Danny’s own prejudice was the opposite: be honest and tell people what was going on. It was a military mind-set.
“Enjoy Ukraine,” said the customs clerk, handing his passport back.
Danny saw McEwen and Hera waiting a short distance beyond the stations.
“How’d you guys get through so fast?” he asked.
“You have to pick the right line,” said McEwen. “But it helps to look like a little old lady.”
“The secret to your success,” said Hera.
“Don’t be jealous, dear.”
There were two rentals waiting for them at Hertz, so-called mid-sized Fords, which would have been considered subcompacts back in the States. Hera rode with McEwen, while Danny followed. McEwen might have been old, but she drove with a lead foot — he lost her before they’d gone two miles, and had to use MY-PID’s GPS to find the hotel. By the time he got there, the two women had already checked in.
“Ready for a tour?” McEwen asked as Danny finished registering.
“Love to,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
The hotel was in an old building in the business district. While the facade was boring and plain, the interior had been renovated recently and the place still smelled of paint. The design mixed old-style plaster details with occasional chrome and sleek marble. It wasn’t retro and it wasn’t modern, but it somehow caught Kiev’s spirit, at least as espoused by the chamber of commerce: “The future building on the past, moving ahead with expediency.”
More than three million people lived in Kiev, making it one of Europe’s largest cities. Besides being the capital of Ukraine, it was looked on as the center of opposition to the Russian bear, both politically and culturally, the counter to Moscow’s notoriously heavy hand. That had both good and bad aspects — while it helped draw a vibrant class of artists and entrepreneurs, it also made it the focus of Russian resentments. There was a sizable Russian spy network in the city, McEwen warned; they should always proceed under the theory that they were being watched or about to be watched.
The city was slightly cooler than Washington had been, though not unpleasantly so; the average high for May was just under 70 Fahrenheit, and though it was still only mid-morning, the temperature had just topped 72. Danny could have gone around in shirtsleeves, but took his light leather jacket, where it was easier to keep his MY-PID.
The NATO meeting was to be held in the Kiev Fortress, a historic complex near the center of the city. A good portion of the fortress had been turned into a museum, open to the public; the rest consisted of government buildings. McEwen started there, taking them on a quick tour of the general area, driving Lesi Ukrainky Boulevard, a thick artery that paralleled the Dnieper River on the city’s western half.
The road had just been paved, and unlike most of the city’s streets, was smooth and pothole free. It was tree-lined, with an island through much of the middle; driving down it, Danny got the impression of an area that was sophisticated but slightly sleepy, as if it still belonged to the early nineteenth century. This was in contrast to the rest of the city, which over the past two or three years had undergone rapid growth. New buildings were everywhere along the river.
McEwen was surprised by the amount of change that had occurred in the past twelve or thirteen months; she kept marveling at the different buildings she said had sprung up since she last visited.
“We can take a tour of the fort tomorrow,” the CIA officer recommended. “It’ll be better to see the general layout of the city first, and set up some of the logistics. We need a place to operate out of.”
“What’s wrong with the hotel we just checked into?” asked Danny.
“What’s the expression, Colonel?” said McEwen. “You don’t shit where you live.”
Hera laughed. “Do you kiss your grandkids with that mouth?”
“I don’t have any grandkids. Or children, for that matter. We’re going to want a place convenient to the museum where you can have people coming and going,” added McEwen. “Someplace where a half-dozen Americans wouldn’t seem odd.”
“Minnesota would be perfect,” said Hera.
“That might be a little far,” said Danny. He hadn’t remembered Hera being so jovial on their last mission, and she was downright taciturn at home. But she’d clearly taken a liking to McEwen.
“I know someone who owns a restaurant in that row of buildings there,” McEwen told him, pointing to a row of one-story storefronts. “It’s not a very popular place, which is a positive for us. We could probably use their back room. For a price, of course.”
“You trust them?” asked Danny.
“To an extent. Never trust anyone, Colonel. Not with your life.”
McEwen took them over, parking along the street about a block away. Danny saw instantly why she liked the area — it had a view of the museum’s entrance, but seemed somehow invisible to it, or at least to the tourists who were mostly arriving by bus. There were four other storefronts; two were empty, and the other belonged to a tailor whom McEwen said only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
It was just about dinnertime, but the restaurant had only two customers — a young man and woman with backpacks — who sat at a table next to the large plate-glass window in the front. They were staring at the menu as Danny and the others passed outside, talking in whispered tones as they came in.
If the place had ever had a heyday, this wasn’t it. The tables and chairs were made of wood and looked to be about thirty or forty years old, their finish worn down by use, though the thick legs looked and felt sturdy enough. The walls were painted a yellow that had probably been bright when fresh but was now a kind of dull backdrop to the assorted paintings of Kiev that hung across them in a straight line, almost frame-to-frame, on both sides of the room. The paintings were in a variety of styles, by different artists, but were all the same size. They showed different landmarks in the city, along with a few from the countryside.
A waitress came out of the back. Dressed in a light blue skirt with a checkered blue and white blouse, she was twelve or thirteen, just at the age between child and young woman. About five-two, a little chubby, and nearsighted, she squinted when she saw them, pushing her head forward on her neck as if she were a gopher coming out of her hole.
Then she squealed.
“Sal!” she said, rushing toward them. “How are you?”
McEwen folded her arms around the girl. She said something in Ukrainian. The girl replied, then stepping back, said in English that she must only speak English.
“My English has became bad since I haven’t saw you,” said the girl. “I have to practice.”
“Of course we’ll practice,” said McEwen. “These are my friends,” she added, gesturing toward Danny and Hera. “Can we get something to eat?”
“Of course. Wait — mama is in the back.”
“Sit,” McEwen told Danny and Hera. She pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting, went over to the young couple in the front of the room. Danny watched as she asked them, in English, if they were having trouble with the menu, which was in Ukrainian. By the time the cook emerged from the back, she had made several recommendations and told them how to pronounce what they wanted.
The cook was a slightly larger version of the waitress. Her large red cheeks were puffed with a smile. She had flour on her forearms and just a daub of it in her hair. Her white apron, which was pulled so tight against her body it looked as if it would burst, was spotless.
“Sal, Sal, so long we’ve not seen you!” she said.
They embraced.
McEwen introduced them. The cook was the owner; her name sounded like “Nezalehno” to Danny. She promised to fix them a nice dinner, then disappeared with the waitress into the back.