THEY LEFT THE HOTEL and turned northwest along Tverskaya Street, their chins buried in upraised collars against the wind. It had stopped snowing, but the wind was fierce, and there were still flakes blowing. Ginny tucked her arm through Sam’s and stayed close, the cold far more bitter and penetrating than she’d expected. Even in her fur she was chilled clear through by the time they’d walked a hundred yards past shuttered stores that made her think of Howard Avenue’s Gold Coast. Off to her left she saw the lights of what was obviously a metro station. Just beyond it, a huge ornate arch was bathed in floodlights. “What’s that?”
“On the bottom, Mayakovskaya metro stop,” Sam said, pointing. “Built in the late thirties by Stalin. Named in honor of the great poet Mayakovsky.”
“I never heard of him. Was he a contemporary of Pushkin? Chekhov?”
“He was a commie,” Sam said. “He once wrote a poem celebrating the Soviet passport. ‘Read it and envy me! I am a citizen of the Soviet Union!’ ”
“My kind of guy.”
“Stalin’s, too. Actually, the metro station is remarkable. The main platform is about the size of Union Station back in Washington. There are probably fifty or sixty arches. The ceiling is made up of a series of domes, with Art Deco lighting. Uncle Joe used the station to hold meetings during the war because it was so deep he felt safe from German artillery.”
“God, it is really cold.” She hugged his arm tighter. “What’s the ornate pillared palace right above the metro stop?”
“It’s a concert hall.”
Vacario pointed at her one o’clock. “And over there?”
“That’s the Triumfalnaya Arch. Can you make out the statue of the charioteer on top?”
She squinted, putting a hand to her eyes to shield them from the wind. “Of course—it’s huge.”
‘The joke used to be that he was the only sober coachman in Moscow.”
“More humor from Stalin’s time, right? And the big street we’re coming to right now?”
“Garden Ring. We saw it from the other direction as we were driving to the hotel.” He gestured to his right. “We cross here.” He ushered her quickly across the busy, wide street, sprinting the last ten yards as one of the fast-moving vehicles almost ran them down. He stopped and turned to look.
Vacario tugged at his arm. “What’s up?”
“That was an ARV.”
“Arv?”
“Armed response vehicle. Ministry of Interior special-tactics police—counterterrorist units. They’re known as OMON.”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re floaters—on call in case of an emergency. I guess they’ve increased the number of ARVs since the theater takeover.”
Sam turned and trotted Vacario across a small narrow strip of parkland. They dashed across another wide avenue, a wide plaza with its massive arch to their left. Sam turned east, then left into a narrow one-lane street that shielded them from the gusting wind. He guided her a hundred yards, turned right again, walked another fifty yards, and turned left.
Vacario said, “My God. Sam, gridlock.” More than two dozen snow-covered cars were jam-packed on the sidewalk and wedged atop the high curb of the narrow street, blocking the sidewalk and apartment-house doorways.
Sam laughed. “Valet parking Moscow-style.” He gave the parked vehicles a quick once-over. The vehicles all appeared to have been there awhile. Sam saw no sign of recent windshield-wiper action or window defrosters, except for one steamy-windowed sedan that sat up close to the restaurant’s entrance. Sam was careful to take a peek as they sidled past. Two men, smoking cigarettes. Probably bodyguards. Besides, the car had been there for a while. It was wedged in by half a dozen others with snow on them.
At least whoever was pinging on him wasn’t leapfrogging. Sam pointed at the neon sign in red, white, and blue blinking in the plate-glass window of the obviously bustling restaurant. “You wanted a steak and a salad. This is the American Bar and Grill. Best steak in town. They even have Budweiser on draft.”
“I’d rather have a California Zinfandel. A bottle of Ridge would be nice right now.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you? What about a nice Georgian Mukuzani?”
“What if I told you Zinfandel or nothing, Sam. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m used to the very best: beluga caviar and Golden Ring vodka.”
“Oh, I noticed.” He grinned. “Caviar by the pound. And vodka by the bottle.”
She let go his arm and pushed through the door. “And Chanel No. 5—by the gallon.”
IT WAS PAST TEN when they emerged. The wind had died down, but snow had begun to fall again and the streets were white. Footfalls muffled, they returned the way they’d come, walking quickly and in silence. Sam hadn’t sensed a ping since the hotel bar.
Sam let her precede him into the hotel lobby. He crossed the atrium to the desk and checked for messages. There were none.
They met at the elevator. He inserted his key card into the reader, waited for the green light, and pressed the eighth-floor button.
They rode in silence. At eight, Vacario stepped off and turned left. Sam followed her down the hall, past his own room. There was a room-service tray on the carpet next to O’Neill’s door. He’d ordered soup, tea, and toast—and hadn’t consumed much of anything from the look of it.
Vacario stopped in front of her doorway. She turned. “Sam, thank you.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t much—drinks and dinner. The weather wasn’t being very accommodating, so I couldn’t take you to the Kremlin and Red Square.”
“Is that your usual itinerary?”
“Everybody wants to see Red Square the first night”
“And you always play tour guide.”
“That was a big part of the job when I worked at the embassy.”
She turned, reached up, pulled him to her, and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Well, even without the tour, thanks for a lovely evening.”
“You’re welcome.”
She didn’t step back. “I had a wonderful time.” She kissed him again. This time on the lips.
Then she took a step back, inserted the key card into the reader, and opened the door. “Nightcap?”
Sam started to say no. But he didn’t. Even though he knew better.
He knew he should have said no because he was hugely attracted to her. He should have said no because there was palpable chemistry between them, something they’d both tacitly acknowledged over dinner. He should have said no because there were such obvious and potentially nasty complications to any involvement.
Sam realized he’d been hooked shortly after he’d started a professional elicitation of her background and found himself both charmed and impressed with what she told him. She was from Detroit. She’d married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-two with a two-year-old daughter, born the very day Richard Nixon had resigned the presidency. She’d put herself through law school and after passing the bar had gone to work as a prosecutor in the office of the U.S. attorney for eastern Michigan. Two years later, when her boss had been selected as a deputy assistant attorney general and moved to Washington, he’d brought her with him as a special assistant.
She’d obviously thrived. Her boss’s purview included intelligence, violent crime, and public integrity. At the age of twenty-nine, Vacario was promoted to chief of the Terrorism and Violent Crime Section of the Justice Department. Thirteen years later, she’d been sought out by Rand Arthur, then a freshman senator, to become his legislative assistant for justice and intelligence matters. She’d been ready for a change, she told Sam, and so she’d accepted the offer once Rand had promised to match her Justice Department pay. She’d worked for Rand ever since—shifting to Senate Select when he’d been appointed to SSCI in his second term.
She’d spent enough time dealing with Nick Becker to dislike him, although she was smart enough not to disparage the DCI in a busy Moscow restaurant. She was also smart enough not to ask Sam to tell his own story in public. Not that he would have. Sam seldom talked about himself.
But Ginny had been absolutely voluble. She was bright, politically astute, charming, attractive, and sensual. Sam spent much of their dinner asking himself why he hadn’t seen those qualities sooner.
Which was why, instead of protesting, or heading for his own room in a levelheaded tactical retreat, Sam stood in the hotel corridor experiencing simultaneous pangs of anxiety and arousal.
Vacario took him by the hand and led him inside. “I know,” she said as she closed the door behind him.
“What do you know?”
“There are complications.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam watched as she shed her fur on the bed. He draped his overcoat across the plaid-upholstered sofa. Instinctively, he glanced around the room for any sign of surveillance equipment. Of course, there’d be nothing. Although the facade of the Marriott looked vaguely nineteenth century, the hotel had been built shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Which meant that FSB had been able to conceal whatever sorts of electronic bugs they’d wanted to during the construction phase. There were going to be no KGB-style two-way mirrors or walnut-size microphones in the lampshades of this room.
He walked to the television, picked up the remote, and turned the set on. It was pretuned to CNN International. He adjusted the volume until the sound was loud enough to mask normal conversation, and then beckoned Vacario over to the TV set.
Sam put his hands up to her face, took it between his fingers, gently brought her close, and kissed her. She responded. He held her close and kissed her once more. He said, “This is madness, you know,” and then he kissed her again, with more intensity.
She bit his lower lip gently. “Oh, I know, I know.” She broke away from him, but didn’t let go of his jacket sleeve. “This isn’t like me at all, y’know.”
“What isn’t?”
“This—us. I’m not an impulsive person, Sam. I don’t do this. I’m very disciplined.”
“Me, too.” He stared at her, sensing her fragility. She was as translucent as Limoges. “Except, I’m very attracted to you.”
“Oh, damn.”
“Why damn?”
“Because I feel the same way. And here we are, in a hotel room. Worse, in Moscow of all places. And everything’s been telescoped and compressed, and I’m feeling all sorts of things I shouldn’t be feeling, especially here, and especially now.”
“Like?”
“Panic. Terror. Temptation.”
“Welcome to the club.” He shook his head. “You know, we were trained to resist this sort of thing.”
“And did you?”
“Until now.” He took her back into his arms and kissed her passionately. They stood, their bodies pressed against each other. Sam nuzzled her neck. God, she smelled good. His hands moved up and down her back, slipped under the bulky sweater. Rubbed her skin. He kissed her again, his tongue touching her teeth. He bit her lower lip and she moaned softly.
Now he put both hands under her sweater and massaged her back, and her rib cage. She moved against his body. He brought his right hand around in front, his thumb moving under her breasts.
She responded by slipping her hands under his jacket and rubbing his back, her fingers probing and pulling him closer.
He brought his hand out from under her sweater and held her head, running his fingers through her hair. “Ginny …”
They were moving in syncopation now, like dancers, closer and closer to the king-size bed. Finally, they toppled onto it, landing atop the spread without letting go of each other.
He rolled on top of her, his hands moving on her body. She wrapped her legs around him; held him tight against her. “Oh, Sam, Sam, it’s been a long time since I felt like this.”
Their clothes came off quickly after that, scattered recklessly onto the floor. Their lovemaking was quick and passionate.
Afterward, they lay entwined atop the covers. Sam rolled over just enough to grab an edge of the spread and cover her with it. “You must be chilled clear through.”
“No. I’m quite warm.” Vacario ran a hand through his hair, then stroked his shoulder, her fingernail tracing the faint crescent-shaped scar that ran down his arm. “What’s this?”
“From Vietnam. Shrapnel.”
She raised her head and kissed his shoulder. “Does it ever twinge?”
“It used to.”
Idly, he stroked the curve of her back, running his hand along her bottom. “My God, you have a lovely body.”
“It’s all that caviar and champagne.”
He nuzzled her neck. Her skin smelled of roses and cloves. “Not to mention the gallons of Chanel No. 5.”
She laughed out loud, rolled over on top of him, and kissed his nose. “I like you, Sam Waterman.”
He hugged her close. “I like you, too, Ginny Vacario.”
They kissed again passionately. He cupped a breast in his hand, bent over, and kissed the nipple. She put her hand between his legs and rubbed softly, gratified to sense his arousal. He rolled atop her and they made love again, this time more slowly and deliberately but no less passionately.
When they were lying side by side, his left hand clasping her right hand, his right hand tracing her body, she looked at him earnestly. “So.”
He rolled onto his side but didn’t let go of her hand. “So?”
“So how do we deal with this, Sam?”
He grinned. “First, we ask FSB for the videotapes.”
She smacked his hip. “Be serious.”
“First, we ask FSB—.”
“Sam …”
“I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that we have to be very … circumspect in public for the foreseeable future.”
“No posting the something-or-others. What was it O’Neill said back in Washington?”
Sam thought about it. “Posting the bans. No—definitely no posting the bans.” He caught her flash of concern. “Well, not yet anyway.”
She rolled onto her back and took his chin in her hand, her index finger on his cheek. “But in private, Sam?”
He licked between her breasts, then kissed them. “In private, we can let FSB have their cheap thrills.”
IT WAS SHORTLY past midnight when Sam slipped the key card into the slot and pushed the thick door open. He tossed his overcoat onto the back of the closest chair and pulled off the clothes he’d only minutes before climbed into, noting with a satisfied smile that his Jockey shorts and his socks were both inside out.
He hung his suit in the closet, balled the rest of his clothes up, and dropped them into a plastic bag. They’d go to the valet in the morning. He was on his way to brush his teeth when he noticed an envelope sitting on his pillow, where the mint should have been. His name was written in block letters.
Carefully, Sam took the envelope by its edges, went to the desk, turned on the lamp, and held it up to the bulb so he could make out what was inside. There was a single sheet of paper—nothing more.
He laid the envelope on the glass top of the blond wood desk, went to his shaving kit, and dug through it until he fished out a small Swiss Army knife and a pair of latex gloves. He pulled the gloves on. Then he used the sharp blade to slit the envelope. Carefully, he slid a single page of white copy paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.
He held the sheet up to the desk lamp. The watermark told him the stock was American manufactured. Centered just below the top of the page was an image of Edward Lee Howard’s Lufthansa boarding-pass stub from Frankfurt to Washington on October 10. The same stub for seat 23D Howard had left for Sam to discover in the Irish passport. In the middle of the page was the letter G, and the number 0800.
Sam refolded the sheet and put it back in the envelope. He’d have both checked for prints when he got back to the States. But he was reasonably certain he’d find neither prints nor DNA. Then he went to his document case and checked to see whether the surreptitious entry seals he’d placed on his luggage and clothes had been disturbed. They hadn’t. Sam removed them, unlocked the big leather satchel, unpacked the maps he’d brought, unfolded them, and spread them out on the bed. He checked his watch. Six and three quarter hours to go. Not enough time to prepare for Moscow Rules. But it was all the time he had.