With a glass of Jack Daniel’s in her hand she went out to the freezing indoor patio, wrapping herself in her coat. The air was cold and crisp just like she wanted, and she felt revitalized. The bourbon warmed her and she felt good all over. Her cheeks were flushed when she went back inside, and the sparks from the fire burning in the large fireplace reflected off her light hair. She asked for another glass of bourbon, something light and pleasant swirled in her head, and she sat down in a huge armchair, one of two positioned on either side of the fireplace. She still sensed she needed to remain in Providence for a few more days. She needed to be patient. She would pay another visit to the Hart family’s home two or three days from now. Ya’ara knew: If she got her timing right, something would transpire. She had sensed the connection that formed between herself and Frances against the backdrop of Frances’s concern and fear for the fate of her husband, who had gotten up in the middle of the night and disappeared without any real explanation. When she held Frances’s hands, when she soothed her with the look in her eyes, she discerned a response of sorts from that elegant, hard, and miserable woman. And now she had to wait. To wait for the right moment. Not yet, she said to herself, a little longer.
She looked up and smiled at the young man who had sat down in the armchair across from her. She liked the look of him. His hair a little disheveled, a handsome face, a strong chin, a large, straight nose. He ordered a cognac from the waiter who approached him, settled back in his chair, and stretched his legs.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it? Just like this, doing nothing,” Ya’ara addressed him.
“I love this fireplace. Yes. What a day I had. You have no idea. I hate lawyers. Hate them.”
“No offense, but you look a little like a lawyer yourself. That’s what I would have guessed anyway.”
He sighed. “You’re right. That’s why I can’t bear them. Being with them in endless meetings. Going through clause after clause after clause and constantly squabbling. I’m Don.”
“Annabelle,” Ya’ara said. That was the name she had registered under at the hotel. Annabelle Eshel, just in case Frances Hart, or Julian Hart perhaps, came looking for her.
“And what about you? You don’t look like a lawyer to me. Academic researcher? A spy?”
“A spy only in my free time. But most of my days are taken up with classical studies, and I’m also a consultant to an antiquities dealer.”
“So you’re one of those smart young women, right?”
“Spend the evening with me and you’ll find out just how smart I am.”
Ya’ara rested her head on Don’s chest, her light hair, which was partly covering her face, revealing an ever-watchful blue-gray eye. She felt wonderfully relaxed and her body seemed to be brimming with delight. The soft light emanating from the bathroom accentuated her beauty. She rose lightly from the bed, and her body appeared strong and graceful as she walked across the floor. Like a dangerous tigress, Don thought. “It was a wonderful evening,” she said to him. “I’m gonna take a shower now, and then I want to get some sleep. Alone. I hate not getting enough sleep. Good night.” As he made his way to the door, a clearly astounded Don could hear the powerful jet of water splashing against her body. A fragrant mist filled the room.
49
ZURICH, MARCH 2013
Brian walked past the car in which the two counter-surveillance agents were sitting. A young man and woman, who had spent the entire night outside Cobra’s hotel. The woman recognized him and got out of the car. Brian stopped alongside a bench farther down the street and she joined him. He offered her a cigarette, and she took one, along with his offer of a light, both his and her hand shielding the small flame, touching each other momentarily.
“Nothing,” she said to him. “Since parting company with you and returning to the hotel, he hasn’t gone out at all. Vasily did a walk-through of the lobby and also had a quick look into the dining room about ten minutes ago, but he wasn’t there. They’ll be serving breakfast for just another twenty minutes, and if he doesn’t come down he’ll miss it.”
Brian looked at his watch. Eleven minutes past ten. The breakfast was the least of his concerns. “I’ll go in now,” he said. “If he doesn’t come down to the dining room, I’ll wake him. We can’t leave him on his own. He’s had a rough night, and if he’s falling apart, we’ll have to pull him together again. That’s what we are here for. You’re doing a good job, Natasha Petrovna. When are your replacements coming?”
“At twelve. Don’t worry, we’re keeping an eye on him and won’t let him disappear. In the event of anything out of the ordinary, we’ll let you know. If we spot or sense any danger, we’ll get you out. We’ll get you to the safe house in Geneva and take it from there. In keeping with procedures.”
Procedures, procedures, procedures. Everything in keeping with procedures. Brian was well aware of the importance of procedures, of the experience and collective wisdom they embodied, yet he couldn’t bear them. Sometimes he’d look at himself from the outside and struggle to recall what a professor of ancient world history at Brown University was doing among all these spies and procedures. It was good of them to afford him a secret trip to Moscow once a year, albeit just for two days—but even that was better than nothing. It was his way of refocusing. He would go off to a conference at the University of Vienna, stay on a few days for meetings and archive work, meet with the courier who gave him a passport and air ticket, and disappear. Forty-eight hours during which he wasn’t Julian Hart or Brian Cox or anyone else. Simply himself. And they welcomed him with open arms on those visits! They spoke to him only in Russian, and he was always amazed by how well he remembered, but felt, too, that his language was a little behind the times. And the meetings with the head of the directorate and the SVR chief. They appreciated his sacrifice. The huge burden of living under two identities. In two worlds. The loneliness. And at the division, at the division he would be briefed and brought up to speed. And there was also the refresher course on how to operate the secret communications system, despite the fact that he’d been using it for years already without any mishaps.
And the firing range, they always took him to the firing range, shooting practice with a SIG Sauer 9mm pistol. That was the type of pistol they had given him years ago; he kept it stashed away at his home in Rhode Island. Not that you couldn’t purchase a gun in the United States. You could buy yourself a tank or fighter jet as well. But headquarters didn’t want there to be a record anywhere, not even at some remote guns and fishing gear store, of Professor Hart owning a weapon. He was not supposed to use it anyway except in an emergency, and exactly what would constitute an emergency, if one ever arose, wasn’t very clear. As unlikely to actually happen as it was, if called in for questioning or arrested, his explicit instructions were: Your cover is your weapon. It’s so deep and tight that it would be impossible to incriminate you. A cover story and lawyers of the highest order. Don’t ever put up a fight and don’t ever turn your weapon on the American law enforcement authorities, not the police and not the FBI. You’ll achieve your victory by way of the secrecy and the cover. So why a gun then? For unforeseen circumstances, in which the good old gun could offer a more appropriate response. In any event, he enjoyed the ritual of the firing range. He and the hard-assed instructor alongside his handler, all alone at the range. The three of them shooting. And he was not bad, not bad at all, particularly considering the fact that he didn’t do any shooting practice and wasn’t all that young these days. He was steady and composed, and in good physical shape, too, the instructor told him. And after the range, after cleaning the weapons and ensuring again that they were unloaded and the chambers were empty, the instructor would give him a rattling punch on his right shoulder and then embrace him and tell him to take care. See you next year.