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As expected, the first day of the Helsinki conference was spent bickering about protocols and rules. Nothing was accomplished that offered hope for peace in Syria, but no one had expected the first day to produce anything worthwhile. For Anya, it was a day of sheer boredom.
The Federation delegation was headed by the Russian Foreign Minister, Arkady Lebedev. He was backed up by the Minister of Defense, General Fedorov. Stepanov and General Kerensky were the other ranking delegates from the Federation.
The Americans had sent a delegation headed by their Secretary of State. Edward Demarest was an unknown quantity to the Russians. He'd been a major donor to Campbell's campaign. Before his appointment, he'd been CEO of a large corporation that manufactured agricultural machinery. Demarest was a short man given to plain, dark suits and a no-nonsense approach to his job. He had a deceptively mild appearance that reminded people of Harry Truman. The impression was strengthened by old-fashioned round glasses with steel frames. He seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere of the conference.
Accompanying Demarest were General Kroger from the Joint Chiefs, several ranking American officers, some civilians associated with the White House and Congress, and a gaggle of aides. Both sides of the conference table glittered with medals, gold braid, impeccable uniforms, and tailored power suits. Syrian and Turkish observers lined opposite sides of the room, glaring at each other.
A second row of chairs had been placed behind each of the major participants at the table. Anya's was directly behind Stepanov. She'd been relieved to learn Major Petrov wasn't part of the Russian delegation. It meant she didn't have to put up with his snide looks and bad breath.
She still had to put up with Stepanov. She was careful to maintain the appearance of strict professionalism with him in public. Rumors were already swirling about them. It was essential to maintain appearances.
For now, Stepanov was on his guard around her, but in time he would begin to relax. One day there would be an opportunity to bring him down. For the moment, she had no choice but to play the role he'd scripted for her.
The night before, she'd left his hotel room a little before midnight. For an older man, Stepanov had a lot of stamina. He was an aggressive lover, with little consideration for his partner. His lovemaking bordered on rape. She'd slept badly, woken bruised and sore. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she decided she would have to do something to curb his passion. She had a friend who was a pharmacist who might help. Maybe she could give her something to put in Stepanov's wine. Slow him down, put him to sleep. But she'd have to be careful.
The only interesting thing to come out of the first day's discussions was a proposal that the opposing parties do away with their uniforms and meet wearing civilian clothes. The moderator had suggested the change, as a way to tone down the hostile military atmosphere in the room. None of the generals and admirals were happy about giving up the prestige of their uniform, but they had all agreed. The idea was touted in the press as progress.
The hotel phone rang. She picked up.
"Colonel Volkova."
"Colonel, this is General Stepanov. This morning's session has been canceled. Something the moderator ate last night didn't agree with him. We are not going to resume until one o'clock this afternoon. General Fedorov, General Kerensky and myself have some things to discuss. I won't be needing you. You are free to explore Helsinki this morning, if you wish."
"Thank you, sir."
"Be back here by noon."
"Yes, sir."
Stepanov hung up.
So, a morning of relative freedom. It was an unexpected gift. She decided to have breakfast in the hotel restaurant and take in the sights of the city. She put on a light jacket, did a final check in the mirror, and left her room.
In another part of the hotel, Thorne was about to go downstairs for breakfast when his phone buzzed.
"Thorne."
"Michael, this is Scott Davidson. I want to talk with you about your assignment. Is this a good time?"
"As good as any. I was about to get some breakfast."
"I won't keep you long. The individual in question has been designated OPERA. When do you think you'll make contact?"
"That's impossible to say. At the first opportunity is the best I can tell you."
"Yes, I understand. I worked the street myself at one point."
Yeah, I know all about your time in Rome. What a jerk.
"I want you to let me know as soon you make the connection. DCI Kramer has asked me to keep her informed."
"What about Carlson? Normally I report to him."
"By all means, report to Lewis. But I want you to give me a heads-up first. Timely updates. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir. We're clear."
"Good. Then I'll expect to hear from you later today."
Davidson disconnected. Thorne looked at the phone in his hand.
There was no operational reason for Davidson to contact him. That meant there was a hidden agenda. Thorne's first thought was that it was a power play at Carlson's expense. He didn't like Lewis much, but if he did what Davidson asked it would get back to him. He'd go ballistic. It would create trouble Thorne didn't need.
Davidson was ambitious. Everyone knew he wanted Kramer's job, including Kramer. Thorne thought Kramer found it amusing. Carlson was after Davidson's job, with his eye on the ultimate goal of the directorship. Kramer liked to play the two of them off against each other.
The last thing Thorne wanted was to get caught up in the cesspool of seventh floor politics. When the gods started scheming, it was best to stay out of their way.
Rumbling in his stomach reminded him he was hungry. He put on a sport jacket and went downstairs to the crowded restaurant. He joined a line of people waiting to be seated. Colonel Volkova was seated alone, near one of the windows. The morning sunlight bathed her face and made a halo around her hair. It took his breath away.
God, she's beautiful. Like an angel.
The line moved and he was next. The hostess looked around the restaurant. She said something in Finnish.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak Finnish," Thorne said. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes, I do. There are no tables free. Would you like to wait? Or are you willing to share a table?"
Europe was different from America. Sharing tables in crowded restaurants was considered normal, no one thought anything of it. There was only one table that could be shared, the one where Volkova sat.
There were other people from the Russian delegation in the restaurant. Thorne didn't know who was security, but someone was. He couldn't be seen talking to her.
"Thanks, I've changed my mind."
Thorne turned and walked into the lobby. A sign announced cancellation of the morning session. A table with coffee, tea, and pastries had been set up near the reception desk. He poured himself a cup of coffee, picked up a bun covered with sugar and raisins, and sat down where he could watch the restaurant entrance. With the morning session canceled, what would Volkova do? Was she free? Had she been given the morning off? Or would Stepanov want her for something?
The image of how she'd looked sitting in the light stuck in his mind. He munched on the bun and drank his coffee, thinking about her.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the restaurant. She stopped at a rack full of tourist brochures near the desk, took one, and left the hotel. Thorne waited to see if anyone came out of the restaurant after her, then got up and followed. As he passed the rack, he took a duplicate of the brochure she'd chosen.
It showed a picture of Helsinki Cathedral.