The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume One

by Lindsay Smith

  Nadia did not let herself tense, nor did she relax. That was not a threat. She took lovers; so did other officers. The material world demanded she satisfy material needs. That her lovers insisted, too often, on misinterpreting the nature of her needs, or theirs, was not her fault—but she did not relish KGB security’s involvement in her affairs. “My personal life does not interfere with my work. I have not always been fortunate enough to find partners who understood that I would not set them before the Party.”

  “You are not the first to experience such a problem.”

  Offering common cause? Backhandedly rejecting her excuse? Both? Neither? “I am glad to know I am not alone.”

  “You are not. I plan to commend you to my superiors.”

  Plan. So that was the nature of this conversation. Stick presented, and carrot. What direction do you want me to run, Comrade Komyetski? How high do you want me to step? “Thank you, sir.”

  Komyetski placed the pawn atop the blotter on his desk, and tilted it on its edge. “You have a talent for identifying loyalty among developmentals. I wonder if you might have a similar facility with identifying disloyalty among officers?”

  “I do not know what you mean, sir.”

  He rolled the pawn back and forth, wearing a small groove in the blotter. “You work closely with Comrade Morozova.”

  “I do.” Do not hesitate. Trust procedures, and plans, and discipline.

  “Have you noticed anything . . . erratic in her behavior?”

  “Erratic, sir?”

  “It is a word in the Russian language,” he said with an utter lack of expression. His eyes remained on the pawn. “Surely you have encountered it before.”

  “I do not think Morozova’s conduct is . . . erratic.”

  He released the pawn and looked up. “She is your superior. I appreciate your loyalty. But, Comrade, there are many levels of superior. I do not mean to suggest that I am suspicious of Comrade Morozova.”

  Of course not.

  “But her recruitment numbers are not improving at the expected pace. She seems distracted. She trusts you, as anyone would trust a model subordinate. I merely ask: If you learn of any way I could help her—if you learn the source of her discomfort, and share it with me, well.” He took the pawn in his palm, closed his fist, and opened it again, finger by finger, to reveal his hand was empty. “I could ease her pain.”

  “Thank you, Sasha,” she said. “I will tell you what I find.”

  “I’m so glad we understand one another,” Komyetski said. “That’s all, Comrade. Back to work for us both, alas. I look forward to your report, some other early morning.”

  “Thank you.” Nadia stood, and left. The knight, she saw on the way out the door, had forked a bishop and a rook.

  • • •

  Drahomir Milovic, assistant undersecretary for the Ministry of Economics, often took his tea in a small cafeteria down the street and around the block from the Ministry offices. This, Gabe knew. He knew Drahomir drank tea without milk or sugar. He knew that while Drahomir drank tea, he read a two-week-old copy of the London Times he brought to work in his valise. Gabe knew a great many things about Drahomir Milovic.

  He knew all these things because he had studied the man like any hunter would his prey—scouted and plied him, and prepared him for the shift, so subtle he might not even realize he’d shifted, from developmental to asset. Gabe cultivated Drahomir’s interest in American culture, and sold him the song of freedom. Drahomir did not need much convincing. He’d seen Soviet tanks roll through his city. He was not a fighter, or a fool. But he was a patriot.

  And Gabe had brought him to the pitch, and flubbed it. He’d suffered an attack at the wrong moment, and scared Drahomir off. He’d meant to wait, give the man time to cool, find a gentler way to approach him. But there was no more time to wait.

  Nor was there time to hide.

  He sat across from the man in the cafeteria, in full view of the street. “Hi, Drahomir.”

  The assistant undersecretary looked up, and his brown eyes widened. “Gabriel! I am glad to see you well.”

  “It’s good to see you too.” Gabe did not return his smile. A smile did not serve the mask he had to wear today. “We need to talk about that card game.”

  “My friend.” Drahomir leaned in. “Are you certain this is the right time?” The cafeteria was almost empty, but almost wasn’t enough: A cashier stood behind the register, an old woman slumped over her soup three booths down.

  “Let’s talk outside,” Gabe said. “Leave the tea. You’ll be back.”

  The streets were noisy, public. Traffic trundled past. Gabe took Drahomir by the arm and guided him down the sidewalk. “You know, or suspect, what I was going to ask you the last time we spoke. Who I work for. How you can help us.”

  “Gabriel.” Drahomir stopped. Gabe swung to face him. “I do not understand.”

  Gabe kept his voice level and low. “You do. But I want you to look like you don’t, like we’re arguing—about cards, say.”

  Drahomir reared back and raised his hands and cried, in Czech: “I do not believe you!”

  “Good.” Gabe stabbed his finger into Drahomir’s breastbone. Their faces were inches apart. “We need your help. We need you to work with us.”

  “You play a game with me, and you lose. And now you cry, and curse me!”

  “The Russians are abducting people, Drahomir. I followed a KGB operative last night; she stole a history student right out of her dorm. The student’s name was Andula Zlata.” He grabbed Drahomir’s lapels and pulled the man toward him. “Check your records. Zlata’s gone.”

  “Why?” Drahomir roared. Overdoing it, Gabe thought. Spittle flicked against his cheek.

  “I don’t know what they wanted with her, but she’s gone now. Your daughter’s in university, isn’t she?”

  “What can I do to be rid of you? The game was played and won, that should be the end of it.”

  “We need you, Drahomir. Your people need you.”

  Drahomir’s teeth flashed white and blood flushed his pale skin. He was breathing hard. But he nodded, too, once, clearly: Yes.

  “Look into it, Drahomir. See if I’m right. There’s only one catch: I can’t work with you anymore, not after contact in public like this. So I want you to do two things.” Gabe wrapped Drahomir in a wrestler’s hug, prelude to a throw. “If you want to work with us, wear a white flower to the Soviet ambassador’s birthday bash. Someone will contact you—not me. We can’t see one another again, after this.”

  “And second?”

  “Hit me. Now.”

  The man might have been stone for all he moved. His jacket smelled of mothballs and tea. Then he shoved Gabe back, and Gabe didn’t even have to fake surprise when Drahomir’s fist slammed into his face.

  He sat down hard on the concrete, blinking up into stars and sunlight and sky the color of cold steel.

  “That,” Drahomir said, “is what you get for accusing Drahomir Milovic of cheating at cards. Go, my friend. We are done.”

  No one helped Gabe to his feet, which was just as well.

  4.

  Drahomir packed a mean right hook. By the night of the ambassador’s birthday, the swelling around Gabe’s black eye had receded, but even with concealer he looked like he’d gone three rounds with Muhammad Ali.

  The ambassador’s birthday party, at least, was swank. Everyone who was anyone was there, and some who weren’t. Unseasonable flowers erupted from vases against the wall. The chandelier glittered. A quartet played something Gabe did not recognize. Apparatchiks and ambassadors’ wives glitzed across the parquet floor, leaving invisible trails of secrets and perfume. Zerena Pulnoc shone at the apex of a circle to which Gabe would never be admitted, which suited him just fine. Her husband, man of the hour, was nowhere to be seen.

  Embassy staffers clustered by a cold buffet, funneling caviar into their mouths; Gabe found a flute of a beverage that looked like champagne and tasted like battery acid, and s
ettled back beside the entrance to watch.

  “Prokofiev,” Josh said at his shoulder.

  “New guy?”

  “The music. You look horrible.”

  “After all the time I spent dressing up pretty for you? I’m hurt. You seen Milovic yet?”

  “I just arrived.” He tugged at a sleeve. Gabe would have felt naked wearing Josh’s slim-cut suit. No give in those soft gray checks. “Wait. There. Far wall, in the corner, by the roses.”

  Gabe let his eyes drift that way, under the pretense of following a girl’s long legs. There Drahomir stood, smoking, laughing too loud at some friend’s joke—Gabe recognized the friend, a Ministry coworker. A chrysanthemum bloomed in Drahomir’s lapel, a little white sunburst against the black. Gabe clinked glasses with Josh. “That’s our boy. Yours, now.”

  “Little Drahomir, all grown up. You’ll miss him?”

  “Something awful.” Six months of work handed off to a friend with a punch and a flower. “Try not to lose him too much money, okay?”

  “I meant to lose, that one time.”

  “Sure,” Gabe said, knowing it was true. “If you say so. Go on. Socialize.”

  “Cheers.” Josh grimaced down the last of his champagne, and marched onto the dance floor.

  Now, time to find Alestair.

  • • •

  One could not, more’s the pity, disregard an invitation to the ambassador’s birthday gala, not if one’s embassy cover indicated that one served as a cultural secretary, and especially not if one were already on fragile terms with one’s superior. So, while Tanya had hoped to spend the weekend locked in a closet with a stack of paperwork to catch up on the more infuriating and time-consuming demands of her position, her Saturday was instead spent preparing for an ambassadorial birthday party that the ambassador himself, to believe gossip, would not be attending. He was indisposed. But Zerena Pulnoc, gleaming doyenne of Prague’s diplomatic circle, would let nothing curtail her husband’s birthday bash, not even the man himself, sick and moaning in his suite. So Tanya armored like a knight with makeup and shoes and her finest dress, and when she could delay no more, proceeded to the ballroom for battle.

  She didn’t intend to stay long. Appear, be seen, and retreat to fight another day. She swanned into the chandelier-lit duck pond of the party, and danced a turn with a young embassy security sergeant who looked less gawky in dress uniform. Smiling, she thanked him for the dance and turned away, hoping to find Nadia and an exit.

  A tower of diamonds and blue silk blocked her path: Zerena Pulnoc, divested for once of hangers-on and junior acolytes, tall and sharp and thin, with a smile bright as knives and about as gentle. “Tanya Morozova! Dear.” She held out her hand. “Such a pleasure to see you.” They embraced, and Zerena kissed her on the cheeks. “I feel ashamed for having taken so little time to talk with you these last few weeks. You poor girl, you look exhausted.”

  Tanya tried to sound . . . buoyant. “Zerena,” she said, because the ambassador’s wife had insisted on this point, refused to let herself be addressed with any honorific, even Comrade, which might have been an affectation had it not seemed so precisely calculated. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine, really—but what about you? The strain must be terrible, your husband falling ill so suddenly.” The concern sounded forced, even to her.

  If Zerena noticed, she seemed not to care: “Oh, dear Andrei will be well. He’s so noble, you know, if I may use that word—he wouldn’t dream of disappointing his friends by canceling the gala. I admire that—let’s call it courage, in the Russian spirit. You have more than a little of it yourself, Tanya. Working late hours, eager and determined. I hardly expected to see you last week at my little Youth League soiree, though I suppose Sasha must prod his grubby fingers into every pie.” She chuckled, and Tanya looked for an escape. “Not,” Zerena said, with sudden horror, “to suggest you were grubbing. Your presence was an unanticipated delight. Did you attend for pure business, or dare I hope you enjoyed the affair? Might we see you again?”

  “I always find Communist youth leagues charming.” Had Zerena seen her with Andula at the lecture? Did she know Andula had disappeared? Was she threatening something?

  “Your use of charming suggests that we entranced you somehow. Please, tell me: Have you met someone?” Zerena laid a hand on Tanya’s arm. “I wouldn’t blame you. Some of the young men are so dashing, full of zeal and fervor. Did anyone catch your eye in particular? I could arrange an introduction.”

  The door was only ten feet away. If she threw Zerena back she could make it in thirty seconds, having added mortally offending the ambassador’s wife to her recent list of tradecraft successes.

  She heard a familiar scream, and a fountain of curses. Turning, she saw Nadia dripping wet with champagne and ringed in broken glass, berating an apologetic waiter with air-burning Russian that the young man, fortunately, could not quite follow. “Excuse me,” she murmured to Zerena, and whisked to Nadia’s side. “Are you all right?”

  Nadia glared at the waiter with an expression that promised swift and certain harm, and waved him away. Tanya grabbed a fistful of napkins from the buffet table and mopped her friend’s shoulders clean. “What are you staring at?” Nadia growled to the dancers who’d stopped to look. They quickly discovered interests elsewhere.

  “Thank you,” Tanya whispered as she tried unsuccessfully to sop wine off the front of Nadia’s red dress. “Come on,” she said loud enough to be overheard. “Don’t worry about it. You can change.”

  “My pleasure,” Nadia said into her ear. “Sasha asked me to inform on you—can you believe that?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Why, yes, of course.” She clapped Tanya across the shoulder; her hand was sticky with champagne. “You’ll be a model Soviet citizen by the time I’m done with you. Hope you have room left on your jacket for the Order of Lenin.”

  • • •

  Josh did not watch Drahomir Milovic work his way around the party’s edge. If you watched someone, people could see you watching. He just waited, and stayed aware.

  He wasn’t nervous. Nerves happened to other people. They tightened when you’d rather they didn’t, like when you were ready to take responsibility for a high-profile source, to run an agent more important than any you’d ever run before, after spending most of your career as a desk jockey analyst. Situations like that.

  For example.

  He was certainly not sweating. He gulped fake champagne that wasn’t even trying too hard. And, when Drahomir was about to pass in front of him, he stepped forward and struck the man in his shoulder. Drahomir reeled back, and Josh caught him before he stumbled onto the dance floor. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Here.”

  “Pardon me.” Drahomir’s eyes narrowed. He recognized Josh, but didn’t know how to play it. “I believe I know you from somewhere.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Josh said. “Your boutonniere’s crooked.” He adjusted the flower. “It’s a nice flower, if a bit crushed. Here, let me make it up to you—a drink, perhaps?”

  “Tonight?” Milovic laughed a little too loudly. “I don’t think you need to buy me a drink.”

  “Sometime it would count, then.”

  “I see,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  And that was that. So much stress, for such a little thing.

  Milovic moved on, and left Josh strung out, unattached as any civilian. But the wine was bad, the dancing didn’t interest him, and the Soviet army uniforms were a bit of a turn-off, all things considered. He could appreciate the caviar, at least.

  Back he leaned against the buffet table, munching caviar and crackers, when a cry made him glance left—to a young woman with dark hair and broad shoulders, standing beside an earnest, fumbling blonde. And he knew them both.

  He turned his head so he could see them out of the corner of his eye. Morozova and the decoy, working together. Distinguishing features? Hair could change color and length. Focus on jawlin
e, carriage, musculature, height. Everything he needed to add the new girl to the Audubon Book o’ Spies.

  “Fascinating night, isn’t it, though?”

  Josh realized that as he’d tried to watch the Russians without watching them, he’d ended up staring at someone else. And what a someone: a beautiful edge of a man, blonde and lean and very British, his pedigree obvious even without that accent. He carried a martini glass, one hand in his pocket; his body described a gentle arc from feet through spine. “I didn’t mean to stare,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s quite all right if you were. I was referring to the evening overall.” The man smiled as easily as he seemed to do everything else. “Alestair Winthrop.”

  “Josh,” he said, and then “Toms,” remembering that last names existed, and shook hands. “You’re English?” seemed the dumbest thing possible to say under the present circumstances, so of course he said that.

  “A humble subject of Her Majesty,” Winthrop said. “Cast upon these distant shores like Viola on the seacoast.”

  “We’re a bit north for Illyria.”

  Winthrop smiled. “You’re not a sailor?”

  “No.”

  “You’d be surprised how far a good storm can carry one.” The Englishman’s grip loosed, and Josh realized he’d held the handshake too long. “I’ve been posted to Her Majesty’s embassy for three years, a pleasant length of time—long enough to grow accustomed to the weather, not so long for the post to lose its charm. You’re new to the area, I take it—you’ll forgive me, but I have an excellent memory for faces.”

  “A year last December,” Josh said. His chest felt tight.

  “That long?”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  “I hope you’ll remedy that in the future. Zerena throws a fantastic party, but at the very least you owe it to yourself to attend a function that serves better swill than the Russian stuff.”