Ticcio was not there that night. Warfield sat at the bar and tried Fleming again. Still no answer but this time he left a message on her voicemail and at Hardscrabble that he was at Ticcio’s now and hoped she would join him. He watched the couples on the dance floor snuggle to the Dean Martin impersonator and kept an eye on the entrance for Fleming.
After half an hour she walked in. He knew she would show, but seeing her was still a shock. His heart raced. Adrenaline rocked his nerves into high gear. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her and tell her how much she meant to him and ask what it would take for them to get back to where they were a few months ago. He felt her skin against his once again. Heard her warm voice. Sensed her fingers running through his hair. How he had missed her. The sheer white cotton outfit she wore emphasized her tan, and her hair swept her shoulders now. He despised what he had done.
As Warfield stood up to greet her, Fleming turned to the man entering the door behind her and laughed at something he said. She walked within inches of Warfield as the maitre d’ led the couple through the bar to their table but if she saw him she didn’t show it.
Aleksei Antonov walked up from the orchestra and as he lit a Cuban cigar a look of satisfaction graced his face. At least that was one thing the Russians had over the Americans. The smoke took on shades of maroon and gray as it curled upward to the lights. Captain Aleksandr Nosenko rounded the corner from the mezzanine where he was seated for the concert and lit a cigarette off the end of the general’s cigar. Antonov was pleased with Nosenko. Not every young officer he’d selected to personally groom rose to his expectations, not to the degree Nosenko had. And like Antonov, Nosenko worried about the easy availability of the sea of nuclear resources left over after the Soviet Union fell apart. The captain contacted General Antonov with any news worth disturbing his mentor for in order to arrange a clandestine meeting. Tonight he informed Antonov that Boris Petrevich was in Tokyo. That was certain now. Antonov decided against telling Nosenko that he’d already learned about Petrevich from an old comrade.
There was no law or rule against Captain Nosenko’s collaboration with General Antonov but it seemed to both of the men that privacy of communication was nonetheless in order. After all, Antonov and to some degree Nosenko were products of the old ultra-secretive Soviet culture. But it wasn’t like the captain was hiding the information from his superiors: They had the same direct access to it he did. The difference was that Antonov in his retirement had not only the determination but also the time and financial resources to do something with it.
“So what will you do now?” Captain Nosenko asked after giving Antonov the news.
The house lights signaled the first call to return to the theater. The general studied the thick maroon carpet for a moment before answering.
“Tokyo.”
“I will accompany you.”
“Nyet.”
“You will go alone?”
“Initially, yes, until I have specific information about Boris Petrevich. Then I will invite the American, Warfield, to meet me there.”
Nosenko looked away. “Just as I thought.”
“You do not agree with that course of action, Captain?”
“You trusted Colonel Warfield to stop Petrevich once before.”
“It was not Warfield’s failure. Your own intelligence sources determined it was his FBI.” Antonov said it in a tone intended to end the matter.
Nosenko persisted. “And that will not happen again in Japan? This may be the last opportunity to neutralize Boris Petrevich and recover the uranium he controls.”
Antonov squinted at his protégé’s tone. “Warfield is no less determined than you or me, Captain, to keep our nuclear arsenal out of irresponsible hands. And he is known to take personal risk when his objective requires it, so I suspect he will not involve his FBI in this matter again.”
“May I remind my general that Colonel Warfield no longer enjoys the support of his own government? Perhaps determination is not the only important criterion in choosing an ally.”
Antonov flared. He wasn’t accustomed to being questioned by a captain, even Nosenko. “Be reminded yourself, captain, that Warfield consistently succeeded against us when he was our enemy. I am aware that was before your time, but I fear that your studies of military and KGB operational history have failed you in this regard.”
The young officer glanced around to see how many others witnessed the reprimand.
Antonov looked directly into Nosenko’s eyes. “Will that be all, captain?”
Nosenko nodded. “What would you have me do, sir?”
Intermission was over. Antonov knew Nosenko’s motives were pure, and cooled off. Nosenko had been with the general so long and gone through so much with him that now he must feel shut out. And in favor of an American. Antonov put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Without you here in Moscow, in the army,” he said, “we lose our primary source of intelligence, which is crucial to our cause. Otherwise, you would accompany me to Tokyo.”
Antonov arrived back at his dacha after midnight and poured himself a brandy. It went well with Cubans. He leaned back in the leather chair he called his thinking chair and stared at the ceiling, processing what he knew.
Before the cigar was gone, the six-foot-three general moved from the cracked and wrinkled leather of the old chair to his computer where he scheduled a flight to Tokyo the next day, then e-mailed a note to Warfield. It was almost three a.m. when he turned the lights out.
Warfield felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach. He couldn’t bear to stay at Ticcio’s any longer, that close to Fleming with another man. Before leaving, he went to the men’s room where he got a shot of himself in the mirror. Was it possible she didn’t recognize him? She hadn’t looked right at him but she did seem to be aware of her surroundings. She had glided past him so near that he smelled the perfume he had given her. No way she would have missed seeing him before he…before he became so different.
The beard. That was it, that and the weight and his hair that had grown shaggy. What had he done to himself? To Fleming? Here she was with another man, no doubt having given up on him while he let himself and everything important to him disintegrate. He was enraged at his own doings. As he turned to leave the restroom he kicked the full-length mirror dead center, sending it to the floor in a million pieces.
He sat in the parking lot for several minutes to get himself together. When he got back to the condo there was a red, tan and black envelope taped to his front door. It was from his mortgage lender, who said his condo was in the process of foreclosure for non-payment of his loan. They had sent all the required notices about missed payments and, having received no response from him, regretted to tell him his home was now in foreclosure proceedings. He could expect the local sheriff to serve him with the legal documents. He read the letter three times under the porch light before going inside. He stood in the living room and looked around at the place for a minute, tossed the notice on the table and went back to his car.