| |
Anya rode in the car Stepanov had sent, on the way to have dinner with him at his apartment. Tonight she would be forced to give herself to him or suffer the consequences. She'd had time to get used to the idea, but she wasn't looking forward to it. It hadn't been easy to make the decision. As much as she hated the idea, if she had to sleep with him to save her career, she'd do it.
Her only option was to use Stepanov's lust to manipulate him. The dance of power between men and women was the oldest battle in the world, sex the oldest weapon. At least there'd be a reprieve after tonight. Stepanov was going to Helsinki as a delegate to the peace conference.
She'd dressed carefully. A touch of perfume, preparations to make sure there was no risk of getting pregnant.
She'd heard nothing from the Americans since the day in the park. The man on the bench had told her someone would contact her. He hadn't said how or when. Meanwhile, she went about her job and waited for whatever was going to happen.
According to the daily accounts published in Izvestia, the offensive in Syria was going well, with only minor casualties. The paper was lying. It was true the Kurds were in retreat, but Russian casualties were much greater than reported. The public wouldn't be so enthusiastic about the war if they knew the cost. She knew what the cost was.
Russian blood.
Grigori's blood.
She wondered if her letter to the Americans had reached anyone who could make a difference. She didn't think it would change the outcome of what happened in Syria. It was obvious what the Russian forces intended to do and what their objectives were. She hadn't revealed anything the Americans probably didn't know. She'd only wanted to show them she had access to military operations. That she was willing to give them information, if it helped prevent a larger war. The man on the bishops' bench meant she'd succeeded in piquing their interest.
Anya had surprised herself by the way she'd felt after meeting the American. She had just betrayed her country. Part of her had expected something dramatic to happen. To walk out of the park and be arrested, or to come home and find the FSB waiting for her. Perhaps for the sky to open, to hear a booming voice call down wrath upon her.
But nothing had happened. Instead she'd felt relieved, as if a burden had been lifted from her. She'd gone home, spent the rest of the afternoon with her mother, made dinner, watched television for a while, and gone to bed. A perfectly normal and boring day, except for what had happened in the park.
Tonight promised to be anything but boring.
Stepanov met her at the door with a glass of wine in his hand. He wore a black shirt open at the collar, exposing thick chest hair. She caught a whiff of cologne.
At least it's a pleasant scent.
"You look lovely, my dear."
"Thank you, Yuri."
"Come, have a glass of wine with me. It's from Italy, a rare vintage. It will go well with the food. I've had the chef prepare an Italian meal for us."
"I didn't know you were a gourmet."
"There are many things you don't know about me, Anya. I hope that soon we will get to know each other much better."
He poured a large glass of wine for her. They went into the living room and sat on one of the white leather couches.
The wine was a deep, ruby color, almost purple. It clung to the sides of the glass like honey as she swirled it around. She inhaled the aroma, a rich scent that evoked images of distant hillsides, sunlight and dark earth. She sipped. It bloomed in her mouth.
"Exquisite," she said.
Stepanov looked pleased.
"I'm glad to see you appreciate it. Wine is a social drink. When I'm by myself, I usually drink vodka. But wine like this requires company for enjoyment."
"Tolstoy would not approve," Anya said. "He thought drinking wine was a mistake, that people drank only to push away the voice of their inner spiritual being, their conscience."
"Most likely Tolstoy didn't have much enjoyment in his life," Yuri said.
"Perhaps he would have changed his mind if he had drunk wine like this."
Anya smiled at him.
"What a pleasure it is to have an intelligent conversation," Stepanov said. He raised his glass. "To Tolstoy."
They drank. Stepanov filled her glass again.
"You know I am going to the conference in Helsinki?" he said.
"Do you think it will produce any results?"
"It's a waste of time. Nothing will come of it."
"They must know we will not leave Syria because they want us to," Anya said.
"Their president is new to his job. He hasn't learned that we cannot be intimidated by saber rattling. If they do anything rash, they will find that out."
Stepanov sipped his wine and looked at her over the glass.
"I want you to accompany me to Finland. I've already added you to the list of delegates from the Federation. Your extensive knowledge of our operations in Syria makes you a reasonable choice. You will sit behind me at the conference table. I may have occasion to ask you about something."
Shit. That's not why he wants me to come to Finland.
"Of course, Yuri. I would be happy to assist."
"Have you ever been to Helsinki?"
"No. I've never been outside our borders."
"It will be quite an experience for you. Helsinki is very civilized. You will enjoy it. There should be opportunities for you to explore the city. Come, let's eat."
The table was loaded with food, as it had been the first time she'd come to his apartment. An assortment of cheeses, breads and vegetables was placed next to platters of chicken and fish. A large salad sat on the side. There was pasta and soup. It was more than any two people could eat.
"We could do it in the traditional Italian way and take things in order," Stepanov said. "I prefer to simply choose whatever one likes. Please, take as you wish."
Anya ate little, anticipating what was to come. She finished her wine while they talked and ate. Stepanov filled her class a third time. When they were done eating, Stepanov poured a small glass of golden liquor for her. It tasted of honey and autumn sunlight.
Stepanov stood and took her hand.
"This way," he said.
He picked up the bottle of liquor and led her to the bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, the room was done in shades of black and white. The bed was wide, deep, the bedcovers turned back. The sheets were of red satin. A large mirror was mounted on the ceiling above, another on the opposite wall facing the bed.
Stepanov pointed at an open door.
"The bathroom is there. You will find a robe on the back of the door."
"I'll be back in a minute," she said.
Anya went into the bathroom and closed the door. The fixtures were gold. Perhaps plated, perhaps not. A pale blue silk robe hung on the bathroom door. She gripped the edge of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror.
Get it over with.
She took off her clothes and put on the robe. The silk caressed her skin.
When she came out, Stepanov was lying naked on his back, his large penis pointing at the mirrored ceiling. His body was covered with hair. He watched her walk across the room.
"Take off your robe," he said.
She shrugged off the robe and let it fall to the floor.
"You are very beautiful, Anya."
In spite of herself she looked at his erect organ.
"Come here," he said.
Later, she couldn't remember much except the unpleasant feeling of his body against her and his animal grunts of passion. She was glad she'd had that third glass of wine. It wasn't enough to make the sex pleasurable, but it helped make it endurable.
After a while, Stepanov fell asleep, sated. He began snoring. She got up, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When she'd washed away as much of him as she could, she still felt unclean. She turned off the water, dried herself, and put on her clothes. Stepanov would not want her there in the morning. Of that she was sure.
His snores were loud and deep as she came out of the bathroom. She dressed quickly and left the bedroom. She passed a door on her left, open to a library and study.
Stepanov's briefcase sat on the floor, next to a desk. She could hear his snores coming from the bedroom. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she went into the room. The briefcase was unlocked. Inside was an unmarked folder.
She opened it and began reading. It was an evaluation of combat unit readiness. Anya was used to seeing things like this, but there was something different about the file she held in her hands. Her job meant she knew almost everything there was to know about the Federation's military, but this folder contained references to units she'd never heard of. They all had one thing in common. They were specialized submarine units, secret units.
They had another thing in common as well. They were all currently at sea. Under Tarasov, the submarine fleet had become a primary weapon in Russia's wartime arsenal.
With a shock, she realized the list must mean the Federation was getting ready for war. She placed the folder back in the briefcase, closed it, and set it back down by the desk.
Her worst fears were coming true.