Glen Allen - The shadow war

There were two passports, both French. Benjamin was now Charles Levebre, born in Marseilles; and Natalya was his wife, Sophia Levebre, nee Martel, originally of Lyon. In the passport photo, the brunette hair and glasses made her look slightly older, much more ordinary, and somewhat less intelligent.

"Looking at this photo," Natalya said with obvious disappointment, "I do not know why you ever married me."

"Obviously for your wit," said Benjamin. "And you haven't seen mine." He showed her his passport photo. The bad lighting and shorter hair made him look like a criminal posing for a mug shot. "Why did you marry me?"

"For your carte de solvabilite, " she said. "Of course."

But he didn't respond. He was examining something else from the envelope. Besides their visas, he'd discovered what the man on St. Honorat had meant by a "bonus."

"They're press credentials," he said, waving the laminated cards at Natalya. "Apparently we work for a magazine in Paris, La Matrix. "

"It sounds very avant-garde," said Natalya.

"At least we're employed," Benjamin replied, and Natalya laughed-for the first time since their strange encounter on St. Honorat.

They'd found they could take a flight from the Nice airport the next morning to Moscow, then a train to Dubna. Nice was less than thirteen kilometers to the east, so they'd decided to spend the night in Cannes. And Benjamin had decided it was time for a distraction.

"Look," he said, "we're in one of the most elegant hotels in one of the most expensive cities in Europe, with an almost bottomless bag of money. Let's see how much we can spend on dinner tonight. Let's be Charles and Sophia Levebre, wealthy honeymooners with a cash gift from their billionaire Uncle Renault-"

"Is that not a car?" Natalya interrupted, smiling.

"-and forget everything else," he continued. "Just for tonight." He reached over and took her hand. "All right?"

As they quickly discovered, there were any number of five-star restaurants nearby, any of them equal to the task of making a dent in their finances. When Benjamin-or Charles, as he made sure to have Sophia call him-made it clear that they desired the highest in elegant surroundings and that money was absolutely no concern, the clerk looked both ways, then leaned conspiratorially over the desk.

"I should tell you to eat in our own restaurant," he said in French. "But I believe you will find what you're looking for at Gaston-Gastounette. It's on quai St. Pierre."

Benjamin gave him a twenty-euro tip, thanked him, and then thought of something else. He told the clerk that he and his wife had left on their honeymoon avec la grande rapidite and without many clothes. Could he recommend a good clothing store nearby? Somewhere they could also buy luggage?

The clerk looked at him as though he understood the situation exactly, winked, said something about affaires du coeur, and directed them to a nearby store he promised offered the best in haute couture.

An hour and many hundreds of euros later, the clothes and luggage were on their way back to the InterContinental, and they continued on to the Gaston-Gastounette.

The hotel desk clerk had been right: the furnishings were elegant, recalling a time before the glitterati of the film festival years, when the wealthy of the Cote d'Azur came to Cannes to pretend it was still a time of Empires. Even better than the decor was the view: they were able to get a table next to a window overlooking the old port and marina, with centuries-old buildings rising up the low hills, swept back and creating a huge amphitheater around the bay.

Since they'd just been in Nice but hadn't had chance to sample the salad named after the city, they decided to start with salade nicoise; and, since they would soon leave the coast for the deep inland of Russia, Benjamin suggested they try the house specialty: tortellini and boiled mussels. When they asked the waiter for a wine recommendation, he told them that, frankly, their cellars did contain what he considered simply the best they'd ever offered, but if price was a consideration… "Pas du tout," said Benjamin. Then, the waiter said, there was only the Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Montrachet, 1999.

"C'est bon," said Benjamin, and the waiter bowed, removed their menus, and disappeared most discreetly.

"Guy was right," Benjamin said. "Married couples do get better treatment."

Natalya was staring out the window at the sunset over the bay. She smiled, but she was obviously thinking about something else.

"I think your father can take care of himself," Benjamin said. "If that's what you're worried about."

She turned and looked at him. "Very empathetic," she said. "I am not used to that, from Americans."

"What exactly," said Benjamin, " are you used to from Americans?"

Natalya studied him for a moment. "Let us just say that my extradiplomatic contacts have not always been positive."

Before Benjamin could answer, their wine arrived, and they waited while it was uncorked and Benjamin was offered the chance to sample it. He sipped it and was very impressed; nodded to the waiter, and both their glasses were filled.

Alone again, Benjamin lifted his glass. "Let's drink to a new detente, " he said.

Natalya smiled, raised her glass, and they clinked. She tried her wine, and also looked impressed.

"I do not usually like white wine," she said, "but this…"

"Worth every euro," Benjamin said. "Ah, the advantages of ill-gotten gains."

"Which makes me wonder," Natalya said, "just how these gains were, as you say, gotten?"

Benjamin frowned, set his wine down. "I only know that Samuel Wolfe trusted Anton."

"And you trust this Samuel Wolfe?" Natalya asked.

"Yes," Benjamin said without hesitation.

"After you knew him for only two days?"

"Two and a half," corrected Benjamin. "And yes, that may sound… hasty. But there was something about the man…"

"Was?" asked Natalya.

Benjamin realized he'd only mentioned to Natalya that Wolfe had "disappeared" during the fire at the Foundation, not that it was likely he'd actually been in the building and, quite probably, died in the explosion. And he couldn't quite bring himself to suggest that, even now.

Natalya saw his hesitation.

"So there are still some things you are not telling me," she said. Benjamin started to say something, but she stopped him. "That is perhaps as it should be," she said. "You have known me even less time than you did Mr. Wolfe."

Benjamin looked at her. The shorter brunette hair may have dimmed her brilliance slightly, but it hadn't extinguished it. He still thought she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

"Tell me about your father… Sophia," he said, pouring her more wine.

And so she did. As their meal was served-delicious and quite garlicky mussels in a light cream sauce with tortellini-she told Benjamin a little of how her father had come to be a rocketchiki.

"He was a true believer, and to him this was the most patriotic way he could serve the Motherland," Natalya said. "I asked him once, would he actually have pressed his white button, had it come to that?"

"And what did he say?" Benjamin asked.

"He said he could not have reported for duty each week unless he knew, in his heart, that he could do such a thing." Natalya looked into her wine. "In fact, it was when he felt he no longer could answer yes to that question that he resigned."

"And that was after he'd read about the gulags?"

Natalya went very quiet. "Not just read," she said.

"What do you mean?" Benjamin asked.

Natalya looked up, forced a smile.

"We are to distract ourselves, yes?" Benjamin nodded. "Then let us talk about something else. You, for instance. I know nothing of your past, Mr. Levebre, yet here I find myself married to you."