Natasha’s skirt was down, Lockington’s pants were up, but they stayed there until they ran out of cigarettes. Then it was twilight and birds were returning to the trees around them. They listened to the flutter of descending wings and Natasha murmured, “It’s been a long and risky flight—I should come down to earth and make a nest.”
Lockington said, “Where?”
“Wherever.” There was a wistfulness about her, the vulnerability that Lockington had detected in Chicago. He said, “When?”
“Soon—very soon. I’m tired.”
“How soon is very soon?”
“I wish it could be tonight—or tomorrow—but there’s this matter to be attended to.”
Lockington blew the ash from his last cigarette. He said, “You don’t quit the KGB easily, do you? I mean, you just don’t walk in and say, ‘See you later?’”
She was sprawled on her belly, her toes hooked over the hollow log, plucking meditatively at stray blades of grass. “No, normally that isn’t how it’s done, but I just might get away with it.”
“The KGB would make an exception in your case?”
“The KGB makes exceptions only for exceptional reasons.”
“And you have an exceptional reason?”
“No, but perhaps I can convince the KGB that I do. Are you taking me to dinner?”
“I am.”
They walked back to the motel and Natasha turned off in the direction of Room 5. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.”
Lockington nodded, noticing the silhouette of a beer can on the windowsill of Room 8. He knocked on the door and it opened instantly. Steve Dellick said, “Lockington, it’s good to see you again—this is Kevin Mahoney.”
Lockington waved to an angular, lantern-jawed young fellow, spotting a pair of flak jackets draped over the back of a chair. He said, “Boys, will you accompany me for just a few minutes?”