***
“Taylor.”
“Ms. Taylor,” said a strong voice with a gravelly New York accent. “I’m surprised you’re still in Russia. My name is Maxwell Fajans. I’m with the embassy. Interesting little article you wrote. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I’m a reporter. This is my beat. I’m very busy.”
“I’m sure you are. You did some good work in Chechnya. But you’re a long way from home and the Russians haven’t quite figured out freedom of the press yet.”
“Who are you?”
“Maxwell Fajans.”
“I worked at the Moscow embassy when I was Foreign Service and I haven’t heard of you.”
“You were before my present posting. Which is also my third tour here. I assure you that the embassy staff knows who I am. I can also assure you that if you don’t come voluntarily, I have the authority and the resources to bring you in. Please be here within the next two hours.”
Five minutes later, Rebecca Taylor’s phone rang again. “Taylor,” she said cautiously.
“Rebecca, this is Irina Borisovna, your occasional running partner.” Her voice was utterly uninflected, the Russian accent very strong, the message clearly, Don’t make me be Colonel Suslova. “I should like to speak with you about your article. I recommend that you accept my invitation. If you don’t, you will find yourself talking to someone less courteous. You have an hour to let me know your response. You have my number.” She hung up.
Her bureau chief had seen her on the phone, noticed her shaking. It was something he’d expected. He went to her cubicle. “Problem, Rebecca?”
“Umm, no, not quite, boss.”
“You can tell me.”
“No problem, Howie.”
“You damn well better tell me. Or just let me guess. Representatives of two governments are suddenly interested in talking with you now and are giving you to understand that this won’t be a social chat. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Probably too late to get out of Dodge. Also correct?”
“Correct.”
“OK,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You think it over and tell me what you want to do.”
“I will.”
She thought it over, then made another call. The voice at the other end was calm, with a trace of good-natured amusement. “Howdy, Miss Rebecca. Been wonderin’ when you was gonna call. What took ya so long?”
“I was being intimidated by representatives of two governments.”
“Ours and theirs.”
“You got it, Colonel.”
“Please, CC. Or better yet, zakuska.”
“CC, would you please be serious!”
“If I get any seriouser, all joy will go out of my life. I’m an old, old widower and I know you wouldn’t want that to happen. OK, hon. Who was it?”
“One call was from an FSB officer who wants a response from me within the hour.”
“This person already known to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how they usually start off. Who is he?”
“She. Lieutenant Colonel Irina Borisovna Suslova.”
“Any relation?”
“The general’s sister.”
“My oh my, ain’t this gettin’ cozy? How do you know her?”
“Olivia introduced us. We run together from time to time.”
“I guess that relationship is on hold for a while. Anything else?”
“We go to McDonald’s.”
“A Washington Post reporter and an FSB colonel go to McDonald’s together?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you order, Happy Meals?”
“No. Big Macs and fries. Hash browns when they have them. Olivia says they’re to die for.”
“Sorry I asked. You got a good number for Suslova?”
“Yes.”
“Lemme have it.”
She read it off. “CC, do you know anyone at the embassy named Maxwell Fajans?”
“Can’t say as I do. He’s your other caller?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was…”
“Neither would I, hon. Tell ya what. You just hang where you are and I’m gonna do me some fancy expeditin’. I’ll be back to you in a few minutes.”
From his flat at Voroshilov, Cooper dialed the embassy and asked them to place a call for him to a number that rang on the desk of another old Army colonel, an Army intelligence officer who’d retired on a Friday and gone to work for his new employer in another branch of the government the following Monday.
“Hey, Clem, how you been?”
“Fine, Coop. How the Russkies treating you?”
“I’ve acquired a new appreciation for appetizers.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a Russian thing. Hey, Clem…”
“You want something, don’t you, Coop?”
“Just a little something. Hey, remember that time at Long Binh when them B-30s was comin’ in on us like hailstones flyin’ flatways and I…”
“Coop, you started working that one before the rockets stopped falling. Just tell me what you want.”
“Well, Clem, it’s like this. I’m thinkin’ about taking this embassy guy out for some drinks. Name’s Fajans and I wanna know if he’s who I think he is.”
“Dunno, Coop. Who do you think he is?”
“I think he’s who I think he is.”
“Then I guess I think he’s who you think he is. Anything else, buddy?”
“Yeah, I’ll give him your regards.”
“Please don’t.”
“OK. I won’t. Take care, Clem.”
That’s my boy, Clem thought, ringing off and looking once again at the front page of his Washington Post. Dunno how he got himself involved in this one but I got a feeling that he’s having fun.
Cooper poured himself another bourbon, then called the embassy back. “Colonel Cooper for Mister Fajans. Priority call.”
“Fajans.”
“Max, you don’t know me. Name’s CC Cooper, Army colonel, retired. I’m a visiting professor from the War College at Carlisle Barracks, teachin’ out at the Voroshilov General Staff Academy. General Suslov is one of my students. Ain’t seen him in a day or three, though.”
Max Fajans lit up within. “And what can I do for you, Colonel?”
“Well, first of all, Max, I can’t have you scarin’ my little zakuska when the FSB’s already got her wonderin’ if she’ll see the sun come up tomorrow.”
“Your zakuska?”
“That’s right.”
“A zakuska’s an appetizer.”
“Affirm on that. You sure got your Russian down.”
“Look, pal, just get to your point.”
“My point is, poor Miss Rebecca’s pretty distraught and I’d sorta kinda like to ease her pain, if you know what I mean. So why don’t you and me and Miss Rebecca and that nice Colonel Suslova from the FSB all get together and have us some drinks. My treat, since I’m the one what’s issuin’ the invites. I’m bettin’ that if I got y’all together, we might be able to get a thing or two straightened out. I know this little restaurant, Mama Zoya’s, in the Arbat.”
“I know it. I’ll be there.”
“See ya in two hours. Now I gotta issue some more invites.”
“And what if only you show?”
“We’ll still have each other.”
Next, Cooper dialed Suslova’s number. She greeted him in a stream of Russian that ended with one word he understood, “Privet’.” I am listening.
“Colonel Suslova, you don’t know me. My name is Colonel CC Cooper, US Army, retired. I’m a visiting professor at Voroshilov. General Suslov is one of my students. I also know Doctor Tolchinskaya and Rebecca Taylor.”
“Continue.” A cold, quiet voice.
“I’m arranging a little cocktail hour this afternoon with the three of us and a fourth you may know by reputation, if not personally.”
“Continue.?
??
“Max Fajans.”
“I am aware of Mister Fajans. Do you have a place and time in mind, Colonel?”
“I do.” He gave her the information. “About two hours?”
“Two hours, Colonel.”
Taylor’s phone rang again. “Taylor.”
“CC. OK, we got us a meetin’ in two hours with Max and Irina and you and me. Here’s the address. Be there.” He hung up.
Rebecca’s bureau chief, who’d been jumping every time she picked up the phone, came over. “What now?”
“Zakuska’s somehow lined up a meeting with everybody in two hours.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go, of course. You were wondering if my Pulitzer might be posthumous.”
“I still am. Are you?”
“Me? Hell, Howie, I may be the first reporter to be killed by a joint CIA/FSB hit team.”
“Now, that would betoken an improved relationship. Not to worry. I’ll write you a splendid obit. Anything else you’d want me to mention?”
“Yes. ‘Rebecca was also one of the original members of the Moscow Chapter of the Russo-American Women’s Hash Brown Running Society. Not that it did her much good.’”