Anya looked at her watch. They needed to be back at the apartment by eleven at the latest. It was already after ten.

  "I don't know, Anya," Yulia said. "Nothing feels right."

  Anya stood looking at a mannequin wearing a brown dress.

  "That would look great on you."

  "I don't like it."

  Anya had long experience of her mother's moods. It would do no good to argue with her. She would get emotional and difficult, if she thought she was being pushed to do something she didn't want to do. The fact that she was going to meet Tarasov in a few hours didn't make anything easier. Then Anya had an inspiration.

  "Come on, mother. There's another place we can go. I'm sure we can find something there."

  Outside the store she hailed a taxi and told the driver to take them to the Tsvetnoy Market. For once, traffic was light. It wasn't long before they entered the enormous mall. Anya wished they could have lunch at one of the restaurants on the top floors, but there wasn't time.

  "Where are we going?" Yulia asked. "My feet are getting tired."

  "Right here," Anya said. "They have nice clothes in this shop, mother. I'm sure we'll find something you like."

  Twenty minutes later, Yulia stepped out of the dressing room wearing an ankle length creation in dark green. She was smiling.

  "You look fabulous, mother. That dress is perfect for you."

  "You think so?"

  "Perfect. And it's made right here in Russia. Very patriotic. I'm sure the president will notice."

  "Then I'll take it," Yulia said.

  Anya paid, a bit shocked at the price, but it was worth it to keep her mother calm. Besides, she really did look good in the dress.

  The medal ceremony was scheduled for two o'clock in the president's office. Anya and her mother had toured the public areas of the Kremlin in the past, admiring the treasures in the museums. They'd toured the great domed chamber of the Senate building, but they'd never been inside the president's office.

  General Stepanov met them outside the entrance. He was wearing his Class A uniform. An impressive array of ribbons covered the left side of his jacket.

  "Good afternoon, sir," she said. "Mother, this is First Deputy Defense Minister Stepanov. He is the man I work for."

  Stepanov reached out and took Yulia's hand in his.

  "It is a great pleasure to meet you," Stepanov said. "Your daughter is one of my most valued officers."

  Flustered, Yulia looked to Anya, then back at Stepanov.

  "I have always tried to do my best with her," she said.

  Stepanov smiled. "You have succeeded. Come, the president is expecting us."

  Two armed guards in full dress Guards’ uniform stood at attention on either side of tall double doors leading to Tarasov's office. As the trio approached, they moved in synchronized motion to open the doors and returned to attention.

  Inside the room, Tarasov, General Kerensky, a major she didn't recognize, and a crowd of photographers waited for them. Anya hadn't expected to see Kerensky there.

  "Oh, my," Yulia said.

  Tarasov had the politician's gift of charm. He used it now, coming forward and smiling. He took Yulia's hand in both of his.

  "You are Grigori's mother," he said. "I knew your husband, years ago. I am only sorry I have to meet you under these circumstances. It is an honor to take the hand of the mother of a hero of the Motherland."

  "Comrade President, I... I don't know what to say."

  "Yulia. May I call you Yulia?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Tarasov turned to the two men standing near his desk.

  "Yulia, may I present Chief of Staff General Kerensky and Major Gorky? General Kerensky insisted on being here today to honor your son. Major Gorky was your son's commander. He was with him in the field and witnessed his heroic actions. Gentlemen, this is Captain Volkov's mother and his sister, Colonel Anya Volkova."

  The next ten minutes were a blur of murmured platitudes and flashing camera lights. Major Gorky praised Gregori's actions. Tarasov presented the medal, a single gold star hanging from a ribbon bearing the white, blue and red colors of the Russian Federation flag. A second medal for bravery in combat was presented to Major Gorky. More pictures were taken of the entire group standing together.

  Then it was over.

  A limousine drove them back to their apartment. Yulia held the medal in her lap, silently staring out the window at the city passing by. Anya would have liked more time to talk with Major Gorky, but there'd been no opportunity for that. He'd seemed sincere in his words praising Grigori's courage, unlike Kerensky and Tarasov. If there was a medal for acting, they both deserved it.

  The more she saw of Tarasov, the more she didn't like him. It made sense that he'd known her father. In some ways, Tarasov reminded her of him. It was no recommendation.

  Anya wasn't looking forward to tomorrow.

  Tomorrow she would be back at work. The photographs were sure to be displayed prominently in Izvestia. There would be more whispers and looks, more envious comments behind her back.

  It wasn't work she was worried about; it was what would come after.

  Tomorrow evening she was having dinner with Stepanov.

  Chapter 27

  The next evening Stepanov sent his car to pick her up. Anya had been thinking all day about what she was going to do when Stepanov propositioned her, but when she got into the limousine she still hadn't decided. She could give in to his demands, and watch her career flourish. She could refuse him, and find herself in a meaningless job somewhere far away where she couldn't embarrass him, her career over.

  It was the way things worked in Russia. Maybe it was the way things worked everywhere. She was a woman working in an organization run by men who were used to getting their way. Up until now, she'd been successful in fending off those who saw her as sexual prey, but Stepanov wasn't in the same category as the rest of them. He was far too powerful to ignore or evade.

  The knowledge that she wasn't the first woman forced to choose between virtue and safety brought no comfort.

  Stepanov had an apartment on the top floor of a building on Ostozhenka Street, near the Prechistenskaya Embankment. Ostozhenka Street was one of the most expensive streets in the world. Only the elite could afford to live here, the powerbrokers of the Federation. It wasn't Stepanov's primary residence. That was out in the same neighborhood as the oligarchs and the president, where his wife was under twenty-four- hour care in their Rublevka mansion. The Moscow apartment was convenient to work and to the Kremlin.

  It was also convenient for conducting an affair.

  Stepanov's driver rode up with her in the elevator and escorted her to the door. He knocked twice. Anya heard the lock release. The driver opened the door.

  "Please, Colonel. Go right in. The general is expecting you."

  Really? I never would have guessed.

  "Thank you," Anya said.

  Anya stepped inside and looked around. In spite of herself, she was impressed.

  The ceilings were fourteen feet high, the floors made of polished stone. Everything was decorator coordinated in white and black. A wide coffee table of black marble rested in front of a long, sectional couch covered in soft white leather. A huge television screen dominated the wall across from the couch. Recessed overhead lights and a modern chandelier illuminated the room. Paintings of quality decorated the wall. That surprised her. She hadn't expected Stepanov to have a taste for art.

  A white piano stood near a row of windows facing out over the street below. They were covered with white damask drapes.

  Stepanov came into the room. He'd dressed in a gleaming white shirt open at the collar, loose black slacks and black loafers. Anya guessed the casual outfit had cost thousands of rubles.

  She thought of a proverb her mother was fond of repeating

  The Devil lives in a beautiful mansion.

  "Welcome, Colonel. I am pleased you could join me this evening. Perhaps a drink to begin? A glass of wine? Vodka?"

  "Wine, sir, thank you."

  "We are not at work, Colonel. Let's dispense with the formalities. May I call you Anya? And please, call me Yuri."

  "Of course, sir...Yuri."

  Stepanov walked over to a bar at the side of the room and took a bottle of red wine from a rack. Anya couldn't help but think that most of her apartment would fit within this one room.

  "This is a particularly fine vintage," Stepanov said. "A Château Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. Very smooth. I'm sure you'll like it."

  He opened the bottle and picked up two glasses.

  "You have a beautiful apartment...Yuri."

  "Thank you. Yes, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. The building is almost new. The developer was in financial difficulties, and I was able to secure this top floor for a good price. The floor below me is still unoccupied, though I expect it will be gone soon."

  "You have the entire top floor?"

  "Yes. It's extremely private and quiet. I find it quite relaxing after a day at the ministry. Come, let's go into the other room."

  She followed him into a sitting room. Comfortable chairs were placed around a low table burdened with artfully arranged dishes of food.

  Anya was worried about how the evening would turn out. She had tried to formulate a plan, but the only thing she could think of was to try and get him drunk. Drunk enough that sex was out of the question. She'd stroke his ego, and hope that would be all she'd have to stroke. When he got around to propositioning her, she still didn't know what she was going to say or do.

  "How did you manage such a feast?"

  "I have a good chef," Stepanov said.

  Flatter him.

  "I think a man's servants reflect the quality of the man," she said.

  Stepanov laughed.

  "Do you? Well, perhaps you're right."

  He poured the wine and handed her a glass. She swirled the wine in her class and breathed in the aroma, then took a sip. There was no need to pretend what she thought about it.

  "This is wonderful," she said.

  "Drink up, there's more where that came from."

  Stepanov picked up a remote lying on the table and pressed a button. Soft music filled the room. A second touch on the remote dimmed the lights.

  "Anya, I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

  I'll bet you do.

  She drank some wine, waiting.

  "You know about my wife, yes?"

  "Yes, I do. I'm sorry she is ill."

  "I enjoyed having you attend the party with me at Korosov's home the other evening. I confess I have little love for events like that, but it is an obligation of my position. My proposal is simple. I would like you to accompany me in the future when I am required at social functions."

  "I would be happy to go with you, General."

  "Yuri, please."

  "Yuri."

  "From time to time I may require other...duties. In return, I can guarantee your advancement to higher rank."

  Anya had no doubt what those other duties would entail. He wasn't guaranteeing promotion because he wanted her to escort him to public events.

  "You're an experienced woman, Anya. I don't want to insult your intelligence by pretending that our relationship would be anything but one of convenience. There are obvious benefits to both of us."

  "Such an arrangement would compromise my authority at work," Anya said.

  Stepanov smiled.

  "I am pleased to see that you do not make a pretense of false modesty. We both know my patronage can take you far in your career. You would continue in your present job for now, but my intention is to move you into Central Planning."

  "Central planning? What would I be doing?"

  "Supervising a larger picture of operations than your current position. Your organizational skills will be a good fit there. You will have more responsibility, and it will require promotion to higher rank. No one will question your authority. To do that would be to question mine. There are few who would dare."

  He smiled again, a smile of raw power that sent a quick shiver along her spine.

  "And if I found such an...arrangement...uncomfortable?"

  "My dear Anya, I'm sure I don't need to point out that such a decision might have consequences for your career."

  "I see."

  "Let's have some food," he said. "Try the caviar."

  Anya loved the classic movies of the Italian directors. Sitting here with him, she felt like a character in a film by Fellini. She was surrounded by the trappings of wealth. She was drinking Stepanov's wine, eating his food. It was all very civilized. Beneath the surface civility Stepanov displayed, she knew he'd crush her like a bug if she refused him.

  Grigori was dead because of this man and his cronies. The thought triggered anger, sending blood rushing to her face. She turned away before he could see it.

  They finished eating and went back into the living room to sit on the couch. Anya was on her third glass of wine. Stepanov had switched to vodka.

  "Do we have an agreement, Anya?"

  They are leading us into disaster. I have to find a way to stop them. But how?

  Stepanov drank and watched her, waiting to see what she would decide.

  If I give in to him, it will bring their secrets close. If I refuse, he will send me away. Then I can do nothing. God forgive me, but if sex is the price I must pay, I will do it.

  She took a breath.

  "Yes, Yuri. We have an agreement."

  "I knew you would understand," he said.

  He reached over and kissed her, probing her mouth with his tongue. She could smell his sweat under his cologne. He tasted of vodka and caviar.

  A phone rang.

  "Damn it," Stepanov said. "I told them no calls."

  He stood, walked over to a sideboard and picked up the phone.

  "Da."

  He listened. "Da, khorosho."

  He set the phone down and turned to Anya.

  "I'm sorry, my dear. We'll have to continue another time. My presence is required at the Ministry. My driver will take you home."

  She was careful not to show her feelings of relief.

  Chapter 28

  Rebecca Kramer and Scott Davidson were in Kramer's office, talking with Langley's Chief Operating Officer, Ed Bradford. As the man in charge of the money, Bradford was the third ranking officer in Langley's pecking order, with a security clearance one step below Kramer's and Davidson's.

  He was a mousy-looking man, not very tall, with wispy brown hair combed over a growing bald spot. He wore a gray suit that failed to hide a tendency to hunch his shoulders forward, as if his chest was about to cave in on itself. His glasses had thin, gold frames. Thick lenses magnified watery, hazel eyes. The colors of his tie identified his alma mater as a large, Midwestern University. His shoes were impeccably shined. Bradford was the kind of man people forgot a moment after they had met him.

  "I'm sorry to keep bringing this up, Director, but we can't keep ignoring these figures. These covert ops are costing way more than they should. I mean, look at this."

  Bradford stabbed with his finger at an entry on a spreadsheet he was holding.

  "This is a good example of what I'm talking about. This man, Thorne."

  Davidson rolled his eyes at the mention of Thorne's name. Bradford continued.

  "He comes back on Lufthansa from wherever he was by way of Frankfurt, and books a business class ticket. Do you know how much it costs to fly business class from Frankfurt to Dulles on Lufthansa?"

  Kramer sighed. "No, Ed, I don't, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

  "Three thousand, five hundred and eighty-one dollars, that's how much. Why the hell didn't he fly economy?"

  "I imagine there wasn't a seat available," Kramer said.

  "Then he should have waited until he could book one," Bradford said.

  "That might not have been possible."

  "Director, I understand your reluctance to reign in these people. But we don't have unlimited funds in our black accounts, in spite of the fantasies of the media."

  "So what you want us to do, Ed?" Davidson said.

  "For a start, an agency-wide campaign to reduce costs. That will look good the next time Congress tries to tell us we're spending too much money. But the real difference will have to come from this office. The two of you have to make it clear that these excessive expenses won't be tolerated. Whatever you have to do."

  Kramer sighed again. "All right, Ed. Message received. We'll pass the word. Is there anything else?"

  "No, that's it, Director. I'm glad you understand."

  They watched the door close behind him.

  "He's really an annoying man," Davidson said.

  "He can't help it. It's in his nature. You have to admit, he's good at keeping the money trails clean. Every time we have to go through the dog and pony show with Congress, he's got the right kinds of accounting records to show them. They never see what we're really doing, or where some of the money comes from. If he wasn't with us, he’d probably be working for the Mafia."

  "I'll give him that," Davidson said. "But he's still annoying."

  "Speaking of Congress and money, what's your take on the new appropriations bill? Do you see any problems there?"

  "Campbell's election shook up the Senate Committee on Appropriations. The new chairman is Peterson. He doesn't like us. Fortunately, there are thirty senators on that committee. A majority of them are either friendly or can be convinced to see our point of view. I don't think there are going to be significant problems, but Peterson will try to cut our funding."

  "Peterson is held up by the media as a paragon of virtue," Kramer said. "What have we got on him? Can we exert pressure?"

  "I'll have to take a look," Davidson said, "but I seem to recall there was something early on in his career we might be able to use. An incident with a young woman working as a volunteer on his campaign."

  "Those are always good," Kramer said.