Free The Fall of Moscow Station by Mark Henshaw Page B

quickly,” Kyra advised.
    Lavrov turned his head and stared at the woman, as though the American had lit some spark of interest in him. “If Mr. Maines has requested asylum in my country, then it is a matter for the Foreign Ministry, not for an intelligence service,” he said. There was a playful tone in his voice, as though he was enjoying some new game.
    â€œThat would depend on why Mr. Maines requested asylum and what he’s offering for it,” Kyra replied. She clenched her hands and ordered her heart to slow down. It disobeyed.
    â€œAny man who would draw such a bold response from your organization would surely have much to offer us. So the question naturally must turn to the counteroffer your friends would be willing to make.”
    â€œOh, I think that’s premature,” Kyra disagreed. “Obviously, we couldn’t determine that until we confirm his location and what . . . assets he may have already used to establish his value.” You show me yours and I’ll show you ours.
    â€œI understand that desire, truly, but you realize that I must consider any future opportunities we may have to attract talented individuals from your organization in the future. It would become difficult if prospective converts knew we were open to returning them to their home countries for a price.”
    Kyra nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Forgive me, sir, but you appear to be an older gentleman. Did you spend any time here in Berlin before the Wall came down?”
    â€œI did,” Lavrov said. Did this American know who he was, know his biography? If so, this game would be far more interesting than he had thought. “I was here the very night that the Wall fell; on this roof, in fact. We could see the Wall there, to the west of the Gate.” Lavrov pointed toward the Brandenburg Gate, waving a gloved hand to the northwest. “The plaza was full, people were on the Wall itself. To shoot them would have started a massacre. I saw that much, but I could not understand why the guards would not pull them down at least.” He dropped his hand. “That was the night the Warsaw Pact fell, you know. The historians say that came later, but it was that night. The Wall coming down was a shot to the belly . . . a painful death, and a lingering one.”
    â€œI’m sure it was a memorable night for you,” Kyra said, speaking directly for a moment. She’d been a toddler when it had happened. “So you knew about the East German practice of having the Stasi arrest political prisoners and ransom them back to the West as a way to generate hard currency?”
    Lavrov shrugged. “I heard that such things happened. Why do you mention it?” He’d helped arrange a few such kidnappings-for-ransom in his youth. Did this woman know? If so, how? Had the CIA uncovered something in the old East German archives?
    â€œOnly to point out that ransom payments aren’t unheard of in our business.” She wondered if this man would give up Maines for money. Not likely, but stranger things had happened between intelligence agencies.
    The Russian didn’t bite the hook. “But if Mr. Maines has applied for asylum, then he is no hostage,” Lavrov noted. “Quite the opposite would be true.”
    â€œI doubt that,” Kyra said. “Your country told mine that Mr. Maines was defecting. That act made Maines a fugitive from justice in the United States. You invited him here, then closed his door back. Now he can’t set foot on the street here without risking arrest and extradition, leaving him no real leverage for any bargain. So you don’t have to pay him one ruble to make him talk, do you? You can extort him for everything he knows just by threatening to run him out the front door and calling the German police ten minutes before you do. So I think if Maines is here, he’s very much your hostage.”
    Kyra studied the