Shoes? A new coat? A new handbag?
She left out jewelry, since that was Oleg’s job, but, like most men, he didn’t know a thing about what women wore.
What about foundation garments? Irina wondered next. A Chantarelle brassiere? Did she dare purchase something that elegant? That was at least a hundred rubles, even at this favorable exchange rate. . . . And it would be something only she knew she had on. Such a brassiere would feel like . . . hands. Like the hands of your lover. Yes, she had to get one of those.
And cosmetics. She had to get cosmetics. It was the one thing Russian women always paid attention to. She was in the right city for that. Hungarian women cared about skin care as well. She’d go to a good store and ask, comrade to comrade. Hungarian women—their faces proclaimed to the world that they cared about their skin. In this the Hungarians were most kulturniy.
It took another two hours of utter bliss, so pleasant that she didn’t even notice her husband and daughter waiting about. She was living every Soviet woman’s dream, spending money in—well, if not the West, then the next best thing. And it was wonderful. She’d wear the Chantarelle to the concert tonight, listen to Bach, and pretend she was in another time and another place, where everyone was kulturniy and it was a good thing to be a woman. It was a pity that no such place existed in the Soviet Union.
OUTSIDE THE SUCCESSION of women’s stores, Oleg just stood around and smoked his cigarettes like any other man in the world, intensely bored by the details of women’s shopping. How they could enjoy the process of picking and comparing, picking and comparing, never making a decision, just sucking in the ambience of being surrounded by things they couldn’t wear and didn’t really like? They always took the dress and held it up to their necks and looked in a mirror and decided nyet, not this one. On and on and on, past the sunset and into the night, as though their very souls depended on it. Oleg had learned patience with his current life-threatening adventure, but one thing he’d never learned, and never expected to learn, was how to watch a woman shop . . . without wishing to throttle her. Just standing there like a fucking beast of burden, holding the things she’d finally decided to purchase—then waiting while she decided to change her mind or not. Well, it couldn’t last forever. They did have tickets to the concert that night. They had to go back to the hotel, try to get a sitter for zaichik, get dressed, and go to the concert hall. Even Irina would appreciate that.
Probably, Oleg Ivan’ch thought bleakly. As though he didn’t have enough to worry about. But his little girl wasn’t concerned about a thing, Oleg saw. She ate her ice cream and looked around at this different place with its different sights. There was much to be said for a child’s innocence. A pity one lost it—and why, then, did children try so hard to grow up and leave their innocence behind? Didn’t they know how wonderful the world was for them alone? Didn’t they know that, with understanding, the wonders of the world only became burdens? And pain.
And doubts, Zaitzev thought. So many doubts.
But no, zaichik didn’t know that, and by the time she found out, it would be too late.
Finally, Irina walked outside, with a beaming smile such as she’d not had since delivering their daughter. Then she really surprised him—she came up to him for a hug and a kiss.
“Oh, Oleg, you are so good to me!” And another passionate kiss of a woman sated by shopping. Even better than one sated by sex, her husband suddenly thought.
“Back to the hotel, my dear. We must dress for the concert.”
The easy part was the ride on the metro, then into the Astoria and up to Room 307. Once there, they decided more or less by default to take Svetlana with them. Getting a sitter would have been an inconvenience—Oleg had thought about a female KGB officer from the Culture and Friendship House across the street, but neither he nor his wife felt comfortable with such arrangements, and so zaichik would have to behave herself during the concert. His tickets were in the room, Orchestra Row 6, seats A, B, and C, which put him right on the aisle, where he preferred to be. Svetlana would wear her new clothes this evening, which, he hoped, would make her happy. It usually did, and these were the best clothes she’d ever had.
The bathroom was crowded in their room. Irina worked hard and long to get her face right. It was easier for her husband, and easier still for their daughter, for whom a wet washcloth across her grimacing face was enough. Then they all got dressed in their best clothing. Oleg buckled his little girl’s shiny black shoes over the white tights to which she’d taken an immediate love. Then she put on the red coat with the black collar, and the little Bunny was all ready for the adventures of the evening. They took the elevator down to the lobby and caught a cab outside.
FOR TRENT IT was a little awkward. Staking out the lobby ought to have been difficult, but the hotel staff seemed not to notice him, and so when the package left, it was a simple matter of walking out to his car and following their cab to the concert hall, just a mile down the street. Once there, he found a parking place close by and walked quickly to the entrance. Drinks were being served there, and the Zaitzevs availed themselves of what looked like Tokaji before heading in. Their little girl was as radiant as ever. Lovely child, Trent thought. He hoped she’d like life in the West. He watched them head into the theater to their seats, and then he turned to go up the stairs to his box.
RYAN AND HUDSON were already there, sitting on the old chairs with their velvet cushions.
“Andy, Jack,” Trent said in greeting. “Sixth row, left side of center, just on the aisle.”
Then the houselights started flickering. The curtain drew back, the meandering tones of musicians tuning their various instruments trailed off, and the conductor, Jozsef Rozsa, appeared from stage right. The initial applause was little more than polite. It was his first concert in the series, and he was new to this audience. That struck Ryan as odd—he was a Hungarian, a graduate of their own Franz Liszt Academy. Why wasn’t their greeting more enthusiastic? He was a tall and thin guy with black hair and the face of an aesthete. He bowed politely to the audience and turned back to the orchestra. His little baton stick—whatever it was called, Ryan didn’t know—was there on the little stand, and when he lifted it, the room went dead still, and then his right arm shot out to the string section of the Hungarian State Railroad Orchestra #1.
Ryan was not the student of music that his wife was, but Bach was Bach, and the concerto built in majesty almost from the first instant. Music, like poetry or painting, Jack told himself, was a means of communication, but he’d never quite figured out what composers were trying to say. It was easier with a John Williams movie score, where the music so perfectly accompanied the action, but Bach hadn’t known about moving pictures, and so he must have been “talking about” things that his original audiences would have recognized. But Ryan wasn’t one of those, and so he just had to appreciate the wonderful harmonies. It struck him that the piano wasn’t right, and only when he looked did he see that it wasn’t a piano at all, but rather an ancient harpsichord, played, it seemed, by an equally ancient virtuoso with flowing white hair and the elegant hands of . . . a surgeon, Jack thought. Jack did know piano music. Their friend Sissy Jackson, a solo player with the Washington Symphony, said Cathy was too mechanical in her playing, but Ryan only noted that she never missed a key—you could always tell—and to him that was sufficient. This guy, he thought, watching his hands and catching the notes through the wonderful cacophony, didn’t miss a single note, and every one, it seemed, was precisely as loud or soft as the concert required, and so precisely timed as to define perfection. The rest of the orchestra seemed about as well practiced as the Marine Corps Silent Drill Team, everything as precise as a series of laser beams.
The one thing Ryan couldn’t tell was what the conductor was doing. Wasn’t the concerto written down? Wasn’t conducting just a matter of making sure—beforehand—that everybody knew his part and did it on time? He’d have to ask Cathy about it, and she’d roll her eyes and remark that he
really was a Philistine. But Sissy Jackson said that Cathy was a mechanic on the keyboard, lacking in soul. So there, Lady Caroline!
The string section was also superb, and Ryan wondered how the hell you ran a bow along a string and made the exact noise you wanted to. Probably because they do it for a living, he told himself, and he sat back to enjoy the music. It was only then that he watched Andy Hudson, whose eyes were on the package. He took the moment to look that way as well.
The little girl was squirming, doing her best to be good, and maybe taking note of the music, but it couldn’t be as good as a tape of The Wizard of Oz, and that couldn’t be helped. Still and all, she was behaving well, the little Bunny sitting between Ma and Pa Rabbit.
Mama Rabbit was watching the concert with rapt attention. Papa Rabbit was being politely attentive. Maybe they should call ahead to London and get Irina a Walkman, Jack thought, along with some Christopher Hogwood tapes. . . . Cathy seemed to like him a lot, along with Nevile Marriner.
In any case, after about twenty minutes, they finished the Menuetto, the orchestra went quiet, and when Conductor Rozsa turned to face the audience . . .
The concert hall went berserk with cheering and shouts of “Bravo!” Jack didn’t know what he’d done differently, but evidently the Hungarians did. Rozsa bowed deeply to the audience and waited for the noise to subside before turning back and commanding quiet again as he raised his little white stick to start Brandenberg #2.
This one started with a brass and strings, and Ryan found himself entranced by the individual musicians more than whatever the conductor had done with them. How long do you have to study to get that good? he wondered. Cathy played two or three times a week at home in Maryland—their Chatham house wasn’t big enough for a proper grand piano, rather to her disappointment. He’d offered to get an upright, but she’d declined, saying that it just wasn’t the same. Sissy Jackson said that she played three hours or more every single day. But Sissy did it for a living, while Cathy had another and somewhat more immediate passion in her professional life.
The second Brandenberg concerto was shorter than the first, ending in about twelve minutes, and the third followed at once. Bach must have loved the violins more than any other instrument, and the local string section was pretty good. In any other setting Jack might have given himself over to the moment and just drunk in the music, but he did have something more important planned for this evening. Every few seconds, his eyes drifted left to see the Rabbit family. . . .
BRANDENBERG #3 ENDED roughly an hour after #1 had begun. The houselights came on, and it was time for the intermission. Ryan watched Papa Rabbit and Mrs. Rabbit leave their seats. The reason was plain. The Bunny needed a trip to the little girls’ room, and probably Papa would avail himself of the local plumbing as well. Hudson saw that and leapt to his feet, back out of the box, into the private corridor, closely followed by Tom Trent, and down the steps to the lobby and into the men’s room, while Ryan stayed in the box and tried to relax. The mission was now fully under way.
NOT FIFTY YARDS AWAY, Oleg Ivan’ch was standing in the line to use the men’s room. Hudson managed to get right behind him. The lobby was filled with the usual buzz of small talk. Some people went to the portable bar for more drinks. Others were puffing on cigarettes, while twenty men or so were waiting to relieve their bladders. The line moved fairly rapidly—men are more efficient at this than women are—and soon they were in the tiled room.
The urinals were as elegant as everything else, seemingly carved from Carerra marble for this noble purpose. Hudson stood like everyone else, hoping that his clothing did not mark him as a foreigner. Just inside the wood-and-glass door, he took a breath and, leaning forward, called on his Russian.
“Good evening, Oleg Ivanovich,” Hudson said quietly. “Do not turn around.”
“Who are you?” Zaitzev whispered back.
“I am your travel agent. I understand you wish to take a little trip.”
“Where might that be?”
“Oh, in a westerly direction. You are concerned for the safety of someone, are you not?”
“You are CIA?” Zaitzev could not utter the acronym in anything but a hiss.
“I am in an unusual line of work,” Hudson confirmed. No sense confusing the chap at the moment.
“So, what will you do with me?”
“This night you will sleep in another country, my friend,” Hudson told him, adding, “along with your wife and your lovely little daughter.” Hudson watched his shoulders slump—with relief or fear, the British spook wondered. Probably both.
Zaitzev cleared his throat before whispering again. “What must I do?”
“First, you must tell me that you wish to go forward with your plan.”
Only the briefest hesitation before: “Da. We will proceed.”
“In that case, just do your business in here—” they were approaching the head of the line “—and then enjoy the rest of the concert, and return to your hotel. We shall speak again there at one-thirty or so. Can you do that?”
Just a curt nod and a gasping single syllable: “Da.” Oleg Ivan’ch really needed to use the urinal now.
“Be at ease, my friend. All is planned. All will go well,” Hudson said to him. The man would need assurance and confidence now. This had to be the most frightening moment of his life.
There was no further reply. Zaitzev took the next three steps to the marble urinal, unzipped, and relieved himself in more than one way. He turned to leave without seeing Hudson’s face.
But Trent saw his, as he stood there and sipped a glass of white wine. If he’d made any signal to a fellow KGB spook in the room, the British officer hadn’t seen it. No rubbing the nose or adjusting his tie, no physical sign at all. He just walked back through the swinging door and back to his seat. BEATRIX was looking better and better.
THE AUDIENCE WAS back in its seats. Ryan was doing his best to look like just one more classical music fan. Then Hudson and Trent reentered the box.
“Well?” Ryan rasped.
“Bloody good music, isn’t it?” Hudson replied casually. “This Rozsa chap is first-rate. Amazing that a communist country can turn out anything better than a reprise of the Internationale. Oh, after it’s over,” Hudson added, “how about a drink with some new friends?”
Jack let out a very long breath. “Yeah, Andy, I’d like that.” Son of a bitch, Ryan thought. It’s really going to happen. He had lots of doubts, but they’d just subsided half a step or so. It wasn’t really very much, but it was a damned sight better than it could have been.
THE SECOND HALF of the concert started with more Bach, the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Instead of strings, this one was a celebration of brass, and the lead cornet here might have taught Louis Armstrong himself something about the higher notes. This was as much Bach as Ryan had ever heard at one time, and that old German composer had really had his shit wired, the former Marine thought, for the first time relaxing enough to enjoy it somewhat. Hungary was a country that respected its music, or so it seemed. If there was anything wrong with this orchestra, he didn’t notice it, and the conductor looked as though he were in bed with the love of his life, so transfixed he was by the joy of the moment. Jack wondered idly if Hungarian women were any good at that. There was an earthy look to them, but not much smiling. . . . Maybe that was the communist government. Russians were not known for smiling, either.
“SO, ANY NEWS?” Judge Moore asked.
Mike Bostock handed over the brief dispatch from London. “Basil says his COS Budapest is going to make his move tonight. Oh, you’ll love this part. The Rabbit is staying in a hotel right across the street from the KGB rezidentura.”
Moore’s eyes flared a bit. “You have to be kidding.”
“Judge, do you think I’d say that for the fun of it?”
“When does Ritter get back?”
“Later today, flying back on Pan Am. From what he sent to us from Seoul, everything went pretty well with the KCIA
meetings.”
“He’ll have a heart attack when he finds out about BEATRIX,” the DCI predicted.
“It will get his eyes opened,” the Deputy DDO agreed.
“Especially when he finds out that this Ryan boy is in on it?”
“On that, sir, you can bet the ranch, the cattle, and the big house.”
Judge Moore had himself a good chuckle at that one. “Well, I guess the Agency is bigger than any one individual, right?”
“So they tell me, sir.”
“When will we know?”
“I expect Basil will let us know when the plane takes off from Yugoslavia. It’s going to be a long day for our new friends, though.”
THE NEXT SELECTION was Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Ryan recognized it as the tune played in a Navy recruiting commercial. It was a gentle piece, very different from that which had preceded it. He wasn’t sure if this evening’s performance was a showcase for Johann Sebastian or for the conductor. In either case, it was pleasant enough, and the audience was wildly appreciative, noisier than for the concert selection. One more piece. Ryan had a program, but hadn’t bothered looking at it, since it was printed in Magyar, and he couldn’t read Martian any better than he could decipher the spoken form.
The last selection was Pachelbel’s Canon, a justly famous piece, one that had always struck Ryan like a movie of a pretty girl saying her prayers back in the seventeenth century, trying to concentrate on her devotions instead of thinking about the handsome boy down the lane from her farmhouse—and not quite succeeding.