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“In that case, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”

“Where you spent Wednesday night. What you want with Rad Rislyakov. And Lachko Barsukov. And Iakov Barsukov. You did say you’d explain over dinner. Here I am—all ears.”

She smiled and took another sip. Giancarlo returned, and I let him prolong the truce while he recited the specials.

“You order,” I said.

She told him we’d both have the seafood salad and wild mushroom fettuccini. “And bring a good Barolo. Don’t worry about cost. He’s buying.”

I was going to pay for my sins. I steered the conversation toward safer ground.

“Your father was French?”

“Via New Orleans. My mother, Scottish, via east Texas. They lasted about as long as every other Franco-Anglo attempt to get along. My old man lit out for California shortly after I was born.”

“Tu parles français?”

She shook her head. “Like Loretta says, ‘If you’re lookin’ at me, you’re lookin’ at country.’”

The designer number she was wearing had as much to do with country as I do with Tanzania. “Loretta?”

“Loretta Lynn. She’s kind of a hero for me.”

“See, there’s something I didn’t know.”

“Y’all want to keep talkin’, you’ll…”

The twang was pronounced tonight. So was her temper.

Giancarlo brought the first course and the wine. “You’ll like this. It’s an ’89.” He poured her a small taste, which she swirled and sipped. She smiled broadly at him, and he grinned back.

“Perfect,” she said, and I had the distinct impression she was referring to more than the flavor.

Giancarlo poured. I took a small swallow. I know a little about a lot of things, but wine isn’t one of them. I like it fine, but I prefer beer and vodka. I thought that could be about to change as layer after layer of flavor filled my mouth. Victoria was eying me appraisingly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like that.”

“You’re not likely to again.” She tucked into her salad.

We ate in silence for a while. The seafood was almost as good as the wine.

“I’m waitin’,” she said.

“Petrovin tell you about Iakov?”

She looked up, confused. “Petrovin? Who the hell’s Petrovin?”

My turn to be confused. “Russian law enforcement officer? Eye patch? Linen suit? He was in your office yesterday.”

“You mean … He told you his name’s Petrovin?”

“Actually, he told me his name isn’t Petrovin, but that’s how he introduced himself. He was being cautious.”

“Are all Russians crazy?”

“Dostoyevsky would tell you probably. Chekhov would disagree. Zinoviev would blame the system.”

“You’re all full of horseshit, that’s for sure. Give me Hemingway any day.”

We weren’t going to agree on literature. “What’s Petrovin’s real name?”

“Uh-uh. He may be crazy, but I’m sure he has reasons, especially when it comes to trusting you. Back to business. Rad Rislyakov.”

“You’re interested in his money laundry.”

“What do you know about that?” she snapped.

“He built it for Barsukov. He uses the information he hacked from T.J. Maxx to create synthetic identities, and he uses those identities to create bank accounts to move money through. He’s got an army of couriers working ATMs all over the Tri-State Area. I happened on a few earlier today. Told Coyle an hour ago where to find them and one base of operation.”

“You didn’t say anything about this the other day.”

“Didn’t know anything about it the other day.”

“You set off my bullshit meter every other time you open your mouth. How do you know what you know?”

“I did some digging. I got lucky. Some of Rislyakov’s associates aren’t very bright.”

“A nonanswer if I ever heard one.”

I raised my glass. “Wine’s excellent.”

“You said your interest in Rislyakov had nothing to do with mine.”

“That’s true.” I debated briefly whether to go on, but I knew I would. You have to give a little to get a little, or perhaps more to the point, I was enjoying myself and her company. Or I do like to live dangerously.

“Rislyakov whaled Mulholland.”

“What? He’s the one?”

“Uh-huh.”

The green eyes grew brighter. “You know that for a fact?”

“Yep. He was blackmailing Mrs. Mulholland.”

“How? Why?”

“I’m going to plead privacy on the how. It doesn’t have an impact on Mulholland, his bank, or the money laundry. The why I don’t know. Except that Ratko had a gambling problem. He might have needed money fast.”

“Had?”

Mistake. She was sharp. “He went through rehab. It took.”

She eyed me over her fork, uncertain what she believed. “How
do
you know all this?”

“Same way I know about Bergdorf.”

That bought me time, at least. She chewed her salad. I took a bite and resolved to be more careful.

“Back to Mulholland. Why’d Rislyakov phish him? Don’t tell me he just got lucky.”

“That question bothers me, to be candid. I don’t have a good answer.”

“Have you asked Rislyakov?”

“I told you the other day—we’ve never met.”

“Just checking.” She stopped the questions long enough to eat and think. I did the same. The food was every bit as good as last night.

“Tell me about Barsukov—you and Barsukov. Both Barsukovs.”

“That’s complicated. There’s a lot of context.”

“We’ve got half a bottle of wine and the pasta coming. Dessert, too, if we’re still talking. Was Wednesday really the first time you’d seen him in twenty years?”

“Scout’s honor.” Cheka honor wouldn’t mean anything to her.

“Not likely. Scout, I mean.”

Maybe I should’ve stuck with it. I thought about what I was going to say. Suppressing my past had blown up one relationship. Would putting it out there, right up front, ignite another? The lifelong need to skip over, to prevaricate, to hide my past, was missing—for the first time. The sense of liberation wasn’t jarring—but I think the ground shifted beneath the table.

“My link to the Barsukovs is Iakov, the father. He got me out of the Gulag and into the KGB. I owe him pretty much everything.”

“
You
were in the Gulag? Like whatsisname … Solzhenitsyn?”

“Born there. My mother was a
zek,
a prisoner. Earned my own ticket back as a teenager. Safe to say I would have died there—years ago—without Iakov.”

“This sounds like a good story, for once. Go on.”

“You really want to hear it?’

“You have my full attention.” The green eyes said she wasn’t lying.

“I was born in Dalstroy, a complex of camps in Siberia, the day Stalin died. March fifth, 1953, also the day Prokofiev died, but no one remembers that. My mother spent most of her life in the camps. I never met my father. We were released—she and I—in the amnesty after Stalin’s death. She died on the way home. I grew up in an orphanage, got in trouble, got sent back.”

“Hold on! You’re going too fast. Why was your mother in the Gulag?”

“No real reason. Millions of people were arrested, incarcerated, released, incarcerated again, executed, all for no reason whatsoever. Other than Stalin’s insanity. The entire Soviet system was based on betrayal—friend against friend, wife against husband, father against son. We were all complicit, the Soviet people, I mean. One big way the Party kept control. The biggest betrayal of all was the Gulag itself—prisons, work camps, execution chambers, all set up by Russians for Russians who had done nothing, except they’d been betrayed. We’ve never come to terms with what that means. As a result, I’m a
zek,
and that’s a shameful thing to be. In the eyes of other Russians, I’ll always be a
zek.
When they see me, they see someone they betrayed. They can’t deal with that, so they transfer the betrayal to me. It’s my fault. I was a prisoner because I betrayed the Party and the state.”

“Jesus! You all are crazy!”

“I won’t deny it. It’s like when Winston Smith and his lover betray each other at the end of
1984
. They do it because they’re forced to by Big Brother. It’s not their fault, but once they do, they can no longer look each other in the eye. That was Soviet society, in a nutshell, in fact, not fiction. Still is, to a bigger extent than anyone wants to admit. Solzhenitsyn was one of the few who bucked the system, the culture, the whole deal, by writing about it. Telling the truth for everyone to see. He blew the lid off. But it takes more than one explosion to revolutionize a system that shaped generations. I’ll get off my soapbox now.”

“No such luck. What about Iakov? And the KGB?”

“I have a facility for languages, and between the orphanage and the camps, I picked up a bunch. That got the attention of the KGB, and they offered me a way out. Iakov was already a fast-rising officer, the Cold War was heating up, and he understood we needed people who could make their way, operate—fit in—overseas. Smartest man I ever met. He ended up the number two man in the whole organization—on merit, not political connections.”

“So you went to work for the same people who put your mother in prison?”

“Life’s full of ironies, especially if you’re Russian.”

She shook her head. “Christ. Tell me about the spy part.”

A waiter removed our plates and put two bowls of steaming pasta on the table. The mushroom aroma floated upward. Giancarlo offered Parmesan and pepper. I took another sip of wine. The flavors were separating, becoming more distinct—raisins, berries, and something like tar. I didn’t know tar could taste good.

“The spy part’s pretty mundane. No James Bond. I collected information, a lot of it from newspapers, magazines, TV. Sometimes, I tried to get American experts to work for us. I also tried to stop Soviet experts from being recruited by your CIA. Occasionally, I got Soviet experts to pretend they were working for the Americans when they were still working for us. A big game, really.”

Until we caught one of our own people working for the other side. Then the consequences were deadly. I didn’t want to go into that now.

“What if you got caught?”

“It was my business not to. Besides, we all operated under diplomatic immunity. When I was stationed here, I was officially with the Soviet Consulate—cultural attaché, the last time. CIA does the same thing. There’s an unwritten agreement among the professionals—no physical harm. Catch ’em, throw ’em out, don’t hurt ’em. We all knew that if shooting started, it would be hard to stop. Basic self-interest.”

“How’d you do this recruiting?”

“You become a good student of human nature. Figure out what makes people tick, all the psychological buttons you can push. It also helps to get lucky. Believe it or not, your two most famous double agents, Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, were volunteers, walk-ins. You had another one, Harold Nicholson, who was still trying to make a buck after he got caught, passing secrets from jail through his son. We used all the techniques you’d expect—bribery, blackmail, sex, appeals to ideology, although those were mainly for show. People have a remarkable propensity to get into trouble, as you know. We’d offer a helping hand.”

“You preyed on weakness.”

“It was business. Your side did the same thing.
You
do the same thing today.”

“That’s different. I’m dealing with criminals.”

“If you say so.”

We paused for more pasta. It almost put the salad and wine to shame.

“So what happened then?”

“Some bad luck. A decision that didn’t work out. My career dead-ended. I moved here.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“Let’s just say it was 1992, the Cold War was over, a bunch of things came together, I needed a change of scene. I’d done four tours in the States, two in New York. I liked it. It’s Moscow with rules—self-imposed, voluntary rules.”

“Okay, I won’t push it. Married?”

She wouldn’t ask that unless …

“A long time ago.”

She waited to see if I would say more. When I didn’t, she said, “You seem—how shall I put this?—very at home here.”

I smiled. I don’t know whether she meant it, but that was quite a compliment for someone in my line.

“Iakov taught me a valuable lesson. He talked about his days in Beirut and Istanbul and how much better prepared the Americans were for operating there because they came from a more open, more diverse culture. They obviously weren’t local, but they knew how to adapt. I had an advantage my fellow officers did not. I’d grown up surrounded by kids from all over—Germans, Poles, Romanians, you name it—in the orphanage and the camps. I was a chameleon. I could fit in with everybody. When I spoke Polish, I sounded like a Pole. When I spoke Hungarian, people thought I came from Budapest. When I was assigned here the first time, I watched TV—cop shows, sitcoms, even soaps. I read all the newspapers and newsmagazines. Also
Rolling Stone
and
Popular Mechanics
and the
Village Voice
. A lot of it I had to do in secret. Most of my fellow Chekists wore Soviet blinders—everything Western was suspect. They wouldn’t have understood. I was careful, and I got away with it. I learned to fit in. Your turn. I want to finish my dinner.”

“Okay. So happens you’re not the only ex-con at the table. Something
I
don’t tell everyone every day.”

“Things are looking up.”

“Don’t get excited. One of us rehabilitated herself.”

“See, once a
zek
…”

“I’m not Russian. You’re just another ex-socialist ex-con to me. Anyway, I grew up in a town called Thibodaux, in bayou country. My father left, like I told you. Mother married again—her third. Then she got banged up bad in a car accident. He was driving, smashed. After that she spent most of her time zoned out on painkillers. He tried to put the moves on me, but he was usually too drunk, and I stayed out of his way. One night, though, when I was seventeen, he spiked my soda with something—maybe my mom’s drugs—and I came to on the floor, him on top of me. I was stoned, but he was blotto, and I was able to wriggle away. I laid him out cold with a frying pan, stole his wallet and his car. I slept off the drugs and used his credit card to fill the tank and took off. Didn’t stop until I reached Miami.