His reasoning made sense, but it still robbed her of his company.
She circulated through the room, secretly enjoying the looks coming her way from the embassy staffers and guests alike. Prudence would have dictated wearing something drab and unnoticeable — anything in gray, perhaps. After all, as a suspected agent of the CIA she was basically a prisoner in the embassy and an embarrassment to the regular diplomatic functionaries. Under the circumstances, it might even have been more discreet not to show up at all. And for a time she’d seriously considered staying in her quarters, after all. But then a streak of defiance had surfaced. Why not, she’d thought, why not go out in a blaze of glory?
Glory in this context translated into a backless, emerald-green satin dress, high heels, emerald earrings, and upswept, elegantly styled hair. From the appreciative murmurs and discreet nudges she noticed in passing, it appeared she had achieved the effect she’d been aiming for. Undiplomatic, yes. Indiscreet, absolutely. But definitely stunning.
Erin took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to survey the crowd.
She found herself face-to-face with a tall, good-looking man in uniform. A Russian Army uniform. Her eyes flicked down to the name tag stuck above rows of service ribbons and decorations she couldn’t recognize: “Col. Valentin Soloviev.” The name was familiar. Then it clicked. This was the officer Alex called “Kaminov’s hit man.” Strange. He didn’t look at all the way she had pictured him.
Erin was suddenly aware Soloviev had been inspecting her just as closely. “You are Miss McKenna?” He smiled briefly. “They tell me you’re a spy.”
“And you’re Colonel Soloviev. They tell me you’re a tyrant.”
“We sound like a terrible pair, don’t we?” the Russian colonel said dryly. “I cannot imagine why either one of us received an invitation.”
Erin found herself smiling almost against her will. She laughed. “Neither can I, Colonel. Perhaps we’re supposed to cling together under a little black cloud.”
She’d never seen gray eyes twinkle before. “I can think of worse fates, Miss McKenna.”
Off behind them, the band began playing Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”
Soloviev half turned toward the music and then swiveled back. He held out a hand. “Would you care to dance?”
She surprised herself by nodding. “I’d love to.”
He led her through the crowd to relatively open air near the band. Two or three couples were already there, swaying and spinning in perfect time with the music. Erin noticed her colleagues’ eyes widening as she and the tall Russian officer passed by. It amused her. Devil or not, Soloviev seemed to have a born aristocrat’s disdain for petty convention. High-ranking members of Marshal Kaminov’s inner circle were very definitely not supposed to hobnob with suspected American intelligence operatives.
He was also a first-rate dancer.
As they slowly spun across the floor, he murmured in her ear, “I must say that you are a most unusual espionage agent, Miss McKenna. A refreshing change from the usual, pipe-smoking Ivy Leaguers we see here in Moscow.”
She laughed, imagining Banich with a pipe clenched between his teeth. He’d look absolutely ridiculous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I’m really just a boring commercial attaché. The only spies I see here are those men practically padlocked to the drinks table.” She nodded toward a little knot of Russians eagerly downing the ambassador’s vodka.
Soloviev smiled down at her. “Of course.”
They danced together, moving gracefully in oddly contented silence, until the song ended in a polite patter of applause. Soloviev held her close for just a moment longer and then stepped back, bowing. “My thanks.”
His lips brushed across the back of her outstretched hand.
Erin stiffened. Not because she was embarrassed by his oddly old-fashioned courtesy, but because he’d just slipped a folded piece of paper into her hand. The colonel straightened up. His face was quite calm, perfectly still. “I enjoyed myself, Miss McKenna. Perhaps we shall dance again one day.”
She nodded without speaking and watched him move off into the crowd. Still bemused, she noticed that many of the women looked after him with just a hint of longing and most of the men with a mix of admiration and jealousy. She forced herself back to reality. What the hell had just happened?
For the first time that evening, Erin wished she had dressed grayly and inconspicuously. It took her several minutes to find a quiet corner where she could study what the Russian soldier had passed her without being observed.
It was a brief note in strong, masculine handwriting. “I must see you again. Come running with me. Alone. At 6 A.M. on the day after tomorrow at the Novodevichy Convent. The matter is urgent.”
Erin looked up in astonishment, instinctively seeking Soloviev’s distinctive features among a blur of several hundred different faces. He was gone.
She refolded the note and headed upstairs for the chancery building’s Secure Section. Whatever was going on was not something she could keep to herself.
Thirty minutes later, Erin and Alex Banich sat in the Moscow Station chief’s office. Len Kutner stared down at the unfolded piece of paper lying on his desk. He tugged at the tight collar of his tux, loosening it slightly, and looked up. “What’s your read on this, Alex?”
“It’s a setup.” Banich was insistent. “That son-of-a-bitch Soloviev is trouble. With a capital T. Or maybe with a capital K — for KGB.”
“The KGB doesn’t exist anymore,” Erin pointed out.
“The hell it doesn’t!” Banich exploded. “They can call it the FIS, or whatever else they want, but it’s still the same damned thing.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t think so. He didn’t seem like one of them.”
“That’s the point.” Banich frowned at her. “Don’t forget, I’ve dealt with this guy before. Soloviev’s as smooth as silk. All smiles and easy charm right up until he plants a stiletto between your ribs!”
Kutner leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Maybe so. But I still don’t see why one of Kaminov’s senior advisors would get personally involved in a sting op.”
“Because he’s the perfect bait. Highly placed and well connected. They know we’ll be tempted to play along just on the off chance he is genuine.” Banich shrugged. “All the more reason to give this one a pass.”
“But why now?” Erin asked. “The FIS has had me pegged as an intelligence agent for months. Why wait this long to come hunting me?”
“Because something’s in the wind. Something they don’t want us to know about. Maybe connected with Poland. Maybe not.” Banich turned to Kutner. “You saw my report on the airport clampdown. Not even Kaminov would throw that many security personnel around on a whim.”
“Yeah.”
“Then you can see what these bastards could have in mind. They must know we’ve got a network here in Moscow — one they haven’t been able to penetrate yet.” Banich nodded toward Erin. “Say they lure McKenna outside the embassy, pass her a few worthless state secrets, and then grab her red-handed. The FIS gets two big pluses from that. One, they disrupt our operations and force us to commit resources arranging a swap or a buy-back. Two, they can break her wide open under interrogation.”
He lowered his voice. “She knows too much, Len. My name. My cover. The trading company. Everything. And the frigging Russians would get it all.”
Erin flushed angrily at the implication that she would spill secrets so easily. But she had to admit that Banich was probably right. She was an analyst, not a field agent. She didn’t have the training to withstand prolonged questioning — whether under torture or drugs.