Petrovchenko burst out laughing. “Ah yes, I myself used the same line when explaining to Moscow how I’d stabbed my supervisor in the back here. Know what that wretch is doing now?”
Igor shook his head.
“I don’t either. Last I heard he was on a security detail responsible for the Central Committee’s dachas in Finland. Arranging shopping tours for wives when their husbands are interviewing secretaries in the hot tubs. Does that sort of work appeal to you, Igor?”
“No sir.”
“Of course not. You’d like my job, wouldn’t you?”
“Sir, I want to do the best work possible in my present position.”
“Sure you do, sure you do,” Petrovchenko said. “And maybe this Natasha wants to do the best work in her present position, did we ever think of that?”
“Sir?”
“I mean,” Petrovchenko said, “maybe this Natasha is funneling the good stuff around you. Maybe she’s a whole lot smarter than you are, no?”
“I have full faith and confidence in Natasha Petronovna,” Igor said.
Petrovchenko chuckled. “No doubt, no doubt. Like my superior had full faith and confidence in me. Her reports, in their original form, are quite interesting. Did you know that she thinks our scientists are going to try time travel?”
“Yes sir.” Rostov cleared his throat. “It was in my report, sir.”
“Presumably Dr. deVere wants to go back in time to undo the Soviet takeover of America.”
“Comrade Nikitin has discussed that possibility with me, sir.”
“No doubt. But Comrade Nikitin speaks only in general terms, Igor. As you know we need detail. We need to know who, what, when, where and how.”
“Of course, sir.” Igor leaned forward. “Couldn’t we just arrest the lot, sir?”
Petrovchenko tilted his head back and roared aloud. “Or have them all killed? We could use our Comrade Nikitin for that, I suppose. Given her training at the academy and all. No, Igor,” he continued returning his focus, “we can’t do that. This is why I’m in charge and you are not. First of all, who do we arrest or kill? Do we get them all? If we miss one he or she will become more secretive, recruit others, and eventually try again. If you have ants in your house you must get the nest. And do not kill any ants until you have followed them back and discovered where the nest is. Do you see?
“I suggest improving the quality of the reports you put on my desk, Igor. If that means putting your foot up this Natasha’s ass, be my guest. If that means assuming personal supervision of the operation that wouldn’t be a bad choice either.”
“I understand,” Rostov said.
“Do you?” Petrovchenko asked, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me Comrade, do you think I have forgotten how a good operation should be run?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“Of course not,” Igor repeated, starting to squirm.
“Let me tell you something, Comrade Rostov,” Petrovchenko said, leaning forward again and jabbing with his finger. “I know very well how to run an operation of this type. In my younger days I ran many operations like this one. Your Comrade Nikitin is an insolent bitch. And I knew very well how to deal with problems like the one you are having here with her. Do you think me too old now to still do that?” Petrovchenko asked accusingly.
“But Comrade,” Rostov protested, “the Descendants, as they call themselves, are not like the older generation of resisters and anarchists. They are very careful.”
Petrovchenko snorted. “Yes, Comrade, but I am careful too. Very careful. You don’t get to my position without being careful and always having a back-up plan. One must know how to get around the Descendants, just as you should know how to get around this Comrade Nikitin if she is not doing her job, or doing it for someone else, no?”
“Of course, Comrade,” Igor agreed.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking, it might be good for your career, for your future with the agency, to get in a little more field work,” Petrovchenko said, suddenly becoming more friendly. “They say Boston’s lovely this time of year.”
“They do,” Igor agreed, relieved at the change in the conversation’s tone.
“I notice you were once posted in Boston.”
“That’s right,” Igor agreed again.
“I imagine you’d like to get back, it might make a more effective meeting with your Comrade Nikitin. Why don’t you go for a few days? I’ll personally see that you get rooms at the Copley Plaza, it’s said to be the finest hotel in the city.”
“The Copley?” Igor asked. “I’d appreciate that, sir.”
“Yes, well, we like to keep our best men happy. I think if we can pull together on this Boston operation we can give your career quite a boost,” Petrovchenko said.
“Yes sir, I agree sir.”
“Absolutely,” Petrovchenko beamed. He checked the paper calendar on his desk. “Why don’t we say in a couple of weeks after you finish up with that problem in Chicago? Would that be enough time to prepare?”
“That would be fine, sir,” Igor added, almost as an afterthought.
“Grand. I’ll have Stasha make the arrangements. Make sure that you leave a list of ongoing operations you’d like me to keep an eye on in your absence,” Petrovchenko said.
With pleasure, Igor thought as he smiled, shook the man’s hand, and left.
“Natasha, Igor here, no doubt you’re out sampling the finest French restaurants in Boston while we gnaw on dried beets back here in Yeltsengrad. I’ll be in Boston at noon two weeks from this Saturday, so do please pick me up at the airport. And do pack your bags. I’ve decided to transfer you to the Charles River apartment. I think you should be closer to the action. I’m convinced something’s going to blow soon. Having you—”
“Igor!” Natasha picked up the phone. “Serious? I’m moving to the Charles River place? No strings attached?”
“You mentioned vodka?”
“All you want.”
“If that’s the best I can get.”
“You wouldn’t like me,” Natasha said. “I can’t cook.”
“Neither can my wife,” Igor said. “Two weeks. Write it down.” He hung up.
The Charles River apartment. Natasha punched the pillow as she sank back on the bed. Hot damn!
In his Yeltsengrad office Rostov tapped his pen on the desk. His ears were still ringing from the blistering Petrovchenko’s superior, a man he knew only as Vanya, had given him when he learned Natasha was in Dorchester. Whoever her patron is up in the hierarchy he’s sure watching out for her, he thought. Must remember that.
Chapter 11
“All right. What happened with the chronometer?” Lewis asked.
Paul looked around the Friday night crowd at The Marbury, an off campus nightclub, and put his hand over his mouth to start talking.
“Hold your glass up,” Amanda said. “Looks less suspicious.”
Paul held his glass up—and stared past Amanda at the crowd. Out on the dance floor the college crowd was jamming the too small parquet floor while the older patrons—and Paul ruefully put himself in that category—kept to the surrounding tables.
“That’s one way to keep them from listening in, don’t say anything,” Lewis said. “Come on Paul, it’s clean.”
“Natasha,” he announced, putting his glass back down.
Lewis turned to look. Natasha came by the table with Nigel.
“Rather a surprise seeing you here, didn’t know this was your cup of tea,” Nigel said as he shook Lewis and Paul’s hands. Natasha smiled at them and at Amanda. Lewis and Paul smiled back. On the giant video monitors The Rolling Stones Experience kicked off a 65th Anniversary tribute tour from Phoenix.