Free The Fall of Moscow Station by Mark Henshaw Page A

see an intelligence officer. I advised her that that would not be possible, and she gave me this. I took it to one of the GRU officers in residence and he told me that I should show it to you, that you would know what it meant.” He held out the index card.
    Lavrov stopped, took the card, and read the lettering.
    Strelnikov
    Ð Б Ю Я
    â€œWhere is the this woman now?” Lavrov asked.
    â€œShe said that she would wait by the visa desk for your answer.”
    Lavrov exhaled, folded the card in half, and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Escort her upstairs.”
    â€œWhere shall I bring her?”
    â€œThe roof.”
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    Kyra hardly needed her talent for reading body language to see the mixture of stunned embarrassment and anger spread across the consular officer’s face as he crossed the room, but she was in no mood to indulge in schadenfreude. A surge of anxiety rose in her chest faster than she could suppress, and her heart began to pound, the adrenaline adding to the tremors that the Red Bull had left in her hands.
    â€œIf you will please accompany me?” the Russian said, his language more courteous than his manner. She doubted he knew how to change his voice when speaking English to show irritation.
    Kyra stood and followed the man. An embassy guard joined them at the door and walked behind them. She wondered how many CIA officers had ever seen the inside of this building, and this level in particular. It had to be a small club.
    The officer and the guard led her to a utility stairwell, which they climbed for several stories until it reached a gray metal door. The officer pushed it open and motioned Kyra through. She stepped onto the roof, the guard followed, and the consulate officer closed the door behind them.
    Kyra scanned the open space and saw the British Embassy to the west, the U.S. Embassy just beyond, and the Brandenburg Gate farther west and north. The Russian building on which she stood was larger than both allied embassies together, she realized. I guess you can do that when you own the city around it for fifty years , she thought.
    A man stood on the far edge of the roof, looking down at the Unter den Linden traffic below. Maines? No, the man was too old. She began to trudge across the roof, stepping around the larger rain puddles, hands deep in her coat pockets to hide the tremors. Time to play , she told herself.
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    Arkady Lavrov heard the footsteps and turned to see a young woman making her way across the wet stone. “And you are?” he said. His English was rusty but his accent was still light.
    â€œMy name isn’t important,” Kyra told him. “I’m with the U.S. Embassy—”
    â€œI think not, but that is not important at this moment,” Lavrov replied. “Why are you here?”
    â€œI think my request to your people was clear.”
    â€œIt was,” Lavrov said. “Quite forward of you to come here and make such a demand.”
    â€œYou’re the ones who told us he was defecting and sent a photo to prove it. You had to know that we’d figure out which airport he was in,” Kyra replied.
    â€œOf course,” Lavrov mused. That had never been in doubt. That the Americans would be so brazen as to walk into the embassy and demand to see their most recent Judas was the real surprise. But the FSB general was a soldier and appreciated the willingness to take the initiative. “Still, walking in and asking to see a potential defector is hardly the customary way of handling such affairs.” He held up the card Kyra had passed to the embassy functionary. “Nor is admitting that you know the dead-drop signals we had assigned to the asset.”
    â€œDiplomatic protocols in matters such as these can be tedious, and tedium costs time. I know that yours is valuable, and it would benefit both our countries to resolve this matter