never knew when you were going to get the other side of it.
“You schoolboys,” he addressed the other two professionals in the room. “If you don’t do a better job on your homework, your next diplomatic assignments are going to be in Nicaragua and El Salvador.”
Georgi covered his cringe by pretending to straighten his steel-frame glasses. Gorlov merely inspected his carefully manicured nails.
“But we’ll discuss your shortcomings later. Right now I want to show you what Rozonov bagged last night at the theater where I sent him to make some observations.”
“Not on the Spanish drama, I assume,” Gorlov murmured under his breath.
The general either didn’t hear the remark or chose to ignore it. Sliding his chair back to reach in a drawer, he pulled out a black leather pocketbook and slapped it down on the polished surface of his desk as though it were exhibit A at an espionage trial. Even Aleksei looked surprised, although he recognized the black evening bag as the one the woman at the theater had been carrying. Apparently his phone call had inspired more than a simple surveillance. For a moment he felt a pang of regret. Then he reminded himself that he hadn’t gotten her into this. She’d done it herself as soon as she’d taken that seat.
Bogolubov emptied out the contents of the purse onto the desk top with careless nonchalance. Reaching into the small pile of personal effects, he fished out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a personal identification card. From across the room it was impossible to read the information, although Aleksei could see it was neatly printed.
“I believe we’ve flushed out Eisenberg’s replacement. At least she showed up for a clandestine rendezvous that he’d set up before his accident.”
Three sets of eyes were riveted on the comrade general. He paused and pulled a crisp manila folder out of the same drawer that had held the evening bag. “She’s a mid-level political specialist at the U.S. embassy named Julie McLean.” The general stumbled over the consonant that began her first name since there was no J sound in the Russian alphabet. “Her last tour of duty was in Moscow,” he added. “And who knows what kind of damage she did there.”
Aleksei saw Georgi swallow convulsively as though the general’s supposition was causing him personal discomfort. Didn’t he see that the older man was just playing for dramatic effect? Americans in Moscow were watched more closely than bacteria under a microscope. He doubted there was much chance any of them could pull off an espionage coup. Still, he couldn’t help finding the information about Julie McLean’s last post interesting. The name fit her, Aleksei thought, remembering the way she’d looked standing with a glass of wine in her hand across that crowded theater lobby. Despite the circumstances, being able to put a name to her face brought him a surge of satisfaction.
“The tour in Moscow means we’ve got a file on her,” Bogolubov was saying. “I’ve had a facsimile of selected pages sent from headquarters. The microfiche will arrive by diplomatic pouch.”
He passed the sheets around and let the three men look them over. Aleksei quickly scanned the biographic material. Julie McLean was twenty-nine and single. A graduate of the Foreign Service school at Georgetown University. He raised an eyebrow at the notation on her uncle, Senator McLean, a hard-liner when it came to Soviet-American relations. Would he have encouraged his niece to become a spy?
His eyes moved down the page. She’d attended public school in the elementary grades and then switched to a private girl’s academy. She’d been raised in Baltimore, a city he’d once visited when his father had been with the Soviet delegation to the U.N. He and his parents had taken the train down to watch a friendship tour by the Bolshoi.
Gorlov was holding up a poor-quality facsimile of what looked like a newspaper photograph. “I think I met the
“You schoolboys,” he addressed the other two professionals in the room. “If you don’t do a better job on your homework, your next diplomatic assignments are going to be in Nicaragua and El Salvador.”
Georgi covered his cringe by pretending to straighten his steel-frame glasses. Gorlov merely inspected his carefully manicured nails.
“But we’ll discuss your shortcomings later. Right now I want to show you what Rozonov bagged last night at the theater where I sent him to make some observations.”
“Not on the Spanish drama, I assume,” Gorlov murmured under his breath.
The general either didn’t hear the remark or chose to ignore it. Sliding his chair back to reach in a drawer, he pulled out a black leather pocketbook and slapped it down on the polished surface of his desk as though it were exhibit A at an espionage trial. Even Aleksei looked surprised, although he recognized the black evening bag as the one the woman at the theater had been carrying. Apparently his phone call had inspired more than a simple surveillance. For a moment he felt a pang of regret. Then he reminded himself that he hadn’t gotten her into this. She’d done it herself as soon as she’d taken that seat.
Bogolubov emptied out the contents of the purse onto the desk top with careless nonchalance. Reaching into the small pile of personal effects, he fished out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a personal identification card. From across the room it was impossible to read the information, although Aleksei could see it was neatly printed.
“I believe we’ve flushed out Eisenberg’s replacement. At least she showed up for a clandestine rendezvous that he’d set up before his accident.”
Three sets of eyes were riveted on the comrade general. He paused and pulled a crisp manila folder out of the same drawer that had held the evening bag. “She’s a mid-level political specialist at the U.S. embassy named Julie McLean.” The general stumbled over the consonant that began her first name since there was no J sound in the Russian alphabet. “Her last tour of duty was in Moscow,” he added. “And who knows what kind of damage she did there.”
Aleksei saw Georgi swallow convulsively as though the general’s supposition was causing him personal discomfort. Didn’t he see that the older man was just playing for dramatic effect? Americans in Moscow were watched more closely than bacteria under a microscope. He doubted there was much chance any of them could pull off an espionage coup. Still, he couldn’t help finding the information about Julie McLean’s last post interesting. The name fit her, Aleksei thought, remembering the way she’d looked standing with a glass of wine in her hand across that crowded theater lobby. Despite the circumstances, being able to put a name to her face brought him a surge of satisfaction.
“The tour in Moscow means we’ve got a file on her,” Bogolubov was saying. “I’ve had a facsimile of selected pages sent from headquarters. The microfiche will arrive by diplomatic pouch.”
He passed the sheets around and let the three men look them over. Aleksei quickly scanned the biographic material. Julie McLean was twenty-nine and single. A graduate of the Foreign Service school at Georgetown University. He raised an eyebrow at the notation on her uncle, Senator McLean, a hard-liner when it came to Soviet-American relations. Would he have encouraged his niece to become a spy?
His eyes moved down the page. She’d attended public school in the elementary grades and then switched to a private girl’s academy. She’d been raised in Baltimore, a city he’d once visited when his father had been with the Soviet delegation to the U.N. He and his parents had taken the train down to watch a friendship tour by the Bolshoi.
Gorlov was holding up a poor-quality facsimile of what looked like a newspaper photograph. “I think I met the
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