warned him.
“Never mind that,” Treloar said hoarsely. “Bring us some zakuski. And soft drinks for my angels.”
He patted the cushions on either side of him. “Come to me, my angels. Give me a taste of heaven....”
__________
Six kilometers from the Krokodil are the three high-rises known collectively as Dzerzhinsky Square. Until the early 1990s, it had been the headquarters of the communist KGB; after democratization, the complex was taken over by the newly formed Russian Federal Security Service.
Major-general Oleg Kirov, hands behind his back, stood in front of the windows of his fifteenth-floor office, looking out at the Moscow skyline.
“The Americans are coming,” he murmured.
“What did you say, dusha?”
Kirov heard the tap of heels on hardwood, felt slender fingers slide across his chest, inhaled the warm, sweet perfume borne on the words. He turned and took the beautiful brunette into his arms, kissing her hungrily. His passion was returned as he felt her tongue teasing his, her hands slipping to his belt, then lower.
Kirov pulled back, gazing into the provocative dark eyes that tantalized him.
“I wish I could,” he said softly.
Lieutenant Lara Telegin, Kirov's aide-de-camp, stood with arms akimbo, surveying her lover. Even in the drab military uniform she looked like a runway model.
“You promised me dinner tonight,” she pouted.
Kirov couldn't help but smile. Lara Telegin had graduated at the top of her class at the Frunze military academy. She was an expert marksman; the same hands that caressed him could take his life in a matter of seconds. Yet she could be as shameless and provocative as she was professional.
Kirov sighed. Two women in one body. Sometimes he wasn't sure which was the real one. But he would enjoy them both for as long as he could. At thirty, Lara was just beginning her career. Inevitably she would move on to other posts, and finally a command of her own. Kirov, twenty years her senior, would go from being her lover to her godfather--- or, as the Americans liked to say, a “rabbi” who would look after the interests of his favorite.
“You didn't tell me about the American,” Lara said, all business now. “Which one is it? We get so many these days.”
“I didn't tell you because you were gone all day and I had no one to help me with this infernal paperwork,” Kirov grumbled. He handed her a computer printout.
“Dr. Jon Smith,” she read. “How very common.” She frowned. “USAMRIID?”
“Our Dr. Smith is anything but common,” Kirov said dryly. “I met with him when he was stationed at Fort Detrick.”
“ `Was'? I thought he still is.”
“According to Randi Russell, he still has an association with USAMRIID but is on indefinite leave. She called to ask if I would see him.”
“Randi Russell...” Lara let the name hang.
Kirov smiled. “No need to get catty.”
“I only become catty when there's good reason,” Lara replied tartly. “So she's paving the way for Smith... who, it says here, was engaged to her sister.”
Kirov nodded. “She died in the Hades horror.”
“And would Russell--- whom we both suspect operates a CIA front--- vouch for him? Are the two of them running some kind of operation? What's going on, dusha?”
“I think that the Americans have a problem,” Kirov said heavily. “Either we're part of it or they need our help. In any event, we will find out soon enough. You and I will be seeing Smith tonight.”
__________
In the waning afternoon Smith stepped out of the apartment block on Ulitsa Markovo. He turned his collar against the wind and stared up at the grim concrete face of the building. Somewhere within the anonymous windows on the twentieth floor Katrina Danko would be attending to the heartbreaking task of telling her six-year-old daughter, Olga, that she would never see her father
“Never mind that,” Treloar said hoarsely. “Bring us some zakuski. And soft drinks for my angels.”
He patted the cushions on either side of him. “Come to me, my angels. Give me a taste of heaven....”
__________
Six kilometers from the Krokodil are the three high-rises known collectively as Dzerzhinsky Square. Until the early 1990s, it had been the headquarters of the communist KGB; after democratization, the complex was taken over by the newly formed Russian Federal Security Service.
Major-general Oleg Kirov, hands behind his back, stood in front of the windows of his fifteenth-floor office, looking out at the Moscow skyline.
“The Americans are coming,” he murmured.
“What did you say, dusha?”
Kirov heard the tap of heels on hardwood, felt slender fingers slide across his chest, inhaled the warm, sweet perfume borne on the words. He turned and took the beautiful brunette into his arms, kissing her hungrily. His passion was returned as he felt her tongue teasing his, her hands slipping to his belt, then lower.
Kirov pulled back, gazing into the provocative dark eyes that tantalized him.
“I wish I could,” he said softly.
Lieutenant Lara Telegin, Kirov's aide-de-camp, stood with arms akimbo, surveying her lover. Even in the drab military uniform she looked like a runway model.
“You promised me dinner tonight,” she pouted.
Kirov couldn't help but smile. Lara Telegin had graduated at the top of her class at the Frunze military academy. She was an expert marksman; the same hands that caressed him could take his life in a matter of seconds. Yet she could be as shameless and provocative as she was professional.
Kirov sighed. Two women in one body. Sometimes he wasn't sure which was the real one. But he would enjoy them both for as long as he could. At thirty, Lara was just beginning her career. Inevitably she would move on to other posts, and finally a command of her own. Kirov, twenty years her senior, would go from being her lover to her godfather--- or, as the Americans liked to say, a “rabbi” who would look after the interests of his favorite.
“You didn't tell me about the American,” Lara said, all business now. “Which one is it? We get so many these days.”
“I didn't tell you because you were gone all day and I had no one to help me with this infernal paperwork,” Kirov grumbled. He handed her a computer printout.
“Dr. Jon Smith,” she read. “How very common.” She frowned. “USAMRIID?”
“Our Dr. Smith is anything but common,” Kirov said dryly. “I met with him when he was stationed at Fort Detrick.”
“ `Was'? I thought he still is.”
“According to Randi Russell, he still has an association with USAMRIID but is on indefinite leave. She called to ask if I would see him.”
“Randi Russell...” Lara let the name hang.
Kirov smiled. “No need to get catty.”
“I only become catty when there's good reason,” Lara replied tartly. “So she's paving the way for Smith... who, it says here, was engaged to her sister.”
Kirov nodded. “She died in the Hades horror.”
“And would Russell--- whom we both suspect operates a CIA front--- vouch for him? Are the two of them running some kind of operation? What's going on, dusha?”
“I think that the Americans have a problem,” Kirov said heavily. “Either we're part of it or they need our help. In any event, we will find out soon enough. You and I will be seeing Smith tonight.”
__________
In the waning afternoon Smith stepped out of the apartment block on Ulitsa Markovo. He turned his collar against the wind and stared up at the grim concrete face of the building. Somewhere within the anonymous windows on the twentieth floor Katrina Danko would be attending to the heartbreaking task of telling her six-year-old daughter, Olga, that she would never see her father
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