by M. L. Huie
Kostin stood in the center of the room. “It’s quite large. There are four bedrooms on the second floor,” he said, pointing to a landing that overlooked the living room. “A full kitchen, of course, down here, and then the downstairs area. But you will have it all to yourself for a few days.”
Livy turned to him. She hadn’t expected this. “To myself? Well, it’s a lovely prison, but I think I prefer freedom.” This quip had more bite.
“Livy, it was dangerous for you to be at the hotel all alone,” he said.
The Russian moved closer to her. The lure of sex lingered between them. It had always been there. But now it had the added whiff of desperation about it. It was all over Kostin. She saw it in the quickness of his stride, the lines under his eyes. She saw it in the way he looked at her. Sensed his desire in the way he put his hands on her shoulders. She could encourage it. Pull him further in. But she decided to make him wait.
She said, “I thought you took care of the danger last night.”
Kostin stepped back, the moment broken. The memory flashed across his face. “Gennady was well liked by many people. In Moscow too. He used to brag he had watched movies with Comrade Stalin. American cowboy films. So, the situation is difficult, but we can make it work.”
A part of Livy wanted to kiss him. This man—this violent man—was her touchstone now. Yet to her he was something different. The intimacy of it might calm her, she thought. Might help her stop thinking about where the liquor cabinet was in the house. Might help her think more clearly.
But then she remembered something Anka had said: “You walk into the shadows, my dear. You can lose yourself in there.”
Livy knew exactly what she meant now. For better or worse, she had crossed over into Soviet territory. This big house and all its comforts hid a far darker purpose. She felt like she’d stepped into the International Departures Lounge, next stop Moscow. They had her now, and she was nowhere near finding out where Margot might be.
“You were also being followed,” Kostin went on. “By the Americans. Or maybe your own people. If we are to move forward, then I need to keep you close.”
“Yuri, this wasn’t part of our deal,” she said, turning up the girl-in-over-her-head act. “I know what prison feels like. The decor here may be a bit nicer, but the result is the same.”
“I have no intention of keeping you here more than a day, two at most,” Kostin said. “You can be so valuable to us. We care about you. I care about you. I understand that our arrangement is two-way, yes? You have done so much for me, and I will help you. I promise.”
Livy looked at him with soft eyes, conceding the point. “Is everything all right? After last night. I mean—with you?”
He put a finger to his lips and pointed up. The house would be bugged to the rafters.
“You must be hungry,” he said, breaking into a big smile. “Have you ever tried Russian food?”
“You cook?”
His wolfish grin returned. “Some. We had a cook in my unit during the war, but he was too drunk to remember the ingredients, so everything tasted the same. But I am going to make you traditional Russian dish. Solyanka—sweet and sour soup. But we don’t have long.”
“Another special guest?”
“You could say that. The First Secretary of the embassy wants to meet you.”
* * *
The soup, honestly, was a bit much. It’s beefy taste and thick, spicy base went down hard on Livy’s stomach. Still, she ate it, sipping vodka on the side. She had to admit the fatty broth and the ice-cold liquor complemented each other perfectly. If only her system had been in a more forgiving mood.
During dinner, Kostin’s once jovial mood became tinged with anxiety. He rarely spoke. Instead, he ate much too quickly. Finishing first, he left the dishes in the sink and poured himself a second glass of vodka.
Just after nine o’clock, they saw the headlights of a car pulling into the circular driveway. They sat, facing each other on the stiff sofas in the front room, and listened as the house’s back door opened and closed. One set of boots clamored up the wooden stairs, then a second, and finally a third pair of feet, fainter.
The downstairs door opened, and the man Livy knew as Cracked Tooth came through first. He stood aside and allowed another man—smaller and somewhat older—into the room. Livy recognized the last person of the trio. The young woman, the violinist who’d been her contact outside Ford’s Theatre twice, entered, closing the door behind her. The ever-present instrument case was at her side.
Kostin shot to his feet as the older man ambled over. The newcomer ignored Kostin’s gesture, giving all his attention to Livy.
“Miss Nash, I believe?” he said. His accent was heavier than Kostin’s, but he spoke English well.
Livy stood and sized up the man who was clearly the boss. He had a round face and round glasses. His dark hair receded at the temples but grew thick on top and the sides. Despite the Washington humidity, he wore a dark wool suit and showed no signs of being uncomfortable. Livy thought he looked like the most ruthless accountant she’d ever met.
Kostin stepped in between them. “This is our First Secretary, Georgi Borisovich Sokolov.”
Livy knew that First Secretary meant the MGB rezident, or station chief, here in DC. More than likely it also meant Sokolov was the top man Soviet Intelligence had in the States.
The Russian bowed in mock humility on being introduced, and asked Livy to sit down. Sokolov took one of the Queen Anne chairs next to her.
“Yuri Mikhailovich, do we have tea here? I think we could all do with a cup.”
Kostin hesitated. He looked unsure how to answer. He said, “I believe so, comrade.”
“Good. Would you be so kind?”
Livy understood. Sokolov could have ordered the other two Russians. Instead, he asked their superior. Kostin nodded and went off into the kitchen without a word.
Sokolov unbuttoned his coat and crossed his legs. He didn’t smile. The meeting felt like business, and nothing more.
“Miss Nash, I hope you understand it is quite rare for me to speak with someone in your position,” he said. “We all must take precautions. I am being watched wherever I go in this city. But given the circumstances—the unfortunate incident last night—I very much wanted to meet you.”
“I’m flattered … sir.” Livy glanced around at the two others in the room. She still had a bump on the back of her neck to remember Cracked Tooth by, and the unsmiling young woman somehow seemed more menacing at night. The three of them looked like they could form a firing squad pretty quickly if someone handed them rifles.
“Yuri Mikhailovich tells me you served during the war,” Sokolov said casually, as if he hadn’t looked through every file about Olivia Nash he could put his neat, little thin fingers on.
“I did. I was in France for just over a year.”
“And yet when you returned home there was nothing for you.” Sokolov didn’t phrase it as a question. “Many of your countrymen—many of mine for that matter—just wanted to be away from the fighting. To marry and have a family. But not you.”
“Is it wrong to want to do what you’re good at? I gave them everything in the war and lost more than I can tell you, Mr. Sokolov.”
“We all lost someone. Some lost everything. Miss Nash, I understand this work appeals to you. What I do not understand is why you would choose to betray your country. You do not seem to want money. So, I wonder, what is it you want?”
“Purpose. I had that once. I want it again.”
Sokolov smiled. “You do not strike me as an ideologue. So, I take it, your motive is revenge?”
“You may take it however you like. I don’t think it’s naive of me to assume that if I provide a service, then I can expect compensation of some sort from those who’ve benefited from my help.”
“Indeed.”
Kostin came back into the room with a tray holding a teapot and three cups. Livy found the sight of the formidable Red Devil playing parl
or maid disturbing. Especially since he stood between her and another trip to that abandoned shop outside town. He placed the tray in front of Livy and sat down on the sofa opposite her.
Sokolov poured tea into his cup and held the saucer on his lap as it cooled. “You do not work for MI6 directly then?”
“No.”
“You are a journalist, but they ask you to do things for them when you are abroad?”
“That’s about right.”
“Who are your contacts at MI6?”
Kostin poured tea for her. She took the cup. The warmth of the mug felt out of place in the midst of this chilly interrogation.
“I don’t report to anyone there specifically. Usually I turn over my notes to a secretary. Different folks on different days.”
Sokolov put one lump of sugar in his tea and stirred slowly. “How long have you known Ian Fleming?”
The question caught Livy off guard. Of course he’d ask about Fleming , but she worried where this might be going? What did he know? Livy took a sip of the strong drink. She hoped it might cover the twitch she felt in her eye. “Just over a year now.”
“He is your editor?”
“He’s an arrogant, self-centered Romeo who’s past his prime. And, on occasion, he’s my editor.”
Sokolov studied Livy with a smile that he probably thought expressed kindness. It didn’t.
“We have given you the code name Chaika,” he went on. “Yuri Mikhailovich tells me you’re familiar with Russian literature.”
“I know Chekov’s plays. I grew up in a theatre—of a sort.”
“I think art helps us understand one another, don’t you? I’m told Comrade Stalin even reads the American poet Walt Whitman. It’s a good example for all of us.”
“Mr. Sokolov, I didn’t offer to slip your lot the occasional classified document because I have a copy of Marx by my bedside. No offense. I did it out of anger and frustration. Mr. Fleming may be my boss and all, but he thinks he can treat me how he likes simply because of where he was born and went to school. That’s about as far as I go with the worker’s struggle, if you take my meaning. I’m willing to help you, and one of the reasons is that I trust this man,” she said and shifted her gaze to Kostin.
Sokolov didn’t quite know how to react to this unexpected endorsement. He sipped his tea. His face betrayed no response.
Livy had always been taught that honesty in an interrogation worked best. She did believe most of what she’d said. Her description of Fleming may have been exaggerated, but she’d bet more than one woman might very well describe him that way. A man like Sokolov was more likely to believe her motivation if it was messy and complex.
Sokolov put down his teacup, cut his eyes at Kostin, then turned to Livy. “Miss Nash, we believe you could be more effective for us in England.”
Livy’s palms began to sweat. What the hell did he mean? She took a deep breath. Exhaustion swept over her again. Her mind raced through scenarios where she would never be out of the clutch of this damned assignment and these people. She lowered a hand to her waist and felt her breath.
“I have work to finish in the States.”
“Of course, of course. Once you are back home, we will arrange for you to have a new contact. I believe you met him once. Grimov, yes? Yuri Mikhailovich will assist in the transition.”
Sokolov put his cup down and stood, prompting Kostin to stand as well.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Nash,” Sokolov said, extending his hand to her. Livy took it. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Again, the smile that looked right out of some Soviet charm school. He gestured to Kostin, and the two Russians walked downstairs, followed by Cracked Tooth.
The young violinist remained in the room.
“I will sleep in the suite at the end of the hall,” she said. “You may have any of the other rooms upstairs.”
“You’re staying with me?”
“Of course.” Despite her beauty and youth, the young woman’s voice and demeanor seemed hard as a piece of flint.
So be it then, Livy thought. Locked in a velvet prison with the Beast who just happened to be disguised as Beauty.
* * *
Half an hour later, Livy heard a car drive away from the back lot. Kostin came slowly up the stairs into the living room. He didn’t say a word, but went straight to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. Condensation hung on the carafe.
He took a seat near her on the sofa and poured for them both.
“Yuri, I still have responsibilities in town. I can’t be away long.”
“Someone will bring you back to the hotel in a day or two.” He took a long pull on the vodka.
“Someone?”
“You’ve met Nadia, yes? She will make sure you have what you need.” Kostin seemed even more distant than when they’d first met after watching the play. He stared at the closed curtains as if he could see through them. Sokolov had been dismissive of him, forced him to get tea. Was that a sign of Kostin’s loss of position at the embassy? Keller would be pleased that the dreaded Red Devil had been taken down a notch, but Livy needed him to feel closer to her.
She remembered what the woman on the streetcar had said to her. She’d seen something in Kostin’s eyes. Love? Is that how the Russian really felt about her? It seemed insane, but Livy knew of no other explanation for his behavior. He’d protected her from his own countryman and colleague. He’d murdered the man. Brutally. All in defense of her. Livy knew she was playing with fire, but to finish the job she had to rekindle that intimacy again. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine a more precarious situation than this.
“And you?” Livy asked softly. “Where will you be?”
“Wherever they tell me to be,” he said, finishing his drink. He poured another. “You don’t want?” He indicated her untouched glass.
Livy picked it up. If Kostin was about to be replaced even before they sent her back to England, then the job was over. Livy knew she had to be decisive. She had to give Kostin a reason to want to stay.
She took his hand in her own.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me,” she said, clinking glasses. Kostin nodded and they drank. “I will see you again, won’t I?”
Livy caressed his palm. Kostin didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t know. It’s not my decision.”
“Yuri,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “I have to see you again. Please.”
Kostin glanced at her, his hooded eyes so difficult to penetrate. “Nadia will go to the store tomorrow sometime. I will check on you then.” His voice was flat, expressionless. Their every word would be on a tape that would end up at the Soviet Embassy. Livy assumed the embassy was the “store” where Nadia would be going.
He kissed her hand and his lips lingered there. He kept her hand tight in his. “You need rest.”
She finished the vodka, put the glass down. She lifted his hand, placing it on her right breast as she put a finger to her lips. Livy saw the moment land on Kostin’s face. His fingertips caressed her while his eyes darted toward the second floor for any sign of Nadia, the chaperone.
It felt a bit like being back in school.
Except this was business for Livy. She kept his hand there, hers on top of his. Kostin’s palm cradled her breast. The carnal look in his eyes gave way to vulnerability. She could see he needed this.
His touch aroused something in her. She couldn’t deny it. But a part of her felt disconnected. She heard the taunting voices of those women from the war. Pointing fingers. Whispering.
Putain.
Livy accepted their disgust and tried to focus on the source of their taunts. The collaborators. Their motives. Women like Anka. How far did she have to go to serve her country? She kept the image in her mind to maintain distance. This was a job. She was acting a part.
A door opened on the second floor, and they heard Nadia’s footfall. Kostin withdrew his hand, giving Livy a quick kiss on the lips. He stepped away to talk t
o the Russian woman.
Livy poured herself another vodka.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Once Kostin left, Livy chose the bedroom on the second floor landing nearest the stairs. Nadia showed her in and, since it was late, retired to her own room. Livy got to work.
The problem was the gun.
The photograph of Margot as well, but mostly the gun. If she was to be stuck in this damned house for however long, she might have to account for both of them. Livy could explain the presence of the small picture much more easily than she could a loaded Colt .32. But she didn’t plan to do either. First, she pulled a pencil from her handbag and pried loose a few threads around the waistband of her skirt over the left hip. She took Margot’s photo and slid it carefully into the lining where the threads had been dislodged. She folded the seam back down, ensuring the photo wouldn’t fall out.
Once that was done, she walked around the room, making mental notes about where everything was positioned. Of course, the room was bugged. She assumed at least one listening device in the bedroom and another in the bath. She took note of the position of the lamp on the dresser, and its proximity to the wall. She did the same with her bedside table, placing her reporter’s notebook an inch or so from the edge of the nightstand.
Livy wasn’t in control of her space, but if she kept her belongings in very specific positions, then she’d have no problem knowing whether the room had been searched.
After a careful reconnaissance, Livy went to the big bath and turned on the water in the tub. She needed the sound of the running water to cover what she was about to do.
Bringing her handbag into the bathroom, Livy pulled out the Colt. She popped open the chamber, dropped the cartridges into her hand and placed them on the sink. She checked the spring of the trigger and pulled the hammer back. The mechanism cracked quietly. No hesitation. She carefully reloaded the gun and popped the chamber back into place.
