Glen Allen - The shadow war

"And who was that, Vladimir," said the old man sitting across the table from him.

"A former protege, Dmitri," said Vladimir. "Yuri Alexandrovich, now with FSB in Washington. He had an odd request. He asked if I could send someone to look after a friend who will be acquiring an illegal passport."

Dmitri looked puzzled. "That doesn't sound so important."

"I'm afraid Andrei did not 'cure' our friend Fyodor Ivanovich quickly enough," replied Vladimir. "The disease has spread."

Dmitri frowned. "But I thought those insufferable American apparatchiks had quarantined their problem?"

"Ironic," said Vladimir, "their methods. The more we become like them, the more they become like us. But no, they, too, were too late."

Dmitri sighed. "After all these years… you would think the ghosts would be at rest."

"That's the problem with ghosts, Dmitri," Vladimir said, picking up the phone again. "They never rest."

"And now?" asked Dmitri.

"Now we send Andrei on another house call."

"But I thought the Americanski wanted them alive, so they could-"

"Their methods are too complicated for this simple old soldier," Vladimir said. "And their khren is now in our kitchen." He smiled. "Besides, Andrei deserves this trip. Nice is so much warmer this time of year than Petersburg."

Benjamin couldn't quite believe the view. He was looking out on the incredibly blue Mediterranean Ocean.

It was a clear, bright, even warm morning. He was drinking coffee served in a cup the size of a cereal bowl. Natalya, sitting across the small table from him, looked beautiful and refreshed from her sleep. And perhaps one of the most inspiring panoramas in the entire Cote d'Azur was spread out before him. He could almost forget for the moment why they were here.

He'd been in France before, as he'd told Natalya; he'd even traveled around the countryside of Northern France during that trip, but not the south. In any case, it wasn't so much the exotic locale that left his head whirling, as the speed of the whole affair.

One minute he'd been in a taxi in Washington, D.C.-the next minute he was in another taxi, driving down the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, past some of the most expensive hotels on the whole French Riviera.

Once he'd agreed with Natalya that the most logical, to say nothing of the safest, thing was for him to accompany her to Russia to see her father, they'd gone straight to Reagan airport and booked seats on the next flight to Nice. On such short notice, the tickets had been beyond exorbitant-but the magic carte de solvabilite solved that problem. And so, barely twelve hours later, they'd landed in Nice.

Immediately after they'd arrived at the Nice airport, Natalya had called the phone number Yuri had given her. The contact-he gave only his first name, Guy-told them it was too late to see them tonight, and that they should come to what he called his "studio" the next morning.

After the call they'd picked up a taxi. Natalya had asked the cabdriver for a recommendation, someplace quiet they could stay "away from the tourists." And so he'd taken them to La Maison du Seminaire.

La Maison was on the other side of La Chateau, the small hill that divided the town into the two halves: glass and steel and modern on the west side, brick and pastels and centuries old on the east side. They'd driven past Port Olympia, the small port that jutted into old-town Nice and that was stuffed with oversized personal yachts; past the old customs house on the Place Ile de Beaute that had once served as the clandestine bank of Barbary pirates; along boulevard Franck Pilatte; and finally through the front gates of the Seminaire.

La Seminaire was, it turned out, a converted Catholic seminary. When it came time to ask about the accommodations, Benjamin had hemmed and hawed for a moment before Natalya took over.

"Do you have a single room," she'd asked, "but with two beds?"

"A very nice one on the third floor, with an excellent view of the Baie des Anges. Very romantic," the clerk said, giving Benjamin a wink. Natalya had groaned and walked away, leaving him to accept the key with a " merci. "

Though their room was anything but luxurious-two beds, it was true, though they were tiny singles, almost cots, and a sink with a curtain that could be pulled around it, the bathroom for the entire floor being down the hall-still the clerk had been right: the view from their small balcony was magnificent. There was a nearly full moon in the sky, reflecting off the vast expanse of gray-black water in the bay. Out at sea, they could see the lights of one of the cruise liners that plied their way up and down the Cote d'Azur; and above, more stars than Benjamin could ever remember seeing before.

"You should see this," Benjamin had said, looking over his shoulder for Natalya.

"We're not here as tourists, Benjamin," she said, lying down on one of the beds, exhausted. "Try and remember that."

Benjamin had gone and stood near the bed.

"Natalya," he'd begun softly. Then, not wanting to sit on the narrow bed, he'd crouched down beside it. "I know you're worried about your father. I understand." She turned her head and looked at him. "But you're doing your best to get there as quickly as possible. Now," he said, trying to look and sound stern, "since we're stuck in this horrible place for the night, come and look at the damn view."

She'd laughed. "Very well, Commissar of Sightseeing," she'd said, and walked to the balcony.

The two of them had stood there for a while, not saying a word, just looking out and across all that darkness, a space that seemed entirely emptied of the tension and menace of the last few days. Standing there, Benjamin had wanted to put his arm around Natalya out of an instinctive urge to protect her from what he suspected was about to come. But he'd fought the urge.

"Did you know," Natalya had said finally, gazing out at that dark sea, "there is a long and deep connection for Russians with this city. There is a Russian Orthodox cathedral here, the Cathedrale Orthodoxe Russe St-Nicolas. It dates back to 1859 and is the oldest Russian cathedral in all Europe."

"I didn't know you were the religious type," Benjamin said.

Natalya laughed. " All Russians are the religious type, even during the Soviet times." She turned to him. "Do you know, I was even baptized."

Benjamin looked surprised. "Really? I thought your father-"

"He was," she said. "Not only a Party member, but even a political officer. But that did not stop him from wanting his only child christened into the church. There were a few places people could go, clandestinely, for such rituals. It was dangerous, even for ordinary citizens. For Party members it was doubly so."

"How old were you?"

"Three," she said. "I had never been in a church before. They waited until we were on vacation, visiting relatives in Dubna, far away from prying eyes in Siberia. They took me to a church in a small town outside Dubna, hardly even a village, a place called Ratmino. I had no idea what was going on. All the candles, the ornaments and icons… well, when the priest appeared, in his robes and white beard, I turned to my father and said, 'Why is Grandfather Frost here?' " She laughed. "I thought it was an early New Year's celebration."

Benjamin smiled but didn't comment, and again they were silent, looking out into the night with its vault of bright stars and vast expanse of dark sea.

Then Natalya turned to Benjamin. Her face looked sad, but very determined; again, almost regal, Benjamin thought. He sensed for a moment the enormity of secrets with which Natalya was accustomed to living, and felt himself quite young and naive. He started to say something, but she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Commissar Wainwright," she said, smiling. "You were right." She'd kissed him very quickly, on the cheek, and then said, "So, who goes down the hall first?"