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Anya was glad to be back in Moscow, back at her job. When she was in her office she could pretend she was in control of her life. It had been hard enough to keep up the pretense when she'd been forced into Stepanov's bed. Now that she'd taken the enormous step of betrayal, it was nearly impossible.
Tarasov and his reactionary generals were chasing a dangerous illusion, a return to the days when the world trembled before Russian power. She was doing the right thing, she was sure of it. Then why did she feel so guilty?
It didn't take a psychologist to figure it out. What she was doing was treason. The fact that it was treason in a good cause didn't change the reality. In her wildest thoughts, Anya had never dreamed she would betray her country. Never dreamed she would meet an American spy.
It didn't help that this particular American spy was understanding, good looking, sympathetic. She kept thinking about the strange current she'd felt when she touched him. It wasn't like the kind of shock you got from static electricity, it was something more powerful. She couldn't get his face out of her mind.
There was something in his eyes that had touched her. Something real. She pictured him wrapping his arms around her, holding her. Sudden heat flooded her groin. Damn it, how could she be attracted to him? Why couldn't he have been patronizing and dismissive, like most of the Russian men she knew? Then it would have been easy to back out of what she'd started. But she didn't want to break the connection with him.
It was too late to back out. She was committed.
She looked through her office window at the orderly chaos of her command. There was always movement on the floor. People in their cubicles, focused on their monitors, talking on the phone, moving about. They were like family to her. She felt responsible for them. She worried about them. It made her angry that the generals in the Kremlin would put them at risk because they wanted more power. She had never been a religious person, but it was like something out of the Book of Revelation.
War. The Red Horseman.
She thought of the day Grigori told her he'd been picked for Special Forces. He'd handed her a cloth patch that showed an eagle flying past mountains in the background. The number "22" was sewn in red at the bottom.
"What's this?"
"My new unit patch. The 22nd Special Purpose Brigade."
She remembered the look on his face, the pride.
"Think about it, Anya. Your little brother, Spetsnaz! The best of the best! It's a long way from when you used to change my diaper and wipe my butt."
"When do you start?"
"I report the day after tomorrow. The only reason I got a pass was because my sergeant knows how to get around the bureaucracy."
Anya had laughed. "I could use someone like him."
"Come on, you're a Colonel. You can do whatever you want."
"Not quite. Only generals get to do whatever they want."
She looked at him, at the man he'd become.
"I'm proud of you, Grigori. Please promise me you'll be careful."
"Don't worry, we're not at war."
"Yes, but things happen."
"You're thinking of Mikhail."
"I suppose I was."
"It will be okay, Sis."
But it hadn't been okay.
A sudden wave of grief rolled over her. She took a deep breath, another, brought her emotions under control.
Think of something else. Helsinki.
The peace conference, a fiasco. It had ended after three days with the Russian delegation walking out. The conference had accomplished nothing. Then again, no one had expected it to.
The war was not going well. The Kurds had retreated to fortified positions in the northeast corner of the country. They were well armed with American weapons and every meter of worthless desert gained was at the cost of Russian blood. It was like the first Chechen war all over again. Then it had taken many months and many casualties to dislodge rebel forces from their strongholds, in spite of overwhelming Russian military superiority.
The offensive was stalled, bogged down by the fierce opposition. Someone had to be blamed. General Chernov had been recalled and was on his way back to Moscow. The truth was being kept from the public, but sooner or later it would come out.
The Americans would want to know about the change in command, the mounting cost in blood and treasure. She decided to ask Professor Sokolov to get another message through to the embassy. The day after tomorrow was Sunday. He'd be at the chess tables in the park.
She'd look for him there.