook his head.

  ‘Where are they putting you up?’

  ‘I’ll have to check, but it’s nowhere flash – Los Alamos is pretty tight when it comes to allowances and accommodation, unless you’re upper management,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You can cancel your accommodation and stay at the Ritz with me. They’ve just finished their renovations and it’s stunning.’

  ‘The Ritz? That must cost a fortune,’ said Bartók. ‘Who is your client again?’

  Rabinovich smiled disarmingly. ‘I told you last night. I’m under instructions not to disclose that until you and I have reached a preliminary agreement, but they are extremely wealthy and based in the Middle East; and yes, the Ritz isn’t cheap, but once I’ve briefed my client on who you are and the calibre of your work, you can expect the Ritz and a lot more. All they will want is proof of what you’ve done . . . a thumb drive,’ said Rabinovich, pushing for the precise details of Bartók’s research.

  ‘I don’t think I can do that, Lisa.’ Bartók looked confused.

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘For a start, there’s the problem of getting past the codes for download.’

  ‘As I said last night, Denis, the software I’ll provide you with is the most powerful code-breaking software in existence, and you will have to make sure that it doesn’t fall into anyone else’s hands. And then there’s a little matter of compensation for your efforts,’ Rabinovich persisted, continuing the attack on another of Bartók’s vulnerabilities. ‘My client will pay you somewhere in the region of five million dollars.’

  ‘Five million? That would be extraordinary.’ Bartók looked stunned. ‘That’s more than I’ve earned for the whole time I’ve been at the laboratory.’

  ‘I can assure you, that’s just the beginning, Denis. When you come on board at double your current salary, you will finally be free of the Magnusons of this world,’ she said, subtly turning up the pressure another notch.

  ‘And Darlene,’ he said. The bitterness was not very far from the surface.

  ‘Do you know what a Nobel is worth?’ Rabinovich asked.

  Bartók shook his head.

  ‘It varies,’ she said, determined to use every lever at her disposal to snare the physicist. ‘And it depends on the world economy and exchange rates. A year before his death in 1896, Alfred Nobel stipulated that his estate was to be invested in safe securities. The prize money depends on the income from those investments, and it’s distributed to those who are considered to have conferred the greatest benefit to mankind in physics, chemistry, medicine, literature and peace. Last year, you would have received 8 million Swedish Kronor, or over a million dollars US. But even that’s nothing compared to the extraordinary prestige you will have on the speakers’ circuit. You’ve finally hit the big time, Denis, and provided it suits you, we can be friends with benefits,’ she said, with a none-too-subtle forward movement.

  ‘I think I’m getting hard,’ Bartók replied huskily.

  ‘Time for that in Paris,’ said Rabinovich with a smile. ‘Lots of it. But in the meantime, I’ll need to equip you with a secure phone and the code-breaking software. All you need to do is get a copy of your research on that thumb drive and bring it to Paris. You don’t owe Magnuson and the rest of those bastards down in Los Alamos a damn thing. And at the very least, we need to make sure Magnuson doesn’t take the credit for this.’

  Bartók nodded, his mind reeling at the possibilities and the risks.

  Rabinovich again smiled seductively. ‘I’m looking forward to Paris,’ she said, fondling him above the sheets. ‘In the meantime, into the shower and I’ll get you to the airport.’

  Special Agent Barrasso watched as the valet brought the rental Corolla belonging to Lisa Cohen to the hotel entrance on Boylston Street. Barrasso had earlier shown his badge and introduced himself to the hotel manager. After he’d obtained Cohen’s details from her passport, the check on her movements had been relatively easy, although it had raised more questions than answers.

  Rabinovich tipped the valet and casually checked the street. Her adrenaline kicked in as she recognised the same cab driver who had dropped them the previous evening. She pulled out onto Boylston Street and when the empty cab pulled out after her, she reminded herself to remain calm as she considered her options. Both institutes – Moscow and the Mossad – had practised her in throwing a tail, and she waited until she drew level with a large furniture truck that was about to turn right. Rabinovich accelerated hard, pulled in front of the truck and turned right against the red light.

  ‘That was a red light!’ Bartók was already unnerved by their morning conversation.

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry, my mind must have been elsewhere,’ Rabinovich replied calmly, turning right, then left, then right again.

  ‘Fuck!’ Barrasso fumed, caught behind the truck obeying the traffic signal.

  Rabinovich followed her escort up to the Tel Aviv office of the Director of the Mossad. The flights from Boston to London and then to Tel Aviv had left her tired, but she was wary and she forced herself to stay alert. The demand from the Director of the Mossad that she present herself in his office immediately on arrival had been conveyed to her as soon as she stepped off El Al Flight 312 at Ben Gurion Airport. She’d been met by a Mossad operative and whisked through the VIP portal of customs and immigration to a waiting unmarked Mossad car. Rabinovich had racked her brain for anything she might have slipped up on to alert the Mossad, but in the end she couldn’t point to anything. And if they were suspicious, she told herself, the treatment would have been far different and far rougher. The Mossad’s reputation for dealing with spies and traitors was fearsome.

  ‘Have a seat, Lisa,’ said Amos Regev. He was at his urbane, diplomatic best but she was still wary.

  ‘How was the trip back?’

  Rabinovich rolled her eyes, giving Regev a wan smile.

  ‘Yes, of course. Stupid question really, but don’t worry, you will be given at least two days off,’ he said. Israeli agents were under the same pressure, and sometimes more than their counterparts in the CIA, MI6 and Russia’s equivalents, the GRU and the FSV.

  ‘I’m afraid long flights and lack of sleep is often part of the territory. Now,’ he said, reaching for the Bartók file, ‘I’ve read your reports with interest, but reports give the bare bones. Don’t get me wrong, yours were concise and to the point, but I need to put some meat on them. This Bartók – what’s he like? Is he stable?’

  Rabinovich collected her thoughts. ‘In a word, no. It depends on how much information you need, and how much time you’ve got,’ Rabinovich added, conscious that the head of one of the world’s busiest spy agencies would have Iran, Hezbollah and a disintegrating Middle East on his plate, not to mention a n
ew administration in Washington.

  ‘If what Bartók has indicated to you is true, right now, he’s the Mossad’s number one target. Unless the prime minister calls me, this is priority one.’

  Rabinovich nodded, more than well aware that the Mossad and Regev came under the direct control of the prime minister of Israel. ‘Is Bartók stable? It’s hard to be precise, and we would need a psychologist to be sure, but let me answer this way. He was convinced he was going to be confirmed as the top weapons development physicist in his country, and after years of acting in the job and making a groundbreaking discovery, he’s been told that appointment’s going to someone else. He’s discovered his wife’s cheating on him, and he’s drinking heavily, so stable? Barely. Angry? I would say furious at the hand he’s been dealt. Furious to the point where I think the bait we’ve dangled in front of him has his attention. He’s agreed to meet with me in Paris where, as I indicated in my report, he’s due to give a paper unrelated to his breakthrough in energy and weapons miniaturisation.’ The Israeli spy chief listened intently as she gave him the same outline Bartók had given her on his breakthrough. ‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to pry precise details from him, and in any case, we’d need his data to be able to replicate it, hence the thumb drive request.’

  Regev whistled. ‘Breathtaking. And he’s agreed to smuggle this thumb drive to Paris?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve dangled certain other attractions, for which you owe me.’

  For the first time in the short period she’d known him, Regev’s eyes twinkled and he smiled knowingly. There was clearly another side to this dedicated professional spy chief.

  ‘Yes, he doesn’t look as if he’d challenge Errol Flynn in the bedroom department, but you can consider that as part payment for our rescuing you from Petrov’s regime.’ The smile had vanished. ‘Now, as to your future employment. Given your success on this mission, and your professional dedication, we’ve decided to utilise your not inconsiderable background as a nuclear physicist.’