The Fall of Moscow Station by Mark Henshaw Page B

you,” he repeated.
    â€œShe is a concern. You see, the Chinese and the Iranians were both clients of an ongoing project that I oversee. This woman appeared and both efforts were disrupted within a few days. I do not believe that is a coincidence.” Lavrov pointed to yesterday’s photograph. “And now she is here.”
    Maines shrugged and dropped the picture on the desk.
    Lavrov studied Maines, ran his eyes over the American’s face, looking for some signal of deceit. There was no reason to bluff and Maines let the Russian watch him. “You are lying to me, Mr. Maines,” Lavrov finally announced. “One woman has disrupted two critical GRU operations that we were running in concert with important allies, and now she is here in Berlin while you and I are here while I am advancing a third. I think that your Agency knows about my operations, and I believe you know her name. You wish to say that is not the case?”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I’m saying,” Maines protested. “Look, if the Agency is on to you, they figured it out some other way because I never heard a whisper about your big operation, whatever it is.”
    Lavrov nodded slowly, took the pictures back, and replaced them in the folder. “It will be a shame to disappoint such a woman.”
    Maines frowned. “What do you mean?”
    â€œShe’s wearing a red jacket. I believe that was the signal she was to give you if your country accepted the proposal made to her,” Lavrov said, as though a child should have understood his meaning.
    Maines understood it perfectly well, and his eyes widened. Lavrov saw it. “Of course, we heard everything. Surely you knew that?” the Russian asked, his question entirely rhetorical. Whether Maines had thought of the possibility or not was moot now. “I would like to hear the story about how you saved her from a safe house in Caracas, but at this moment I have an operation that is waiting for your information to proceed. So please don’t lie to me again about whether you know her name.”
    â€œYou want to know what I know? The president of the United States just agreed to pay me fifty million dollars not to tell you jack, including her name,” Maines said, pointing toward the street at Kyra. “So if you want me to talk, that’s the bid to beat.”
    Lavrov frowned. “Such obstinance. But I will counter the offer. I will give you my bid . . . eight hundred rubles.”
    â€œEight hundred rubles?” He did the math in his head. Twelve dollars?
    Lavrov raised a hand and motioned with two fingers. Three younger men, all muscular, entered the room, one carrying a small bag. Two of them took Maines by the arms and forced him to the table, ignoring his curses and protests. The American struggled, but he was in no shape to hold his own against either of the men, much less both together. They forced his arms out, putting his hands palm down on the brown oak.
    Lavrov pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and sat down, looking Maines in the eyes. “Yes, eight hundred rubles . . . the price in Moscow for a good Russian-made hammer.” Lavrov nodded to the man carrying the bag. The younger Russian opened the satchel and pulled out a small club mallet.
    â€œNo! You can’t—” Maines started. Without hesitation, the Russian swung the small metal sledge and slammed it down on Maines’s outstretched hand.
    Maines screamed as the hammer shattered his metacarpal bones into fragments. On reflex, he tried to rip his crippled hand away from the two men holding him down, but they had expected him to fight and kept him pinned. The hammer slammed down again, this time just behind where the first blow had landed, and the crunch of grinding carpals in his wrist was heard for a brief second before Maines’s howl of agony drowned it out.
    â€œShe will not be disappointed when you