***
In her room at the Grand Wien, Olivia found a fresh bottle of Riesling, unordered, on her table. The card said, “Compliments of the house.” Rather than take a chance that Jay Lyons had decided to play James Bond and drug her, she stowed it unopened in the refrigerator. Then she changed her mind. Grimly, she opened the bottle and poured it down the bathroom sink. Why let Jay Lyons poison anyone else? Then she called Getmanov’s cell phone, not knowing if it even worked in Europe. It took forever to get a connection, but he answered within the first two rings. “Getmanov.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
A while to get an answer. “Where are you?”
“Vienna. As promised. Where are you?”
“Vienna also, although the satellite is bouncing us God knows where. And how are you?”
“I fear I’ve dealt with one American too many.”
“Could you explain?” he asked, quite aware of what she might mean but not willing to pursue it as he might, to the point where their arrangement and possibly her existence would be undone.
“Let’s just say, he proved I am right.”
The pain in her voice made Getmanov gasp. He sensed that she had done what he’d suspected she might: try to get through to her country one final time. He knew she deserved of him to say, Perhaps it would be best for all of us concerned if you did not come to Russia. But his country’s needs were too great. And he did not want to let her go.
“That is of no interest to either of us anymore,” he said quietly. He was not a man who considered his word to be revocable, and he considered himself as giving it now. “If you are honest.”
“I am.” The timbre of her voice was very true.
“Whatever it was…it is over and of no further consequence?”
“Yes. I’m ready to go now, sir. No reason to wait any longer.” Her voice was gentle, a neutral statement of fact, not a demand, too proud even to ask. Then she added, “I believe that it might be important that I go now.”
“How quickly can you check out?”
She looked around. “Less than half an hour. Now.”
“And you wish to leave immediately for Russia? You would not care to accept the hospitality of our embassy for the few days of the conference?”
“Immediately would be best.”
“A driver will be there in half an hour.”
“Thank you, you are very kind.” Her voice was level, calm, polite, her pain ruthlessly mastered, in her own way as superbly disciplined as one of the stallions for which Vienna was famous. “Tell your driver I will be waiting in the lobby.”
Olivia called for help with her luggage. A bellcap arrived, looked at the inventory, then summoned another. They brought down her tonnage. She reclaimed her jewelry from the safe and paid the bill, then settled into an armchair near the main entrance.
The driver of a non-descript car took her back to the airport. They did not go to the main terminal, but to what were clearly diplomatic facilities, where they were met by several Russians. General Getmanov, Olivia recognized instantly. After a moment, Olivia realized the woman with him was his wife.
Whom he had described as young and comely.
The woman with him was manifestly not that.
She may have been when younger, but she was now old enough to be Olivia’s mother, had she started young, with a figure that could still only be described as luscious, but also old. Her silvering brown hair was piled atop a plain face with a wise, noble brow, dark, brilliant eyes, and a sensuous mouth.
“You are beautiful,” she said involuntarily.
You think you are hardened... Lyudmila Trofimovna thought, seeing the pain in the younger woman’s eyes, and her goodness. She took Olivia’s hands in hers. “Thank you for that, my dear. We will now forget it. Stress makes people offer unwise compliments as well as unwise insults.”
With an effort, Olivia wiped the stark admiration off her face. “Will he be angry at me if you tell him what I said?”
“No, of course not.” She looked at her husband, fondly and commandingly. “He speaks very well of you, and he is right to.” Lyudmila paused. “I’m here to keep you calm, you know. And there are things we need to do. ”
“Let me guess. The first thing is to surrender my passport.”
Lyudmila took the measure of the tall woman. “Yes.” Her voice was reluctant.
“Madame Getmanova, I have chosen this, so it would be undignified not to submit gracefully.”
“Carry your cross, don’t drag it,” the older woman murmured. Olivia looked at her. “I beg your pardon, I know you are Jewish, I meant no insult. But such is a wise Irish proverb I encountered on one of our previous postings. Yes, we Russians are even to be found in Ireland. The proverb has always held meaning for me.”
“As it would to any Russian.” She opened her handbag, found her passport, ready for this purpose, and gave it to General Getmanov.
His voice was very quiet. “I am sorry to have to do this.”
Olivia spoke to him and his wife alone. “I know. Thank you. It has been a hard few hours. You know me now. Please promise me this. If ever I need an advocate and in your eyes I have earned one, be mine.”
He understood that she knew he was endangering himself and his wife for her the same way she had endangered herself for her country. He scanned her eyes, listened to her breathing, seeking any sign of treachery or deceit and found only the weary sorrow of a woman who had done all she could to leave America cleanly in order that she might be clean in Russia.
“I will do so.”
It was a three hour flight to Moscow aboard an Aeroflot liner that seemed to have no one aboard who was not supposed to be there, no passenger who was not, clearly, someone else. They were seated in first class, Olivia and Madame Getmanova together. When they’d gotten situated, Olivia suddenly remembered a matter that made her blush.
“I’m sorry I’ve made you miss the conference,” she said haltingly. “I know you would have enjoyed it.”
“I might have enjoyed one or two of the personal encounters. But I’ve never lacked for interesting things to do. I understand you knit.”
“Yes.”
“Shall we?”
The two women brought out their work, Olivia a beautiful wool yarn of burnt orange for a cable yoke cardigan, Lyudmila a long circular needle set with hundreds of stitches in a blend of the finest, most tender violet blend of silk and cashmere. She had already worked an extravagantly elegant border of several hundred rows and was now knitting in the center of a Shetland-style shawl.
Olivia inspected Lyudmila’s work. “Madame, may I see the pattern?” In return, Lyudmila handed Olivia a twenty-page booklet. After several minutes, Olivia gave it back with a slightly stunned expression. “Why don’t we just build high-performance aircraft out of timber and fabric, powered by hamsters on treadmills and driven by rubber bands?”
“It’d be easier, wouldn’t it? But one’s son gives one a daughter for the first time, once only.”
It was an answer Olivia could not dispute. “When will be the wedding?”
“As soon as he returns from Chechnya.”
Sitting across the aisle, his pistol’s outline clear against his jacket, was an extremely handsome young security officer, very Slavic. He glowed at Madame Getmanova, who glowed back. Then he looked at General Getmanov, who glowered. He turned away quickly.
Getmanov smiled to himself. It was nice, he concluded, to know his wife still had it.