Tom Cain - No survivors

The driver walked around to open the two passenger doors.

"Why don't you go and freshen up?" said Olga Zhukovskaya. "Your room has everything you will need."

Upstairs, a sable-trimmed mink coat had been hung up next to dresses by Chanel, Versace, and Dolce amp; Gabbana: Alix's coat, her dresses. She ran her fingers through the soft, luxuriant fur, then rippled her hand over a multicolored flutter of silk, sequins, and lace. Below the clothes, shoes were arranged in a line across the cupboard, each higher and flimsier than the last.

Here were the trophies of a Moscow mistress, the pretty little fruits of her labors.

Her underwear, blouses, and tops had been folded away in a mahogany chest of drawers, her makeup arranged on the dressing-table, her soap and body oil left in the bathroom that opened off the bedroom, her favorite photograph of her parents placed on the bedside table. Alix sat on the edge of her bed, still dressed in her absurd Heidi outfit, looking around at all the luxury laid out before her, contemplating this womanly power play.

Yuri and Carver had fought each other like men, in brutal, physical conflict. Olga Zhukovskaya, however, had chosen a very different form of attack. She had entered Alix's Moscow apartment, removed her most intimate possessions, and brought them some fifteen hundred miles to a particular room in Geneva, Switzerland, in the absolute certainty that Alix would also end up there.

And now she was tempting her: Just give in, bend to my will, and all this can be yours once again.

Zhukovskaya must have known that Alix would feel violated by the penetration of her home and the seizure of her property. That effect, too, would have been calculated: Resist me, and I will remove you as easily as I removed those dresses.

Alix undressed and showered. Afterward, she got dressed again in her working uniform. She went barefoot. She didn't put on any makeup.

She left the room and walked down a great baronial staircase. A white-jacketed servant was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. "Madame Zhukovskaya is waiting," he said, leading her into the main reception room.

The deputy director was sitting in an armchair by a mighty, open fireplace filled with blazing logs. She was wearing reading glasses and examining the contents of a ring-bound folder. An identical chair had been arranged next to hers.

As Alix drew closer, Zhukovskaya closed the file, took off the spectacles, and looked her up and down with a faint grimace of distaste.

"Could you not decide what to wear?"

Alix let her look, without reacting in any way, then sat down in the empty chair.

Zhukovskaya watched her for a few more seconds, then nodded to herself.

"I see. Well, then, let us get down to business."

She reopened the file and put her glasses back on. There was a photograph paper-clipped to the inside cover of the file, a color portrait of a U.S. Army officer in full dress uniform. He looked strong, determined, golden-haired, and square-jawed. She passed the photo to Alix, who looked at it for a few moments, then handed it back.

"A handsome man," she said, without any hint of enthusiasm.

"His name is Lieutenant General Kurt Vermulen," said Zhukovskaya. "This picture was taken three years ago. At the time, he was leading the U.S. Special Forces Operations Command at Fort Bragg, having previously commanded the First Battalion of the seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment and served a tour of duty at the Defense Intelligence Agency."

"An American hero," murmured Alix dryly.

"Oh, yes," Zhukovskaya continued, "he is a true soldier. He began his career as part of the Americans' imperialist adventure in Vietnam. He won a Distinguished Service Cross there, one of the very highest awards for gallantry the American army can bestow. One should respect a man, even an enemy, who possesses such a decoration."

Alix pursued her lips dismissively. Zhukovskaya continued, regardless.

"Vermulen retired from the army in May 1995, age fifty, soon after that picture was taken. His wife was dying of cancer and he wanted to be with her in the final months. After that, like a good American, he began to make himself rich."

"So why are you telling me all this?"

"Because of this."

Zhukovskaya removed another photograph from her file. It was a grainy, long-range shot of Vermulen, now dressed in civilian clothes, talking to a middle-aged man with a mustache.

"That is Pavel Novak, a former officer in Czech military intelligence."

"What is he doing with Vermulen?"

"That is precisely what we want to know. Twenty-five years ago, Novak became a double agent, passing secrets to the Americans. He did not know that we were aware of his treachery, so we used him as a means of passing false, misleading information. He was, in effect, working for us all the time. For part of that period Novak's American handler was this Vermulen. In recent years, Novak, like Vermulen, has become a businessman, but perhaps a less respectable one. Today, he trades our secrets to Arabs, Asians, and Third World countries. And of course, we still know and monitor what he does.

"But never before has he had any business dealings with the Americans. So why is he making contact now? What can he offer them that they could possibly want? Novak may wish Vermulen to be some kind of middleman. Or maybe the Americans are playing another game we don't even know about as yet. This is what you must find out."

Alix frowned.

"Me? How?"

"By doing what you do best, my dear. Since his wife's death, Vermulen has only had one or two casual affairs. It is time he fell in love once again."

"Not with me. I won't do another trap-not with him or anyone else."

The good humor vanished without trace from Zhukovskaya's voice, replaced by a Siberian chill.

"You will do exactly what I order you to do, and I will tell you why."

She started flicking through the pages in the file.

"You currently owe the Montagny-Dumas Clinic a sum of, let me see…"

She found the page she was looking for. "Forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and thirty-two francs. That was the total at six o'clock this evening. It will be more by tomorrow morning, once they've added another night to the total."

Alix hissed, "You bitch."

"Come, now. Is that any way to speak to someone who is about to solve all your problems? If you agree to target Vermulen, we will arrange for payments to cover Mr. Carver's medical bills for as long as he requires. Believe me, you will hardly notice the expense. Yuri was very appreciative of your services."

"What if I say no?"

"Then you and your boyfriend will have to accept the consequences of killing my husband. The penalty for murder is death. Maybe you are ready to sacrifice yourself for your principles. But would you sacrifice your man as well?"

"I need to talk to Samuel, to let him know what is happening."

"No," snapped Zhukovskaya. "That will not be possible. You will spend the night here. Your flight to Washington, D.C., leaves at nine in the morning."

"But…" Alix began to speak, but was instantly silenced.

"Do not argue. These are your orders. You remember orders, don't you… Agent Petrova?"

Alix lowered her eyes submissively.

"Yes, Madam Deputy Director. May I ask how I am supposed to approach General Vermulen?"

"You will be hired as his personal assistant. Your cover, full legend, and job application have already been prepared. By Wednesday, you must be ready for your job interview. You will have excellent references. There are still many powerful men who know that it is in their interest to help us."

"As ever, you have thought of every detail," said Alix. "But there is one thing I do not understand. How do you know that Vermulen needs a new assistant?"