"Pawns aren't worth a whole lot. Besides, I'm expendable, remember?"

  "Don't underestimate your value. You moved out of the pawn category a long time ago. Give yourself some credit. If the opposition can take you off the board, it will be a win for them."

  "Thanks for sticking your neck out."

  "Be careful in Finland."

  "I'll bring back a bottle of good Finnish vodka."

  "Just bring yourself back."

  Jenna broke the connection, opened the back of the phone, and took out the battery and the card. She broke the card in half and tossed the pieces out the window. When she got home, she'd get rid of the rest of it. It wasn't likely the call would be flagged, but she'd learned long ago to be careful. Working for Langley was a pain in the ass when it came to privacy. Kramer's revelation about using their phones to discover her relationship with Mike was a case in point.

  Kramer had wanted to make sure Jenna knew her place. Davidson was as bad with his subordinates, maybe worse. The reason he was deputy director was because of his good old boy connections. That, and the fact that he was a champion at sucking up to people above him. Carlson was a manipulative prick who had his eye on Kramer's job and would do anything to advance his position.

  It was like working in a snake pit. The three of them had no compunction at all about setting Mike up as bait for the opposition. It wasn't so much that they were doing it, as that they were doing it behind his back. She knew Mike. If they'd told him the truth, it wouldn't have been a problem.

  She waited for a break in the traffic, pulled away from the turnout, and headed home.

  Jenna lived in a renovated brownstone in the city, right at the edge of Georgetown. Once inside the house, she tossed her purse onto the hall table and went into the kitchen. She considered making a martini and thought better of it, opting instead for a glass of white wine from an open bottle in the refrigerator. She took the glass and the bottle into the living room and dropped into her favorite chair.

  She thought about Mike, wondering what the hell she was doing. She'd called a halt to things a year ago because she'd been frightened by the intensity between them. He wasn't the kind of man you could be with on a casual basis. She had just been promoted to her job as DDO, and she hadn't wanted the complications that came with a relationship that was more than casual.

  She'd looked at him that day in the bar not long ago and wanted him. She told herself it wasn't anything more than simple lust. That was then. Now it was too late to pretend that her feelings were casual.

  She poured herself another glass of wine.

  Chapter 34

  Thorne flew to London, then changed to a Finnair flight to Helsinki. The new push for economic austerity had forced him to travel in economy class. By the time he landed in Finland, he'd used up the better part of a day and was stiff from the lousy seats and hours in the air.

  A lot of that time had been spent thinking about Jenna's call. Finding out the trip to Helsinki was a set-up didn't surprise him. Carlson was a master of underhanded manipulation. It was typical of him to do something like this.

  Thorne's passport said he was Canadian. Titanium framed designer glasses and a good suit, combined with a trim mustache and goatee, gave him the look of a prosperous businessman. He cleared passport control and took a cab to the hotel where the conference was being held. A room had been reserved for him. If anyone asked, he was here to look into importing Finnish saunas to Canada.

  There was no reason anyone would think he was anything other than what he appeared to be, unless one of the people on Carlson's list had betrayed him to the opposition. If that were the case, they'd come after him soon. If they did, he'd be ready for them, thanks to Jenna.

  The conference was scheduled to begin in two days. Delegations from the United States, Syria, and the Russian Federation were arriving tomorrow, along with representatives of Turkey and the EU. There had been a lot of bickering about who would attend the meetings as interested observers or participants. An Egyptian Nobel Peace Prize winner had been chosen to moderate the discussions, someone who could reasonably be seen as neutral to both sides.

  Security was already heavy at the hotel. Thorne spotted half a dozen men and women in the lobby sporting discrete earpieces.

  Thorne's room was typical of European hotels. Small but comfortable. Enough room for a bed, a corner desk and chair, a wall-mounted TV, an armchair, and a bathroom. The view was of another wing of the hotel, but he wasn't there for the view.

  It was after seven in the evening, Helsinki time. Long experience had taught him the best way to defeat jet lag was to adapt to local time and act accordingly. That meant it was almost time for dinner.

  He stripped and went into the bathroom. A cold shower brought him back to alertness. He dressed in slacks, a gray shirt open at the collar, and a sport jacket, casual business style.

  By now the bar would be filling up. It was time to go downstairs and mix. If the opposition knew he was here, they'd watch for an opportunity to engage.

  The wall behind the bar was filled with bottles from floor to ceiling, liquors of every kind and description. Like everything else in the hotel, the bar was clean and modern, open and light. The floor was made of granite tile. Red rugs placed under chairs and tables helped keep the noise down to a bearable level. Most of the tables were occupied.

  A man at the bar stood and left. Thorne slid onto the vacant stool. The bartender came over, a woman with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail

  "Mitä haluaisit juoda?" she said.

  "Sorry, I don't speak Finnish. Do you speak English?" Thorne said.

  "Yes, I do. I asked you, what you would like to drink?"

  He thought of Jenna and ordered a vodka martini.

  The drink came. He took a sip and looked about the room. A group of reporters had commandeered several tables and pushed them together. Judging from their loud voices, they'd been there a while. There were a number of people he pegged as locals; others were probably staying at the hotel. The hotel and bar were right in the middle of town, making it a popular watering spot.

  If the Russians had agents here, they weren't easy to spot.

  The man sitting on his right got up and left. A woman sat down on the empty stool. She was attractive, with the look common to Scandinavia. Her eyes were blue, her cheekbones high and well defined, her skin milk-white fair. Her blonde hair was cropped short, feathered against her skull. She wore expensive clothes. Dark gray slacks, a red silk blouse, black designer shoes with sturdy raised heels. Gold and ruby earrings, gold bracelets. The faintest hint of high-end perfume.

  No wedding ring.

  "Hei," she said.

  Her voice was pleasant.

  "Hello."

  "You are English?" she said.

  "No, Canadian. I'm here on business."

  "Finland is a very good place to do business."

  "I hope so," Thorne said.

  "You are long here?"

  "Only a few days."

  "What kind of business do you do?"

  "Import/export. I import saunas for home use. I'm hoping to get a better deal here than in Sweden."

  "Finnish saunas are much better," she said. "Have you tried one yet?"

  Thorne laughed. "No, not yet. I only got here a few hours ago."

  "I'm Sofi. Welcome to Finland."

  She held out her hand. They shook.

  "Hello, Sofi. I'm Calvin. My friends call me Cal."

  "Well, Cal, would you like to buy me a drink?"

  "It would be my pleasure."

  Thorne signaled the bartender. What were the odds a woman who looked like this would sit down next to him two minutes after he appeared in public? Going out of her way to be friendly? She was either a hooker or a spy.

  Right. Game on.

  Chapter 35

  Major Petrov stood at attention, suppressing the urge to scratch his nose. He waited for his superior to finish reading the report on Anya Volkova.

  Colonel Yurchic Ivanov worked in the Fifth Directorate of the Main Directorate of the General Staff, the GRU. When foreigners thought of Russian spies, they usually thought of the old KGB, now transformed into the FSB and SVR. Those feared organizations were puny compared to the GRU.

  The tentacles of Russia's largest intelligence agency spread like poison throughout the world. The GRU was supposed to concentrate on foreign intelligence, leaving domestic spying to the FSB. It was a fine distinction that meant little, especially when military personnel were involved.

  There were twelve official directorates in the GRU, augmented by special units used for assassinations and foreign destabilization tactics. Ivanov's Fifth Directorate was responsible for military operations intelligence.

  Petrov had been assigned to watch General Stepanov as a matter of policy. In the new Russia, as in the old, everyone in positions of importance within the military was assigned a watcher. The GRU had been created by Stalin during World War II. Stalin was long gone, but GRU policies and tactics remained the same.

  Ivanov held a cigarette pinched upright between a nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger as he read. He was a large man. His shoulders pushed against the seams of his uniform jacket. His eyes were black, cold. His face was an unpleasant face, pockmarked with acne scars, without humor, a face that told you to be careful.

  Ivanov took a deep drag, leaned back in his chair, and blew smoke up at the ceiling. He looked at Petrov.

  "You say in your report you suspect Stepanov intends to make Volkova his mistress."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You are to be commended for your observations. This is useful information. However, though it is a breach of conduct, it is not an unusual situation for a senior officer like Stepanov to take a subordinate for a lover. What made you decide to follow her?"

  "Stepanov has given her access to the most secret information. It is highly unusual for someone of her rank to be given such responsibility. I felt that closer observation was necessary."

  "Because?"

  "A hunch, sir. She is arrogant. I don't trust her. She lacks respect."

  "You mean she lacks respect for you, don't you, Major? Never mind, you needn't answer that."

  Petrov felt himself flush.

  "I identified the man she met in the park and later in the café. His name is Vlas Sokolov. He is a known troublemaker, a dissident. He and Volkova pretended to go separate ways before meeting again in the café. That is highly suspicious."

  "I agree, Petrov. Bring him in. I want to know what he and the Colonel talked about."

  "Yes, sir. Shouldn't we bring her in as well?"

  "Do I need to remind you that she is now an important symbol of our military? We will wait until we find out why she met this man, Sokolov."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That's all."

  Petrov saluted and left the room. Ivanov stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He contemplated how he might use Petrov's report to his advantage.

  Sexual liaisons always provided opportunities for pressuring the individuals involved, as long as proof of impropriety was available. That wouldn't be hard, Stepanov was married. If Petrov was right and Stepanov was fucking her, film of them in bed would give him what he needed.

  Petrov was a plodder, but he'd shown good initiative in following Volkova. It would be interesting to see what the interrogation of Sokolov revealed. Ivanov's intuition told him there was something there. Why else would they have acted the way they did? As if they were worried someone might be watching them?

  Ivanov had to be careful pursuing this investigation. General Stepanov was a powerful man, close to the president. Colonel Volkova was now well known to the public, the sister of a fallen hero, the poster woman for recruitment into the services. She had the approval of the president and was clearly marked for future promotion.

  If Stepanov found out about the investigation, Ivanov might find himself stationed somewhere cold and harsh, a long way from the comfort of his Moscow apartment. He could always shift responsibility to Petrov if things became awkward, but it was much better if it never came to that.

  He picked up his phone to order surveillance installed in Stepanov's apartment.

  Chapter 36

  Anya rode in the car Stepanov had sent, on the way to have dinner with him at his apartment. Tonight she would be forced to give herself to him or suffer the consequences. She'd had time to get used to the idea, but she wasn't looking forward to it. It hadn't been easy to make the decision. As much as she hated the idea, if she had to sleep with him to save her career, she'd do it.

  Her only option was to use Stepanov's lust to manipulate him. The dance of power between men and women was the oldest battle in the world, sex the oldest weapon. At least there'd be a reprieve after tonight. Stepanov was going to Helsinki as a delegate to the peace conference.

  She'd dressed carefully. A touch of perfume, preparations to make sure there was no risk of getting pregnant.

  She'd heard nothing from the Americans since the day in the park. The man on the bench had told her someone would contact her. He hadn't said how or when. Meanwhile, she went about her job and waited for whatever was going to happen.

  According to the daily accounts published in Izvestia, the offensive in Syria was going well, with only minor casualties. The paper was lying. It was true the Kurds were in retreat, but Russian casualties were much greater than reported. The public wouldn't be so enthusiastic about the war if they knew the cost. She knew what the cost was.

  Russian blood.

  Grigori's blood.

  She wondered if her letter to the Americans had reached anyone who could make a difference. She didn't think it would change the outcome of what happened in Syria. It was obvious what the Russian forces intended to do and what their objectives were. She hadn't revealed anything the Americans probably didn't know. She'd only wanted to show them she had access to military operations. That she was willing to give them information, if it helped prevent a larger war. The man on the bishops' bench meant she'd succeeded in piquing their interest.

  Anya had surprised herself by the way she'd felt after meeting the American. She had just betrayed her country. Part of her had expected something dramatic to happen. To walk out of the park and be arrested, or to come home and find the FSB waiting for her. Perhaps for the sky to open, to hear a booming voice call down wrath upon her.

  But nothing had happened. Instead she'd felt relieved, as if a burden had been lifted from her. She'd gone home, spent the rest of the afternoon with her mother, made dinner, watched television for a while, and gone to bed. A perfectly normal and boring day, except for what had happened in the park.

  Tonight promised to be anything but boring.

  Stepanov met her at the door with a glass of wine in his hand. He wore a black shirt open at the collar, exposing thick chest hair. She caught a whiff of cologne.

  At least it's a pleasant scent.

  "You look lovely, my dear."

  "Thank you, Yuri."

  "Come, have a glass of wine with me. It's from Italy, a rare vintage. It will go well with the food. I've had the chef prepare an Italian meal for us."

  "I didn't know you were a gourmet."

  "There are many things you don't know about me, Anya. I hope that soon we will get to know each other much better."

  He poured a large glass of wine for her. They went into the living room and sat on one of the white leather couches.

  The wine was a deep, ruby color, almost purple. It clung to the sides of the glass like honey as she swirled it around. She inhaled the aroma, a rich scent that evoked images of distant hillsides, sunlight and dark earth. She sipped. It bloomed in her mouth.

  "Exquisite," she said.

  Stepanov looked pleased.

  "I'm glad to see you appreciate it. Wine is a social drink. When I'm by myself, I usually drink vodka. But wine like this requires company for enjoyment."

  "Tolstoy would not approve," Anya said. "He thought drinking wine was a mistake, that people drank only to push away the voice of their inner spiritual being, their conscience."

  "Most likely Tolstoy didn't have much enjoyment in his life," Yuri said.

  "Perhaps he would have changed his mind if he had drunk wine like this."

  Anya smiled at him.

  "What a pleasure it is to have an intelligent conversation," Stepanov said. He raised his glass. "To Tolstoy."

  They drank. Stepanov filled her glass again.

  "You know I am going to the conference in Helsinki?" he said.

  "Do you think it will produce any results?"

  "It's a waste of time. Nothing will come of it."

  "They must know we will not leave Syria because they want us to," Anya said.

  "Their president is new to his job. He hasn't learned that we cannot be intimidated by saber rattling. If they do anything rash, they will find that out."

  Stepanov sipped his wine and looked at her over the glass.

  "I want you to accompany me to Finland. I've already added you to the list of delegates from the Federation. Your extensive knowledge of our operations in Syria makes you a reasonable choice. You will sit behind me at the conference table. I may have occasion to ask you about something."

  Shit. That's not why he wants me to come to Finland.

  "Of course, Yuri. I would be happy to assist."

  "Have you ever been to Helsinki?"

  "No. I've never been outside our borders."

  "It will be quite an experience for you. Helsinki is very civilized. You will enjoy it. There should be opportunities for you to explore the city. Come, let's eat."

  The table was loaded with food, as it had been the first time she'd come to his apartment. An assortment of cheeses, breads and vegetables was placed next to platters of chicken and fish. A large salad sat on the side. There was pasta and soup. It was more than any two people could eat.

  "We could do it in the traditional Italian way and take things in order," Stepanov said. "I prefer to simply choose whatever one likes. Please, take as you wish."