1
THE WINTER
THE RUSSIAN EMBASSY WAS FIVE AND A HALF BLOCKS NORTH OF the White House on 16th Street between L and M streets. Like virtually every embassy in the world, business as usual included cocktail receptions. This one celebrated the appointment of a new deputy undersecretary to the ambassador to the United States, Igor Mikhailovich Lubiako, a tremendously charming man whose English was so idiomatically perfect that he could have been mistaken for an American anywhere. In Iowa they would have figured him to be from the East, Boston perhaps. In California he'd be from Minnesota, and in Boston from out West somewhere.
Richard Sweeney and his wife, Katherine, had been invited to attend. In the morning they were returning to Moscow.
"Hell of a way to spend our last night home, Ernie," she'd complained good-naturedly on the way over. But she was a good sport. She'd always been the perfect wife for an intelligence officer: Smart, cool under pressure, and when it came to politics, especially the world view, she definitely hadher head on straight. No bleeding-heart liberalism for her. Of course she'd been raised that way. Her father had graduated in the top ten of his class at West Point. As a child she'd been a tomboy. As a teenager a standout in high school and college swimming and soccer. She'd grown up to be a pleasant-looking if not beautiful woman with a good body, wide pleasant eyes, and thick, sensuous lips.
"We're showing the flag," he told her in the cab on the way over from their hotel.
"There're plenty of eager hands in this town to take care of that job nicely, thank you."
"Not many of them are special assistant to the ambassador in Moscow."
She looked closely at her husband. They'd been married long enough for her to understand when he was telling her to back off. They'd never had children, and they both believed that they were closer to each other because of it ... not necessarily better off, just closer in many respects.
He caught her looking at him and grinned. "Just keep your ears open."
"Around whom?"
"Lydia Lubiako," Sweeney said.
"Ah, the wife. Could be the new deputy undersecretary is a spook?"
"Sister. He might be."
"Maybe it's her ... she?"
Again Sweeney had to grin. "Just keep your ears open and your mouth shut. Deal?"
"Deal," she said in mock disappointment.
They often played these little games with each other, mostly to relieve the tension. On this trip back to the States, their stay had been too short for them to open their house in the Maryland countryside, located just outside of Lexington Park about sixty miles south of Washington. They owned twenty-five wooded acres of what had once been a part of a horse-breeding ranch. From the house they could see the Chesapeake Bay eight miles away. It was a beautiful spot thatthey both loved. "Peace in a world of turmoil," she'd once said.
"Yes, isn't it?" he'd replied, holding her, knowing what was coming next. The cold war was still going strong.
"But when the bombs fall on Washington it won't be such a great spot."
"Won't happen."
"No?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.
"Not if I can help it."
Washington had received a couple of dustings of snow since they'd arrived, but it still seemed like the tropics to them after Moscow. They'd already spent two and a half years in the Russian capital; two long winters, this their third. They'd definitely acclimatized. At least physically.
The cabbie dropped them off in front of the Russian Embassy a few minutes past five-thirty. They were fashionably late, as were a number of other guests, and they had to queue up just inside the vestibule, where their invitations were examined before they were allowed inside. In the old days they would have been subjected to a metal detector search. The Gorbachev regime had put a stop to that, and in that respect, nothing had changed since.
"This new openness will survive," a well-known Russian journalist had written, although Sweeney had his doubts. The Russian distrust of foreigners and anything foreign went back a long way ... even before Stalin, back to the time of the czars. It was in the national spirit, the people's psyche.
"Be friends with the wolf," the old peasant proverb said. "But keep your hand on the ax." After all, America's loss of life in the Great Patriotic War had been measured in tens of thousands, while the Rodina's losses had been measured in tens of millions!
The reception was being conducted mostly from the main hall and the state dining room on the ground floor, though the string quartet played on the second-floor balcony overlooking the stair hall. A number of people had gone up to listen, and to talk.
There was a muted hum of dozens of conversations among the more than one hundred guests. At this party the caterer was American and the canapes and other hors d'oeuvres were excellent.
Katherine accepted a glass of typically sweet Russian champagne from a passing waiter, while Sweeney took a small cognac. They would drink their first drink, and would accept a second in due course, which they would not touch. An oft-used trick was serving the first drink undoctored, but the second drink, after the guest's taste buds were numbed, could be safely spiked. No one could taste the chemical.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney, I believe," a Russian said as they started across the hall into the dining room. Sweeney turned around.
"Yes," Sweeney said, extending his hand. "Nice party."
"Thank you, but frankly it's easier to do here than at home," the Russian said, shaking hands. "I'm Yuri Truskin, embassy chief of protocol." He was a short, stocky man with thick black hair.
"Pleased to meet you. Maybe I can help change all of that, you know. Now that your President is opening up the country to foreign investment again."
"Investments, not loans," the Russian said.
Sweeney smiled broadly. "Ah, but then, my friend, on the world market there's hardly a difference."
"Except that one has to be paid back, the other not."
"Not always necessary."
Truskin turned to Katherine. "I see that you're drinking our champagne. How do you like it?"
"Sweet, but very good," Katherine said, with a little giggle.
"Some Americans are beginning to acquire a taste for it. A small market has been developed."
"Don't forget your vodka," Sweeney interjected. "The yuppies are all drinking Stoli and grapefruit, or Stoli and a mix of orange and cranberry juices. Sells like gangbusters. Good for your balance of trade."
Truskin's smile broadened. "It's incredible, isn't it? Good vodka and ... cranberry juice?"
Sweeney looked beyond him toward the dining room. "What I'd really like to see in Moscow would be a Ford or GM plant. Could employ a lot of people. Pump a lot of money into the economy."
"That may be a dream ..."
"Actually we're returning to Moscow in the morning. Who knows, maybe we can work out such a deal, Mr. Truskov," Sweeney said, deliberately mispronouncing the man's name.
Truskin smiled pleasantly. "Then I'll wish you a good trip."
"Thanks, but we just stopped by to offer our congratulations to your new deputy undersecretary. I understand exactly what he's up against."
Again Truskin smiled. "I'm sure you do, Mr. Sweeney."
Sweeney took his wife's elbow. "Nice chatting with you," he said, and he steered his wife toward the dining room.
"Nice fellow," Katherine said as they crossed the room.
"Yes," Sweeney said. The embassy was bugged, of course, so they had to watch what they...
