They had never been friends in the past, and the damnedest thing was that he wasn’t sure they were now. Wasn’t even sure they had much in common besides a die-hard loyalty to Roger Gordian, jobs that had required them to be sent thousands of miles from home to a country neither particularly wanted to be in, and a physical attraction that had seized them both fiercely from the moment they had realized it was there. They hardly knew each other, hardly knew what to say to each other when they weren’t discussing professional matters, and yet they were passionate, almost insatiable, lovers. No ambiguity on that account.
“I have to get going, Max,” she said, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “Scully wanted to meet me over at the communications center this morning.”
He sat up against his headboard. “It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Early this morning,” she said. “What can I tell you? Scull’s got a way of making people humor him.”
“What’s the fire?”
“Depends on when you’re asking.” She shrugged. His eye caught how the material pulled slightly over the curve of her breast. “A couple days ago he was concerned that we had too many of the technicians involved in reconfiguring the mainframe software for the Politika databases. Feels the operation’s draining manpower and technical resources away from completion of the satellite facilities… which, in his opinion, ought to be our foremost priority here.”
“And his latest worry?”
“It builds on the first. He says that the security detail’s stretched thin, given that we’ve shifted our emphasis toward intelligence gathering, and inserted ourselves into a volatile international situation. My guess is he’s going to give me a grand tour to prove his point, then push for me to expand the force.”
“I didn’t know that sort of thing fell within his bailiwick.” Max smiled. “Actually, it occurs to me that it ought to be in mine. Last anyone told me, I was assistant director of Sword.”
She put a hand on his chest. It felt cool where it touched his skin, yet oddly made him warm at the same time. He supposed that was a rough but adequate metaphor for their relationship.
No, he thought. Not relationship. Involvement. That was a much better word.
“Scull has problems recognizing that his authority has limits. And because he’s been giving orders to people for so long, so does everybody else,” she said.
“I wonder if he’s gotten wind that we’re sleeping together,” Max said. “That’s just the sort of thing that would piss him off.”
She looked amused. “You really think so?”
“Scull hasn’t been having a good time of it being stuck in the middle of nowhere. And when he’s miserable, he doesn’t want to know about anyone else enjoying himself.”
“Or herself.”
“Glad to know it’s mutual.”
“Exceedingly, and perhaps even multiply on occasion.” She glanced down at the sheet over his waist, saw the response her touch had elicited in him, and gave him a look of mild but unblushing surprise.
“Dear me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to distract you from our conversation.”
He looked down at himself.
“Semper fi,” he said.
“Spoken like a true ex-marine.” She was still smiling like that cat that ate the canary. “Uh, if I may get back to the previous subject a moment, how do you think I should address Scull’s concerns? His stated ones, that is.”
Blackburn was thinking he didn’t want to talk about that now. Didn’t want to talk, period. As she obviously was well aware.
He traced a finger lightly up her thigh, reached the hem of her robe, considered venturing higher.
“I think I’d like to persuade you to give him a buzz and advise him you’ll be a half hour late.”
“I think I’d like that, too, which is why I’m not going to let you get any further.” Her hand clamped his wrist. “Seriously, how do you feel?”
He sighed, frustrated but trying not to show it.
“I couldn’t tell you whether the timetable for getting the station fully operational’s been thrown off. Unlike Scull, I stick with what I know. But he’s right about security needing to be cranked. There’s no way we can kid ourselves that Sword’s mission is strictly business.”
“Which, I assume, means you agree that we need additional personnel,” she said.
“Not necessarily. I’d prefer to keep it lean and mean for the present, concentrate on reorganizing and tightening up procedures. Plenty can be accomplished by—”
The chirping of the bedside phone caused him to abort his sentence.
Megan looked at him.
“You don’t suppose that’s Scull, do you? I mean, would he have the nerve to call your place trying to get hold of me?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Blackburn shrugged, reached for the phone, then let his hand rest on the receiver a moment. “If it is Scull, you want me to curse him out?”
“If it’s him, I’ll be the one to do the cursing,” she said.
He smiled a little and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Max, sorry to disturb you, I know it’s early in Kaliningrad. But this is very important,” a voice said at the other end of the line.
“No, no, it’s okay.” Blackburn turned to Megan, covered the receiver, mouthed the word “Gordian.”
An odd expression came onto her face. Was it his imagination, or did the unflappable Megan Breen look flustered? He suddenly recalled water-cooler rumors that she’d been pining for Roger since she joined the firm. Could they have been true? And if so, what business was it of his? And why should he feel bruised?
“Max, you know the crew Pete’s been tracking down?” Gordian said guardedly. “The ones who crashed the New Year’s Eve party?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve got descriptions, points of exit, and points of entry for them,” Gordian said.
Blackburn straightened.
“I should really take this in my office, it’s got a more secure line,” he said. “I’ll hang up and get right back to you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Gordian said, and hung up.
Blackburn tore off his sheets, threw his legs over the side of the bed, and hurried to his clothing closet.
“Now what’s your fire?” Megan said, perplexed.
“Better get dressed,” he said, slipping on his pants. “I’ll tell you on the way out.”
THIRTY-SIX
His back to the door, hands clasped behind him, Starinov was standing by the window, watching the sun leap at severe angles off the golden helmet domes of the Assumption Cathedral, when Yeni Bashkir entered his office.
On Starinov’s large mahogany pedestal desk was a bound report. Printed on its first page in Cyrillic were the words “CLASSIFIED MATERIAL.”
Letting the door close softly behind him, Bashkir grunted to himself and took two steps forward over the medallion-patterned Caucasian rug. He was reminded, as always, of the rich history of his surroundings. Going back through the centuries, how many tsars and ministers must have stood just as he and Starinov were now?
“Yeni,” Starinov said without turning to face him. “Right on time, as always. You’re the only man I know whose obsession with punctuality equals my own.”
“Old military habits die hard,” Bashkir said.
Starinov nodded. He was wringing his hands.
“The report,” he said in a heavy tone. “Have you read the copy I had delivered to you?”