the highest levels.”
“The highest levels? What does that mean, somebody you met at a party last night?”
The smile really was too self-satisfied. “It means the White House.”
II
Captain Viktor Vaganian was exhausted. His body had always adjusted poorly to changes in sleep patterns. But you were bound to upset your cycle when you shuttled from one side of the globe to the other. What his investigation had uncovered worried him enough that two days ago he had flown home to Moscow to consult with his superiors. They had given him fresh orders and sent him right back to Washington. The new orders broadened his authority at the embassy. But that wasn’t all.
So important had his investigation become to the success of Anadyr that he was now permitted, in his sole discretion, to use “direct action,” a euphemism for lethal force—usually the province of Department T of the First Chief Directorate. And Viktor had the assurances of the hierarchy that his diplomatic immunity would protect him from legal processes even if he happened to kill an American or two along the way.
TEN
Priorities
I
The summons arrived on the day of the big game. When Agatha and Margo left their room to go down to breakfast, they turned left toward the stairs, because the elevator, which lay in the other direction, racketed and groaned as if in preparation for spectacular collapse. Their room was on the eighth floor, but when they climbed, Agatha never even seemed winded.
Bobby was on twelve.
They passed the floor concierge, a massive woman swathed in black crepe who usually dozed in alcoholic slumber, but on this occasion she roused herself and called after them, “Miss! Message! Miss!”
Agatha told Margo to stay where she was. She crossed the threadbare carpet to the desk, spoke a few words to the woman, and gave her a couple of coins. The concierge muttered her message, then returned to her somnolence. Back at Margo’s side, Agatha translated.
“Bobby would like you to come to his room,” she said.
“Now? He’s never up this early.”
“I guess he is today.”
“Can I get breakfast first?” She saw Agatha’s expression. “Oh. Right. Let’s go.”
The minder shook her head. “You know I can’t go with you, honey. He didn’t ask for me.” She leaned close, whispered: “I’m not part of the story. You are.”
And indeed, Margo knew nothing of the minder’s story. Not where she came from, why her colleagues were afraid of her, even whether “Agatha Milner” was her real name. They had traveled together for two days and roomed together for the past week, and Margo knew her no better than the day they met in Washington. But she admired Agatha’s calm in all situations, and the way Agatha never took no for an answer. She had begun to see in her minder someone to emulate.
II
“It’s a trick,” said Bobby. “They just want to take me away tonight.”
His room was one of the largest in the resort—he had changed twice—and three different chess positions were set up on the desk and two rickety tables, another on the floor. There were chess books everywhere, many not in English: he traveled with a valise-full, and bought more at every stop. He was striding in circles on the dingy carpet, dressed in white shirt and dark slacks and slippers, hands tousling his hair into an angry mess. He had received a message, it seemed: a piece of paper stuffed under his door yesterday, during his game. Bobby had glanced at it last night but only sent word this morning. Margo held the paper in her hand now: the name of a restaurant, today’s date, and the time: 2200.
“This must be the appointment for the interview,” said Margo, very conscious of the microphones. “It’s tonight at ten o’clock.”
“I
know
that. But I’m playing Botvinnik today. He’s the world champion. He’s pretty good, so it’ll take me a while to beat him. The game will be adjourned after five hours. That means we finish tomorrow morning.
“The highest levels? What does that mean, somebody you met at a party last night?”
The smile really was too self-satisfied. “It means the White House.”
II
Captain Viktor Vaganian was exhausted. His body had always adjusted poorly to changes in sleep patterns. But you were bound to upset your cycle when you shuttled from one side of the globe to the other. What his investigation had uncovered worried him enough that two days ago he had flown home to Moscow to consult with his superiors. They had given him fresh orders and sent him right back to Washington. The new orders broadened his authority at the embassy. But that wasn’t all.
So important had his investigation become to the success of Anadyr that he was now permitted, in his sole discretion, to use “direct action,” a euphemism for lethal force—usually the province of Department T of the First Chief Directorate. And Viktor had the assurances of the hierarchy that his diplomatic immunity would protect him from legal processes even if he happened to kill an American or two along the way.
TEN
Priorities
I
The summons arrived on the day of the big game. When Agatha and Margo left their room to go down to breakfast, they turned left toward the stairs, because the elevator, which lay in the other direction, racketed and groaned as if in preparation for spectacular collapse. Their room was on the eighth floor, but when they climbed, Agatha never even seemed winded.
Bobby was on twelve.
They passed the floor concierge, a massive woman swathed in black crepe who usually dozed in alcoholic slumber, but on this occasion she roused herself and called after them, “Miss! Message! Miss!”
Agatha told Margo to stay where she was. She crossed the threadbare carpet to the desk, spoke a few words to the woman, and gave her a couple of coins. The concierge muttered her message, then returned to her somnolence. Back at Margo’s side, Agatha translated.
“Bobby would like you to come to his room,” she said.
“Now? He’s never up this early.”
“I guess he is today.”
“Can I get breakfast first?” She saw Agatha’s expression. “Oh. Right. Let’s go.”
The minder shook her head. “You know I can’t go with you, honey. He didn’t ask for me.” She leaned close, whispered: “I’m not part of the story. You are.”
And indeed, Margo knew nothing of the minder’s story. Not where she came from, why her colleagues were afraid of her, even whether “Agatha Milner” was her real name. They had traveled together for two days and roomed together for the past week, and Margo knew her no better than the day they met in Washington. But she admired Agatha’s calm in all situations, and the way Agatha never took no for an answer. She had begun to see in her minder someone to emulate.
II
“It’s a trick,” said Bobby. “They just want to take me away tonight.”
His room was one of the largest in the resort—he had changed twice—and three different chess positions were set up on the desk and two rickety tables, another on the floor. There were chess books everywhere, many not in English: he traveled with a valise-full, and bought more at every stop. He was striding in circles on the dingy carpet, dressed in white shirt and dark slacks and slippers, hands tousling his hair into an angry mess. He had received a message, it seemed: a piece of paper stuffed under his door yesterday, during his game. Bobby had glanced at it last night but only sent word this morning. Margo held the paper in her hand now: the name of a restaurant, today’s date, and the time: 2200.
“This must be the appointment for the interview,” said Margo, very conscious of the microphones. “It’s tonight at ten o’clock.”
“I
know
that. But I’m playing Botvinnik today. He’s the world champion. He’s pretty good, so it’ll take me a while to beat him. The game will be adjourned after five hours. That means we finish tomorrow morning.
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