He kept the conversation in English and resumed with some small talk. Weather, sports, and a few off-color jokes about Russian women. Then he eased into a few tidbits about local black markets and currency dealing.
Everything was grist for the mill for Alex. Little tidbits often filled out a big picture and she was amazed how much someone would talk after several shots of vodka just to show off his proficiency in English. Then again, she assumed he was throwing her information that he wanted her to know.
“What about you?” he finally asked. “Your assignment here in Kiev?”
“I think everything’s been completed. Successfully,” she added.
“Except for watching me,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That’s part of your assignment, is it not?” he asked. “Stay with me. You’re keeping an eye on Federov.”
She said nothing. He had hit the nail right on the head. But he had also primed something else that Alex found troubling about Federov. It wasn’t his massive size, it wasn’t his violent history and it wasn’t his primitive attempts at seduction. It was the way he looked at her through his hard dark eyes. The look in his eyes was one of familiarity. It was as if he knew a great deal about her, much more than he should have, much more than she would have liked.
“Drink with me and tell me the truth,” he said, “and I will drink with you and tell you the truth.”
He poured himself another shot of vodka. Then he put her shot glass in her hand, wrapped her fingers around it and held it to her lips. She held the glass.
“Pravda,” he said. The truth.
She put the glass to her lips and, with a nudge from Federov, threw back another shot.
“Yes,” she said boldly. “My government asked me to do two things. Negotiate a tax agreement with you. And to watch you.”
He laughed.
“That’s good. That’s good,” he said. “I hope you enjoy watching me because I enjoy being watched by you. How’s that?”
He nodded his huge head and seemed to want to say more. Alex, as her head whirled, leaned across him, reached for the vodka and poured him more. He seemed pleased and intrigued. He also caught the glimmer of her engagement ring as it passed.
With respect, he asked about her prospective husband. That gave her the opportunity to tell him all about Robert. In one way, she hoped it killed his mood, or his ideas. On another level, she hoped it wouldn’t. Why not keep him talking?
He laughed again eventually.
“What?” she asked.
“I brought you here to seduce you,” he said.
“I’m wearing an engagement ring.”
“To some women that wouldn’t matter.”
“To this one, it does.”
He nodded and laughed again. “What would your boyfriend say if he could see you right now?”
“Robert would be jealous,” she said.
“What if he could see you in that dress?” Federov asked. “Showing all those lovely legs to every man in the club.”
“He will see me in this dress. I’m going to wear it for him.”
“Will you tell him you were here with me?”
“Probably.”
“Let me kiss you anyway,” he said.
“Not a good idea.”
“What if I try?”
“Then I get up and leave, Yuri. Don’t do it.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a New York Rangers jersey hanging behind the bar, and she recalled what the owner had said about a brother playing ice hockey in North America. Then there was a pause. Mercifully, more food came and Natalka poured more booze. Alex sensed a little easing down of the passions on Yuri’s part.
He thanked Natalka with a pat on her backside. Alex could barely believe what Eastern European women had to tolerate.
Yuri started a cigarette and maintained a stony silence. Music started again and Yvonne-Marie stood in the wings, which Alex could see from where she sat, waiting to come on again. The music was obviously important because it allowed Yuri to talk without anyone overhearing, not even Sergei and Annette who were preoccupied with each other.
Alex was reflexively fingering the little gold cross around her neck. Could her dad ever have imagined that the little cross would trek all the way to Kiev from Southern California? What would he have thought if he could have known?
Federov caught the gesture. “You’re a Catholic?” he asked in English.
“I’m a Christian, yes,” she said. “But I’m not a Catholic.”
“You seem intelligent,” he said. “How can you believe all that superstitious religious stuff?”
She moved her hand away from the cross.
“Maybe I have faith because I am intelligent,” she said. “Ever thought of that?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then maybe you should,” she answered. “There’s a Christian remembrance service at the cathedral in two days. For the victims of the Holodomor. Come with me.”
“Why should I?”
“It might do you some good.”
“Business isn’t done in Ukraine without bribes,” he said. “Bribe me to go to church with you.”
“Bribe you how?
He shrugged. “With a kiss,” he said.
She laughed. “You never give up, do you?” she said.
Federov gave some thought to something, it appeared. A full minute passed.
Then he spoke Russian again, like most of the crowd in the restaurant. She listened carefully.
“I’m going to do you a favor, anyway,” he said finally. “I was going to do it later. After you had given me some pleasure. Instead, I’ll do it now. I will give you two pieces of information. In return, perhaps you can be my honest broker on US taxes. If I have a problem, I will contact you for advice.”
“I can’t give you advice. I can only tell you what the law is.”
“Understood,” he said. And for the first time, it occurred to her that he wanted something. Or perhaps he even needed something.
“So what’s this information?” she asked.
“When your president visits, there will be major trouble,” he said.
“We’ve heard those rumors already.”
“No,” he said. “It is assured.”
“Then what can we do to stop it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Terrible things have always happened in Ukraine. There is little control. There is a group of young men. Complete troublemakers. Terrorists. The pro-Russian Ukrainians, the filorusski. They will make trouble.”
“Where can we find them?”
“I don’t know. They are not my people or I would have them shot. I don’t look for trouble from America. I seek to avoid it.”
She considered it. “What’s the other bit of information?” she asked.
“The two spies,” he said. “The Americans named Peter Glick and Edythe Osuna?”
“I told you I don’t know those names.”
But he forged ahead. “Castel Fusano,” he said.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s where they are buried,” he said, “in Italy. They tried to kill me, these two American hoodlum assassins. They failed and they were going to try again. So I had them killed first. My people in Rome took care of it.”
In a flash, she knew he was telling her something significant.
Annette and Sergei were still pawing each other. Federov looked away, as casually as if it had just given a football score. He had nothing else to volunteer on the subject, and she had nothing else to ask. Then he looked back at her and smiled. His eyes danced. And in that moment, in that good hard look that she had of his eyes, she knew something else.
He had been the man in the square the first night, the one who quietly moved up on her at the monument. She was nonplussed.
“That’s all I have to tell you, my friend. Other than the fact that by the time you return to America, you will know I have done you a great favor.”