than yours, Colonel Varatchevsky.”
“So,” surmised Karin. “We must wait until they know what to do with me and with the information you gave them.”
“You are correct, Colonel. Also, superintendence of this mission has been transferred from Field Control to the Ministry of Defense.”
The ceaseless crashing of weight plates and dull thudding of fists on bags continued beneath the floorboards. There are some people who will never miss a gym session, no matter what the circumstance.
The Russians crammed inside the small bedsit apartment remained silent.
The GRU did not cede tactical control of field operations underway to anybody. Ever.
“I understand Moscow seeks a cessation of hostile activities in our matter,” Vladimir said at last. “Only the highest levels of the ministry have the authority to talk to the Americans in this way.”
“But the Americans remain hostile,” she said, both asking the question and reaching a conclusion.
“Their situation is even more confused than ours.” Vladimir shrugged.
“I see,” said Karin at last. “Then if we are going, we had best go.”
###
Over the next week she did not stay more than one or two nights at any of the safe houses ex-fil arranged for her. Vladimir said he had activated three locations but she eventually stayed in six. Karin did not question or second guess the ex-fil commander. She had no idea how he kept moving her across the chessboard, always one or two moves ahead of Trinder’s pawns and knights. It was his duty and he did it well.
She stayed in a variety of places. A beautiful modern apartment overlooking the water at the northern end of Manhattan. A squalid, roach-infested room above a motor repair shop in Queens. Not all of them were owned by or associated with Russian émigré interests. She stayed one night in a warehouse in Chinatown. Another above a CrossFit gym in SoHo. That was almost like going home, the screams of the crazy people reminding Karin of her days in the Olympic trial squad in Moscow.
The Americans, as far as she could tell, never got the scent of them. She supposed, as much as Trinder wanted her, he now had to compete for resources and attention with whoever was in charge of the American response to the Horde’s incursion.
Not this Hooper buffoon, of that she was certain.
But perhaps the stern-looking black man who always appeared with him. A Navy SEAL, she learned. Or one of the civilians forever in attendance at the same short and infrequent press conferences and interviews.
She moved continually, until the morning Nikita awoke her in the nicest of their boltholes, a brownstone on the Upper West Side, not too many blocks from the Russian consulate. It seemed lived in, unlike the first apartment to which she had been sent, in the empty three-story building on the far side of the park. That felt like an unused hotel. This was somebody’s home, but whose she could not say. It smelled of toast and perfume and ground coffee and a dog.
But there was no dog. Only ex-fil.
“Come, Colonel, come,” said Nikita. Like Josef he had grown increasingly devoted to Karin while watching over her. Almost devout. His near-religious awe shone from him like an aura at times. Karin did nothing to discourage it. Had Moscow determined the national interest was served by it, these men would have killed her and disposed of the body in such a way that it would never be found.
She did not think they would do so now, if ordered. Or at least Josef and Nikita would not. She was sure of them. Leonid, always quiet, always closed off, would almost certainly do as he was ordered. Vladimir? She did not know. His confusion and conflicted thoughts burned hot and radiated from him all the time now. He was not a happy man.
Nikita had brought her breakfast, flatbread wrapped around eggs and sausages. Something she could wolf down as soon as she opened her eyes. They had learned to manage her appetites in this way. She took the breakfast roll
“So,” surmised Karin. “We must wait until they know what to do with me and with the information you gave them.”
“You are correct, Colonel. Also, superintendence of this mission has been transferred from Field Control to the Ministry of Defense.”
The ceaseless crashing of weight plates and dull thudding of fists on bags continued beneath the floorboards. There are some people who will never miss a gym session, no matter what the circumstance.
The Russians crammed inside the small bedsit apartment remained silent.
The GRU did not cede tactical control of field operations underway to anybody. Ever.
“I understand Moscow seeks a cessation of hostile activities in our matter,” Vladimir said at last. “Only the highest levels of the ministry have the authority to talk to the Americans in this way.”
“But the Americans remain hostile,” she said, both asking the question and reaching a conclusion.
“Their situation is even more confused than ours.” Vladimir shrugged.
“I see,” said Karin at last. “Then if we are going, we had best go.”
###
Over the next week she did not stay more than one or two nights at any of the safe houses ex-fil arranged for her. Vladimir said he had activated three locations but she eventually stayed in six. Karin did not question or second guess the ex-fil commander. She had no idea how he kept moving her across the chessboard, always one or two moves ahead of Trinder’s pawns and knights. It was his duty and he did it well.
She stayed in a variety of places. A beautiful modern apartment overlooking the water at the northern end of Manhattan. A squalid, roach-infested room above a motor repair shop in Queens. Not all of them were owned by or associated with Russian émigré interests. She stayed one night in a warehouse in Chinatown. Another above a CrossFit gym in SoHo. That was almost like going home, the screams of the crazy people reminding Karin of her days in the Olympic trial squad in Moscow.
The Americans, as far as she could tell, never got the scent of them. She supposed, as much as Trinder wanted her, he now had to compete for resources and attention with whoever was in charge of the American response to the Horde’s incursion.
Not this Hooper buffoon, of that she was certain.
But perhaps the stern-looking black man who always appeared with him. A Navy SEAL, she learned. Or one of the civilians forever in attendance at the same short and infrequent press conferences and interviews.
She moved continually, until the morning Nikita awoke her in the nicest of their boltholes, a brownstone on the Upper West Side, not too many blocks from the Russian consulate. It seemed lived in, unlike the first apartment to which she had been sent, in the empty three-story building on the far side of the park. That felt like an unused hotel. This was somebody’s home, but whose she could not say. It smelled of toast and perfume and ground coffee and a dog.
But there was no dog. Only ex-fil.
“Come, Colonel, come,” said Nikita. Like Josef he had grown increasingly devoted to Karin while watching over her. Almost devout. His near-religious awe shone from him like an aura at times. Karin did nothing to discourage it. Had Moscow determined the national interest was served by it, these men would have killed her and disposed of the body in such a way that it would never be found.
She did not think they would do so now, if ordered. Or at least Josef and Nikita would not. She was sure of them. Leonid, always quiet, always closed off, would almost certainly do as he was ordered. Vladimir? She did not know. His confusion and conflicted thoughts burned hot and radiated from him all the time now. He was not a happy man.
Nikita had brought her breakfast, flatbread wrapped around eggs and sausages. Something she could wolf down as soon as she opened her eyes. They had learned to manage her appetites in this way. She took the breakfast roll
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