“Monstrous, huh?” Friedman mused. “It was put there by Khrushchev on the four hundredth anniversary of the Treaty of Pereyaslav. The Ukrainians thought they were allying themselves to Russia, and Russia thought the Ukrainians were giving themselves over to the Russians. I don’t have to tell you who got the dirty end of the stick. That’s how it goes in this part of the world. Even when you’re not screwed, you are.”
“I’m surprised the sculpture hasn’t been removed, now that Ukraine is independent,” Alex said, giving it a final glance and turning away.
“This is a complicated country,” Friedman replied.
“I understand there could be trouble when the president visits,”she said.
He snorted slightly. “If it happens, it happens. We take every safeguard we can, but you can’t be on Red Alert twenty-four hours every day of your life. Know what I mean?”
“I know,” she said. “Is there anything on my schedule yet for tomorrow?”
“I do know the answer to that,” Friedman said. “The ambassador wishes to greet you himself. We’re enormously busy with the preparations for the presidential visit, but I know he has some time scheduled for you.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“We’ll pick you up at nine,” he said. “Same car. Stosh is my normal driver.”
“Perfect.”
Stosh gave her a low quiet bow.
“Tomorrow you’ll be in briefings all day,” Friedman said. “There’s a reception at the ambassador’s residence in the evening. You’ll find an invitation in your welcome kit here,” he said, handing over a folder he had brought with him.
She knew from her visit to Nigeria that every US embassy provided guests with such kits, including maps of the city and little phrase-books. “The day afterward, you’ll have more briefings in the morning. Then there’s a ‘Ukrainian businessman’ on your schedule for the afternoon and evening,” Friedman continued. “Yuri Federov.”
They started to move toward the front door of the hotel.
A doorman intercepted them to help with the bags.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the name,” Friedman said.
A hesitation, then she said. “I know who he is. Back in Washington, they enrolled me in a ‘Thug of the Month’ club. He’s my thug this month.”
Friedman laughed slightly and had a knowing look in his eye.
“Impossible not to know that name,” he said. “Well, an assignment’s an assignment. You’ve even got a number for him in your cell phone. Good luck.”
Stosh pulled on Friedman’s sleeve. Friedman stopped as the door man went ahead with the bags. In a low voice, Stosh spoke to Friedman in Ukrainian.
Alex listened. Friedman answered in Ukrainian, not terribly alarmed.
“What was that all about?” Alex asked after they had passed into the lobby.
“Stosh says we were followed over here. Two men in a Mercedes. I didn’t see them, but he was watching. He says they’re gangsters. Whoop-dee-do.” He paused. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. I can’t go to the airport without a tail. No big deal. And don’t be put off by something like that. The Ukrainians like Americans. They want to do business with us, most of them. Of course, after the Russians, we’d look good to anyone.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
“For what?”
“For telling me honestly what your driver said. I listened in. I understood.”
“Very good,” Friedman said with a raised eyebrow. “Smart. Don’t trust anyone. You’ll do well here.” He handed her the attaché case. “Open this when you have a chance,” he said.
She hefted it in her hand. It was heavy.
“Vodka,” he said.
“Vodka,” she repeated with a smile. “Or maybe something even better.”
Fifteen minutes later, having checked in, she opened the attaché case. Within it, was a box, the wrong shape for a vodka bottle, but wrapped in bright red paper, the color of blood.
She worked away the wrapping. The contents of the box were nothing she could drink; the box came unhinged and clicked open. There was a small pistol within.
Welcome to Ukraine. The piece was a Walther PPK 9 mm short. She checked it to make sure it wasn’t loaded. It wasn’t. She hefted it in her hand. It was slim and sleek and would carry well beneath a jacket or coat. And she knew it could pack a lethal wallop if necessary.
The PPK commonly chambered 7.65 mm auto rounds. It could carry seven in the magazine plus one chambered if one wanted to live-or die-with the notion of it accidentally going off. For security services, this version, the 9 mm short was a better choice. It could hit harder than the 7.65 mm. Because the cartridges were fatter, however, only six 9 mm short bullets could be carried in the magazine, plus one in the chamber if desired. Like its larger counterpart, the Walther P38, the PPK also had a double-action trigger to permit a fast first shot.
The gun was favored by many armed agencies, including the fictional ones of James Bond. But in the real world the weapon was known to suffer metal fatigue and malfunction. Thirty years earlier, this had nearly ended in disaster for Britain’s Princess Anne when her bodyguard’s PPK jammed during a hijack attempt in 1974. He took three bullets himself but lived to tell about it.
But at least it was compact. With it, a dozen bullets and a nylon holster, the type a woman can attach to a belt and wear under a jacket.
Someone somewhere was thinking of everything.
That, or someone somewhere expected some serious trouble.
TWENTY-EIGHT
In the evening, Alex had dinner by herself in the hotel restaurant. The food was ordinary but wasn’t bad either; the ex-Soviet states still had a ways to go for business travelers and tourists. The restaurant was on the top floor of the hotel. Though night had fallen she could see the lights of part of the city below.
Afterward she asked the desk staff if the neighborhood was safe for a single woman. “Most times, but not always,” a girl at the front desk advised. A man at the desk advised Alex to stay visible in the park.
She took her cell phone and, just in case, tucked the loaded Walther into the pocket of the heavy coat she had brought. American women were always targets in places like this. Fortunately, she had also brought a pair of durable boots that looked good yet were warm. She walked out into a freezing night for air. There was ice all over the sidewalks and public square.
She could see floodlights and a monument in nearby Khreschatyk Park. She walked toward it, stepping carefully through the ice and encrusted snow. There was little traffic; compared to an American city, Kiev was eerily quiet.
Before her, growing larger as she approached, was a rainbow-shaped arch, reminiscent of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri, but smaller. She arrived there and put her knowledge of Ukrainian language to good use. More pre-glasnost propaganda in granite and steel. The sculptures had gone up in 1982.
The Friendship Arch, read the sign.
Underneath the Friendship Arch there were two statues, both illuminated. One to her right was in granite and showed a huddled mass of peasants. It commemorated the great treaty of 1664, the one that sold the soul of Ukraine to Russia. The one to her left was the statue Friedman had pointed out on the ride in from the airport. It was made of bronze and depicted two workers, one Russian and one Ukrainian, as they held aloft the Soviet Order of Friendship of Peoples.
A harsh wind kicked up and bit through her coat. It must have been fifteen degrees but the wind chill made it feel even colder. Her face stung from the icy air. She wrapped a scarf around her throat and the lower part of her face.
She gazed at the monuments, feeling very alone as she looked at them. They were creepy in their oppressiveness combined with the deep silence. She was happy that she could leave this place in a few days and return to an America where she could vote as she wished, think as she wished, and worship as she wished. Some people would have called her an old fashioned flag-waver, and she was as aware of her own country’s faults and shortcomings as anyone. But no one was putting up official statues trying to tell her what to think, and even if someone did, she was under no obligation to look at it.