He hadn’t been forgotten, Charlie reluctantly accepted: just momentarily ignored, put aside because of other more important pressures. He should, he supposed, be grateful for the respite, which to a degree he was, very grateful indeed. The reservation was prompted by his uncertainty about how successful his overcrowded day had been, by comparison.
Charlie objectively scored himself 60 percent out of a hundred from the meeting with Natalia, largely based-despite Natalia’s warning not to overinterpret it-upon Sasha’s childishly innocent remark about being taken somewhere far away from Moscow. The 40 percent reduction came from Natalia’s continued reluctance to step out into the unknown and Sasha’s apparent closeness-or accustomed acceptance-to Igor Karakov. There was nothing he could do, no tweak he could attempt, to improve his self-assessed ratings, until their next contact. But it had been right to keep the personal meeting. Sasha had been wonderful and despite her warning, he’d been encouraged at how concerned Natalia had been about him.
Charlie forced his mind back to Irena Yakulova Novikov. Charlie acknowledged that he still had little more than instinct to trust her disjointed story. But instinct had rarely-and never completely-failed him in the past. And the very disjointedness of their conversation rang truer in his mind than a coherently timed and dated account could or would have done. Apart from his own physical safety the most pressing professional problem was finding the slightest corroboration of anything she’d told him. Neither the name Irena Yakulova Novikov nor Ivan Nikolaevich Oskin came up on Charlie’s KGB or FSB search of MI5 records, which didn’t surprise him because he knew intelligence officers in both organizations always operated under pseudonyms, as did every other espionage and counterespionage body throughout the world: despite publicly identifiable headquarter buildings and publicly named and identified Directors and Directors-General and Chairmen, intelligence organizations did not officially exist to spy and murder and suborn and infiltrate and manipulate. So how could nonexistent entities be staffed by real, flesh and blood people?
Russia’s war in Afghanistan! The possibility burst upon him, not the possibility of obtaining a name-Ivan would have operated in Kabul under an identity different even from his pseudonym at Lubyanka headquarters-but the disastrous Russian incursion gave Charlie one dated marker, and Irena’s account of the ambush in which Ivan lost his arm further refined it. Charlie concentrated his Internet search among publicly available and openly provided strategic study groups in America-knowing no such facility existed in the Russian Federation nor the Soviet Union that preceded it-and located the incident in two hours. It was in a newspaper cutting from The New York Times, dated March 15, 1989. It was a very short, two-paragraph report, still with no names, but with the identifying fact that three generals-one air force, two army-had been killed at the same time, the only occasion of such a simultaneous loss of three senior officers. A Russian driver also died in the ambush. Ivan was described as a Pashto-speaking Russian interpreter. In a much longer op-ed commentary feature, again in The New York Times, the incident was referred to as a turning point in the Russian disillusionment with the war and Ivan more positively identified by his injury being described as the loss of an arm.
Charlie was warmed by the feeling of satisfaction at his instinct proving right, although realistically acknowledging that it barely took him half a step forward. He needed Irena to keep their meeting the following day-and be prepared to talk far more fully-to do better than this. And he wasn’t at all sure that she would. He did, though, know that she worked-and possibly lived-within an area very close to the cafe, with which she was obviously familiar, by getting her to agree to meet him there during a lunch hour. Charlie hoped that she didn’t realize how he’d tricked her into disclosing it and giving him the minimal advantage.
27
Charlie allowed himself a discomforting hour before finally approaching the cafe in which he’d arranged to meet Irena Novikov. It was less crowded than before, the permanent sports channel showing a soccer match featuring Moscow Dynamo. The clothes-cocooned babushka was at the same table and Charlie wondered if she’d even left the previous night.
Charlie risked the brandy and chose the same table as before, able from where he sat to watch the cafe clock as well as the door. There had only been six press calls and two rambling cranks when he’d checked the embassy earlier. But nothing from Mikhail Guzov, Svetlana Modin, or London, which gave a chance for him to consider how to utilize each, when they came. And how to prompt them, if they didn’t. It was 12:15 according to the cafe clock. The place was filling, for the midday break. The majority of customers wore workmen’s overalls and heavy boots, and by Charlie’s estimate more vodka than beer was ordered. The vodka was in unmarked, unlabeled bottles and very visibly the yellow of alcohol-concentrated home distillation. Charlie decided he’d been wise to stay with the brandy.
By 12:35 Irena still hadn’t arrived. He’d give her an allowance, Charlie decided: there could be reasons, even for someone as time-conscious as she appeared to be. How much allowance? A lot. She’d had to force herself yesterday, constantly wavering; would have run-avoided things-if he hadn’t gently pushed. The noise in the cafe was irritatingly rising in proportion to the vodka intake. His own brandy glass was virtually empty. He didn’t want to lose the symbolic table by going to the counter for another but was tempted. It was now 12:45 and the place was becoming crowded, three people needed behind the counter now, the noise-spiked by shouted outbursts-growing at the soccer action on TV. It wouldn’t be easy to maintain unnoticed surveillance outside the cafe if Irena reneged. After his earlier location reconnaissance Charlie had naturally continued to check the surroundings of the cafe as he’d approached. It was situated slightly to the right of a far too expansive square directly overlooked by too many Brezhnev-era apartment blocks and house conversions and, illogically, far too few shops or other bars: there were side alleys and streets but insufficient concealing activity among which he could stay unnoticed.
At 12:50, Charlie tilted his chair against the table, to mark his occupancy, and eased his way through the noisy, tight-packed counter crush. That tightness-and the noise-eased during the time he stood waiting to be served and he realized why when he looked again at the cafe clock registering 1:10 P.M., marking the end of the break.
She’d run, Charlie accepted, as his brandy was finally poured. He’d give Irena the time it took him to finish this drink, maybe even another, but then have to accept what he’d been refusing to contemplate. He’d lost Irena. But only temporarily, he determined, with customary obstinacy. Whatever-however-it took he’d find Irena Yakulova Novikov again and try to convince her again.
And then he saw her.
He was at the edge of the thinning counter group, his first impression only of a figure at his table. Then his vision cleared sufficiently for him to realize who it was. Charlie didn’t hesitate, though, but continued on and by the time he reached her the doubts and the reflections had gone.
“Now you’re late,” he said, relieved that there was no vibrating nervousness today. She was wearing the same coat as the previous night, over what appeared blue canvas work trousers. The auburn hair, no longer covered by the woolen hat, was flecked with gray and in better light, Charlie guessed she was in her early fifties.
“I’m glad you waited.” There was even a wisp of a smile but no immediate explanation.
“What would you like?”
“That looks good,” she said, nodding to the brandy glass he was still holding.