"I didn't know she would go to the café," he said.

  "And in the café, what did you talk about then?"

  "I...I don't remember. We played another game. I won, of course."

  "You don't recall what you talked about?"

  "Not really."

  Petrov stood and picked up his folder.

  "I'm sure we can help you remember," he said. "Why don't you think about it for a while? Perhaps something will come back to you."

  He gestured to the guard and the two men left the room. In the hall, Petrov told the guard to wait. He opened the door to the next room. Colonel Ivanov sat inside, smoking, watching Sokolov through the one-way mirror.

  "He's hiding something," Ivanov said.

  "Yes," Petrov said.

  "Let him stew for a few hours. Then see if his memory has come back. If not, more aggressive interrogation is necessary."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sure he will tell us whatever it is he thinks he can keep to himself."

  "They always do," Ivanov said.

  Chapter 40

  As expected, the first day of the Helsinki conference was spent bickering about protocols and rules. Nothing was accomplished that offered hope for peace in Syria, but no one had expected the first day to produce anything worthwhile. For Anya, it was a day of sheer boredom.

  The Federation delegation was headed by the Russian Foreign Minister, Arkady Lebedev. He was backed up by the Minister of Defense, General Fedorov. Stepanov and General Kerensky were the other ranking delegates from the Federation.

  The Americans had sent a delegation headed by their Secretary of State. Edward Demarest was an unknown quantity to the Russians. He'd been a major donor to Campbell's campaign. Before his appointment, he'd been CEO of a large corporation that manufactured agricultural machinery. Demarest was a short man given to plain, dark suits and a no-nonsense approach to his job. He had a deceptively mild appearance that reminded people of Harry Truman. The impression was strengthened by old-fashioned round glasses with steel frames. He seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere of the conference.

  Accompanying Demarest were General Kroger from the Joint Chiefs, several ranking American officers, some civilians associated with the White House and Congress, and a gaggle of aides. Both sides of the conference table glittered with medals, gold braid, impeccable uniforms, and tailored power suits. Syrian and Turkish observers lined opposite sides of the room, glaring at each other.

  A second row of chairs had been placed behind each of the major participants at the table. Anya's was directly behind Stepanov. She'd been relieved to learn Major Petrov wasn't part of the Russian delegation. It meant she didn't have to put up with his snide looks and bad breath.

  She still had to put up with Stepanov. She was careful to maintain the appearance of strict professionalism with him in public. Rumors were already swirling about them. It was essential to maintain appearances.

  For now, Stepanov was on his guard around her, but in time he would begin to relax. One day there would be an opportunity to bring him down. For the moment, she had no choice but to play the role he'd scripted for her.

  The night before, she'd left his hotel room a little before midnight. For an older man, Stepanov had a lot of stamina. He was an aggressive lover, with little consideration for his partner. His lovemaking bordered on rape. She'd slept badly, woken bruised and sore. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she decided she would have to do something to curb his passion. She had a friend who was a pharmacist who might help. Maybe she could give her something to put in Stepanov's wine. Slow him down, put him to sleep. But she'd have to be careful.

  The only interesting thing to come out of the first day's discussions was a proposal that the opposing parties do away with their uniforms and meet wearing civilian clothes. The moderator had suggested the change, as a way to tone down the hostile military atmosphere in the room. None of the generals and admirals were happy about giving up the prestige of their uniform, but they had all agreed. The idea was touted in the press as progress.

  The hotel phone rang. She picked up.

  "Colonel Volkova."

  "Colonel, this is General Stepanov. This morning's session has been canceled. Something the moderator ate last night didn't agree with him. We are not going to resume until one o'clock this afternoon. General Fedorov, General Kerensky and myself have some things to discuss. I won't be needing you. You are free to explore Helsinki this morning, if you wish."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Be back here by noon."

  "Yes, sir."

  Stepanov hung up.

  So, a morning of relative freedom. It was an unexpected gift. She decided to have breakfast in the hotel restaurant and take in the sights of the city. She put on a light jacket, did a final check in the mirror, and left her room.

  In another part of the hotel, Thorne was about to go downstairs for breakfast when his phone buzzed.

  "Thorne."

  "Michael, this is Scott Davidson. I want to talk with you about your assignment. Is this a good time?"

  "As good as any. I was about to get some breakfast."

  "I won't keep you long. The individual in question has been designated OPERA. When do you think you'll make contact?"

  "That's impossible to say. At the first opportunity is the best I can tell you."

  "Yes, I understand. I worked the street myself at one point."

  Yeah, I know all about your time in Rome. What a jerk.

  "I want you to let me know as soon you make the connection. DCI Kramer has asked me to keep her informed."

  "What about Carlson? Normally I report to him."

  "By all means, report to Lewis. But I want you to give me a heads-up first. Timely updates. Are we clear?"

  "Yes, sir. We're clear."

  "Good. Then I'll expect to hear from you later today."

  Davidson disconnected. Thorne looked at the phone in his hand.

  There was no operational reason for Davidson to contact him. That meant there was a hidden agenda. Thorne's first thought was that it was a power play at Carlson's expense. He didn't like Lewis much, but if he did what Davidson asked it would get back to him. He'd go ballistic. It would create trouble Thorne didn't need.

  Davidson was ambitious. Everyone knew he wanted Kramer's job, including Kramer. Thorne thought Kramer found it amusing. Carlson was after Davidson's job, with his eye on the ultimate goal of the directorship. Kramer liked to play the two of them off against each other.

  The last thing Thorne wanted was to get caught up in the cesspool of seventh floor politics. When the gods started scheming, it was best to stay out of their way.

  Rumbling in his stomach reminded him he was hungry. He put on a sport jacket and went downstairs to the crowded restaurant. He joined a line of people waiting to be seated. Colonel Volkova was seated alone, near one of the windows. The morning sunlight bathed her face and made a halo around her hair. It took his breath away.

  God, she's beautiful. Like an angel.

  The line moved and he was next. The hostess looked around the restaurant. She said something in Finnish.

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

  "Yes, I do. There are no tables free. Would you like to wait? Or are you willing to share a table?"

  Europe was different from America. Sharing tables in crowded restaurants was considered normal, no one thought anything of it. There was only one table that could be shared, the one where Volkova sat.

  There were other people from the Russian delegation in the restaurant. Thorne didn't know who was security, but someone was. He couldn't be seen talking to her.

  "Thanks, I've changed my mind."

  Thorne turned and walked into the lobby. A sign announced cancellation of the morning session. A table with coffee, tea, and pastries had been set up near the reception desk. He poured himself a cup of coffee, picked up a bun covered with sugar and raisins, and sat down where he could watch the restaurant entrance. With the morning session canceled, what would Volkova do? Was she free? Had she been given the morning off? Or would Stepanov want her for something?

  The image of how she'd looked sitting in the light stuck in his mind. He munched on the bun and drank his coffee, thinking about her.

  Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the restaurant. She stopped at a rack full of tourist brochures near the desk, took one, and left the hotel. Thorne waited to see if anyone came out of the restaurant after her, then got up and followed. As he passed the rack, he took a duplicate of the brochure she'd chosen.

  It showed a picture of Helsinki Cathedral.

  Chapter 41

  Anya was tall for a Russian woman, making it easy to keep her in sight. She didn't seem to be in a hurry. It was a beautiful day, pleasant and warm. A faint breeze carried a hint of the Black Sea, not far away.

  Thorne kept a leisurely pace behind her. The street seemed loose, clean. He could feel it. No one was watching.

  Sensing the street was a gift, a sixth sense. Not everyone had it. It was one of the reasons Thorne was still in the game, one of the reasons he was good at what he did. The same sense had kept him alive in Afghanistan. Daily confrontation with violent death either brought it out or it didn't. He'd known some who had developed the same ability to sense unseen danger. Others never had. Most of those men were dead.

  Sometimes Anya stopped to look in a shop window. He followed her to a broad square fronting the cathedral.

  The massive building had been built in the nineteenth century as a tribute to Czar Nicholas the First. The architect had combined neoclassical motifs with the style of a traditional Russian Orthodox church. The cathedral gleamed white in the bright sunlight.

  A high tower rose from the center of the cathedral, roofed by a green dome, a golden orb and a cross. Four smaller towers mirrored it with similar domes, orbs, and crosses. Wide steps led to a colonnaded façade capped by a triangular pediment. Statues of the apostles stood guard around the edges of the building. He waited until Anya climbed the steps and went in. Thorne did another check for watchers, then followed her up the steps.

  Helsinki Cathedral was a major tourist attraction, but this early in the day there were few tourists inside the church. He saw Anya standing at a souvenir shop near the entrance, reading a pamphlet. He waited until she started down the central aisle toward the nave before entering.

  Helsinki Cathedral was Lutheran, different from the great Catholic cathedrals of Europe. It was built in the shape of a Greek cross. Long rows of plain wooden pews marched in regimented order toward the nave and altar at the far end of the cavernous space.

  Far overhead, the ceiling was circular, undecorated, plain. High arches opened to the arms of the cross. Crystal chandeliers hung over the central aisle, glowing with light. Halfway to the nave, Thorne looked back. An organ decorated with ornate carvings in gold and red overlooked the space from a broad balcony.

  Anya reached the nave and stood admiring an enormous painting behind the altar that pictured Christ being taken down from the cross. The painting was surrounded by an elaborate, gilded frame, flanked by two golden pillars mounted on a marble platform. A pair of life-sized angels in gold knelt in reverent worship to either side.

  Thorne came up to Anya, holding his brochure. He looked up at the painting.

  "Impressive, isn't it," he said in Russian.

  She looked at him. "Yes, very beautiful."

  It was the first time he'd heard her voice. He didn't know what he'd expected, but he liked it, he liked the way she managed to make Russian sound almost soft. She was wearing a light touch of perfume, something that hinted at flowers. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he'd thought.

  "I would have worn a red flower, except I haven't had a chance to buy one yet," he said. "Please, do not be alarmed. You were told you would be contacted."

  He watched her register the words. Her face blanched.

  "I know you must be nervous. It's natural."

  "What if someone is watching us?"

  "No one is, I've made sure of that. I'm good at what I do. I know it's a lot, but I'm asking you to trust me for now."

  "Do I have a choice?" Anya said.

  "You always have a choice. Right now, trusting me is the right one."

  "What's your name?"

  "Michael."

  "Like the angel. So, you are my guardian angel?"

  "Yes. That's a good way to think of it."

  "I am frightened, Michael. I didn't realize I would feel like this."

  "I would be surprised if you weren't frightened, Colonel."

  "Please, call me Anya."

  She reached out and touched his arm. An electric shock rippled through him, as if her touch had fused them together. It startled him. Her green eyes opened wide.

  "Oh," she said

  Surprised, she took her hand away and stepped back.

  What was that?

  He forced himself to focus.

  "When do you have to be back at the hotel?"

  "Noon."

  Thorne turned toward the entrance, observing each person who came in.

  "We need to set up a way for you to get information to us, a way to communicate. How did you contact the embassy?"

  "I have a friend who arranged it. I'm not sure how he did it. Your embassy is watched all the time, it is risky to go anywhere near it."

  "Can you use the same method in the future?"

  "I don't know. I would have to talk to my friend."

  "See if it can be arranged. If that doesn't work, I'll think of something else."

  "What if we need to meet?" Anya asked.

  "It's best to avoid meeting in person, but sometimes it may be necessary. I want you to memorize a number. Can you do that?"

  "Of course."

  He recited a phone number and asked her to repeat it.

  "Call that number if you need to make contact. Don't use your regular phone to call it. Buy a burner. Use cash."

  "A burner?"

  "A cheap, prepaid phone. You can pick one up while you're here. Use it once, then throw it away. Make sure no one sees you. From now on, always assume you're being watched. That way you're less likely to make a mistake. It's the safest way. "

  "Then what? What do I do after I call?"

  "When you call that number, someone will answer in Russian with the name of an Italian restaurant. Tell them you're sorry, you dialed the wrong number, and hang up. That's the signal you want a face-to-face meeting."

  "Where should the meeting be?"

  "Somewhere outdoors. Is there a place you like to go, somewhere you visit regularly?"

  "There's a park I like to walk in, Izmailovsky Park. It's green, with lots of trails and trees."

  "That's good. If you need to meet, call the number. Don't do it unless it's really important. You have Sundays off, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Go to the park on the Sunday after you call. Be there at nine in the morning and start walking. Someone will come. If you're there for two hours and no one shows up, go home. Then go to the park again the following Sunday. Okay?"

  "Okay. It is a big park. I will sit near the Ferris wheel and begin walking when I see you."

  Standing next to her, she felt like someone he'd known forever. Thorne wanted to reach out and hold her. It confused him.

  "There's something you need to know," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "Something secret is being planned, something big. I think they are planning war. Maybe with America, I don't know. They have activated secret submarine units. Even I did not know about them, and I should."

  "How do you know this?"

  "General Stepanov had a file in his apartment. I looked at it."

  "His apartment?"

  "Stepanov has forced me to sleep with him. If I refuse him, he will destroy my career. He is one of the reasons I am doing this. He is a pig."

  Thorne felt sudden anger toward Stepanov. It added to his feelings of confusion.

  "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged. "It's the way of the world, no? You learn in Russia to do what is needed to survive."

  "It takes courage to do what you're doing, Anya."

  "I love my country. Our leaders have betrayed us. They must be held accountable. They are criminals. If they are not stopped, they will destroy everything."

  "You haven't asked for anything. Do you want money?"

  "Do not be insulting," Anya said.

  "I didn't mean to insult you. It's standard practice to ask. Also, you need to know we'll get you out if something goes wrong."

  "That will not be possible," she said. "I could not leave my mother. Besides, if something goes wrong there will probably not be time to get out."

  "There are always signs," Thorne said. "You're smart. You'll see them. If you have even a hint someone's on to you, call the number. We'll pull you out."

  "Not without my mother."

  He looked at his watch.

  "We've been here long enough. I'll go first."

  "If a meeting is necessary in Moscow, I want you to come," Anya said.

  She reached out to touch him again, resting her hand on his arm. This time, there was no shock. He looked into her eyes. He'd never seen eyes like that, that color of deep green. Something unspoken flashed between them. His heart began pounding. He found himself holding his breath.

  "That might not be possible," he finally said.

  "You will think me stubborn, but I will not meet with someone else. I do not trust your government any more than I trust my own. But I think you can be trusted."

  "Anya..."

  "It is, what you say, a condition of the deal."

  "I'll have to talk to my superiors. They'll see it as a problem."

  "Tell them it is necessary, or they will not hear from me again," she said. "Now I will leave first."

  She turned and walked away. Halfway down the long aisle, she looked back at him.

  Thorne watched her go. It felt like an absence, as if part of himself had gone with her.

  He thought about the way she'd looked. Those green eyes. Vulnerable, but vulnerability with underlying steel. The way she'd taken charge at the end.