Both men smiled and nodded. Ambassador Sauret’s devotion to his stomach and his fussiness were already a source of secret amusement for his underlings and their Russian counterparts.
“Any more questions?” Duroc asked. “No? Then get going.” Soloviev’s car was already halfway down the drive to the woods.
While Foret and Verdier hustled to obey, he turned back to the dacha, pondering his next move. If nothing else, tailing this fellow Soloviev would help keep his own men on their toes. But he felt sure his orders would achieve far more than that.
To the major, the intelligence game was only a variation on the age-old hunt — a quest for facts in the midst of uncertainty, instead of food in the midst of the wilderness. He knew that no man’s conscious mind could possibly pick up more than a fraction of the sensory and other cues flooding in from all sides. The rest had to be processed by the subconscious — emerging as sudden flashes of insight and inspiration. Although his decision to put the Russian colonel under surveillance had been largely instinctive, Paul Duroc had long ago learned to trust his instincts.
During the early part of the twentieth century, Arbat Street was one of Moscow’s most fashionable shopping districts. Under communist rule, it had fallen on hard times as a symbol of “capitalist exploitation.” Now, as the twentieth century came to a close, the area had come full circle. Private renovations, foreign investment, and government preservation orders had spruced the Arbat up, creating a cobblestone-paved pedestrian district crowded with gift shops, art galleries, and theaters.
Even under the harsh austerity program imposed by Kaminov’s martial law government, the Arbat still had life and color. As the capital city’s ministries and businesses closed for the day, shoppers and theatergoers swarmed into the area seeking bargains and entertainment. Many were in uniform — officers serving on headquarters duty in the vast concrete bulk of Russia’s Ministry of Defense right down the street.
Erin McKenna moved with the throngs, pretending to window-shop while she kept her eyes peeled for Valentin Soloviev. She was growing edgy, conscious of the time flashing past. The Russian officer was late, and if he didn’t show up in the next couple of minutes, she would have to abort this rendezvous. Where the hell was he? Simply caught in traffic? Or under arrest for treason? Uncertainty gnawed at her, only partially allayed by the knowledge that Alex Banich was somewhere reasonably close by, keeping watch over her.
She moved to the next window, simulating an interest in a display of beautifully carved chessmen. Other pedestrians brushed past without a second glance, intent on their own errands or pleasure. How odd, Erin thought, to feel so alone surrounded by so many other people. Alex had been right when he said that crowds conferred their own special measure of anonymity.
A familiar reflection appeared over her shoulder, this time in full uniform. Her gaze flickered toward the man standing at her side and then back to the chess pieces. “Nice of you to show up, Colonel.”
“My apologies, Miss McKenna.” Soloviev sounded just the slightest bit out of breath. He explained, “The conference dragged on longer than I had anticipated. As it was, I had to leave before the session ended.”
“Was that wise?”
He shrugged uncertainly. “Perhaps not. But I had no time to contact you to arrange a new meeting.”
Erin nodded her understanding. If Soloviev had missed this rendezvous, she doubted that Banich and Len Kutner would ever have allowed her to schedule another. The risk that the Russian had been caught and turned would have would have been too high for them to accept. When you were engaged in espionage in a hostile capital, paranoia was a survival trait.
They moved down the Arbat to stand in front of another shop, close enough to speak softly and fairly privately but far enough apart to seem separate — two chance passersby animated only by similar tastes and interests.
“What’s happening out there?” Erin asked bluntly. They didn’t have time for small talk. Two strangers could companionably converse for a few minutes. Anything longer might draw unwanted attention.
Soloviev was equally blunt. “Nothing good. Despite their bickering, Kaminov and the Frenchman are very close to reaching an agreement. And our military buildup is well under way. We already have eight divisions massed inside Belarus, with another three en route to the border. Several more are on alert — ready to move once the roads and railroads are clear.” He frowned. “In fact, I think the marshal is only waiting for this latest EurCon attack to bog down before making a firm commitment to intervene. He’s a hard bargainer, that one. He knows the less certain the French are of victory, the more they will pay for our help.”
Erin nodded again. From what she knew of Kaminov’s character, Soloviev’s assessment made sense. She moved on to the next item on Alex Banich’s list. “And what about the hard evidence we need, Colonel? Do you have anything for me?” She glanced down at the open shopping bag resting on the ground between them. She had brought the bag with her as a cover and also as a means of carrying away any documents the Russian could provide.
Soloviev shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Colonel, you know how important…”
He held up a hand to stop her. “My dear Miss McKenna, I am a man of many talents. But I am not a miracle worker.” The Russian officer grimaced. “My countrymen may not be able to build a decent automobile or grow enough food to feed themselves, but they are masters of the art of secrecy.”
Still frowning, he elaborated. “Every document used in these talks is numbered and can only be signed out by the most senior members of each delegation. Any photocopying required, even something as simple as an agenda or a lunch menu, can only be done under observation by security officers from both countries. Although there may be a way around these precautions, I haven’t found it yet.” He shrugged. “Tell your superiors that I am still trying, Miss McKenna. But remind them that it won’t help any of us if I am caught for the sake of a single scrap of paper.”
“All right.” Erin heard the strain in his voice and realized the pressure the Russian must be under. If she were arrested, she could at least hope to be exchanged one day. If the FIS captured Soloviev… she shuddered inwardly. In one instance, the old KGB had reportedly fed a “traitor” into a furnace alive. They’d even filmed the execution as an example to other would-be Western “moles.” She turned toward him. “Believe me, Colonel, we appreciate everything you’ve done so far.”
“Do you?”
She looked up at him. “Yes, I do.”
He smiled, showing a brief flash of the devil-may-care attitude she’d found so attractive when they’d first met at the embassy dance. “Then that is enough for me.” His smile turned wistful. “For now, though, I think we must go our separate ways.”
Erin nodded. They were out of time and in public. “When can I expect your next call?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That soon?”
Soloviev nodded grimly. “Events are moving faster, Miss McKenna. By tomorrow or the next day, your country and mine could very easily be at war.”
Neither spotted the small, rat-faced man just a hundred meters further up Arbat Street, quietly taking pictures of them using a telephoto lens.
CHAPTER 31
Gdansk Is the Key
The improvised convoy carrying the eight hundred men of the “3rd of the 187th” pulled up outside brigade headquarters in the rural town. Captain Mike Reynolds shifted in his cramped seat, glad the trip was finally over. He stood gratefully, gathered his gear, and stepped off the hastily camouflaged school bus.