thin-lipped, soft and pursed, not like the rigid, two-star rest of him. As Nate made it across the stream and clambered up the bank, the general took the cigarette out of his mouth, pinched the hot ash end off, and ground it under his shoe. The stub of filter went into his coat pocket, the habit born of a thousand parade-ground inspections.
LYRIC checked his watch—early on he had actually suggested to Nate that they synchronize watches until the young officer showed him the clock in his TALON device, slaved to the atomic clock in Boulder, Colorado, which displayed twenty-four international time zones, and was accurate to two seconds per decade. LYRIC had huffed and never suggested synchronizing watches again.
“If you had not arrived in the next five minutes,” said LYRIC in Russian, “I was prepared to abort the meeting.” His voice was a deep bass note from inside his chest.
“
Tovarishch,
General. I’m glad you waited,” said Nate in fluent Russian, knowing the “comrade” form of address still used in the army would please him. He also knew the agent would have waited half the night for him. “This remote site makes timing difficult.”
“This site offers excellent security, with admirable access and egress routes,” said LYRIC, putting down his fishing rod. It was he who had first proposed the Meteora meeting site.
“
Konechno,
of course,” said Nate, trying not to antagonize the old soldier. Keep the agent happy, start him talking about the secrets he has in his head. He casually tapped the screen of the TALON, activating the recording device. “I’m glad you had time to meet. We appreciate your unique insights.” LYRIC’s lofty general officer’s ego was immovable, fueled by years of Soviet bluster and Slavic certainty that the enemy was at the gate, and foreigners were plotting against the
Rodina
at every turn. Washington’s bilateral reset policy with Moscow had run aground on these very same xenophobic rocks, never mind that the State Department had misspelled the Russian word for “reset.”
“I am glad your superiors find my information of use,” grumped LYRIC. “At times it seems they underestimate its value.” Nate, not for the first time, noted that LYRIC overlooked the fact that he had volunteered to CIA, that he had been a walk-in.
The afternoon light was low in the pines. They sat on the riverbank watching the sun sparkle off the rapids. The general, an old campaigner, pulled a package of butcher paper out of his pack and unwrapped a dozen chunks of lamb he had bought in a nearby village. Two sprigs of wild oregano lay atop the meat. Nate watched fascinated, delighted, as LYRIC gathered dry tinder, scraped a small flint, and started a fire. “GRU survival kit,” said LYRIC offhandedly, handing Nate the steel. “The best. Magnesium.”
He stripped the oregano leaves and threaded the chunks of lamb onto the woody stems, then pressed the oregano onto the meat, and handed one kebab—he called it
shashlik
—to Nate. Together they grilled the meat over the open flame, chuckling, trying not to burn their fingers. When the meat was charred deep brown—LYRIC examined Nate’s
shashlik
critically—alemon was cut to be squeezed over the sizzling kebabs, eaten with alternating bites of raw scallion.
“I used to cook like this for my children on leave,” LYRIC said, turning his skewer sideways to bite a piece of lamb. “It is good to share food now with you.” He looked down at the fire. In a rush, Nate registered that this relationship was fueled by more than revenge for Russian beastliness. It was more than an intelligence operation, more than the start of a priceless penetration of Moscow’s vast military tech transfer establishment. This old man needed human contact, kind consideration, metaphysical needs somehow to be addressed while CIA debriefed him like a rubber squeeze toy.
Will he survive,
thought Nate,
or will he end up like Korchnoi?
He gritted his teeth at the
LYRIC checked his watch—early on he had actually suggested to Nate that they synchronize watches until the young officer showed him the clock in his TALON device, slaved to the atomic clock in Boulder, Colorado, which displayed twenty-four international time zones, and was accurate to two seconds per decade. LYRIC had huffed and never suggested synchronizing watches again.
“If you had not arrived in the next five minutes,” said LYRIC in Russian, “I was prepared to abort the meeting.” His voice was a deep bass note from inside his chest.
“
Tovarishch,
General. I’m glad you waited,” said Nate in fluent Russian, knowing the “comrade” form of address still used in the army would please him. He also knew the agent would have waited half the night for him. “This remote site makes timing difficult.”
“This site offers excellent security, with admirable access and egress routes,” said LYRIC, putting down his fishing rod. It was he who had first proposed the Meteora meeting site.
“
Konechno,
of course,” said Nate, trying not to antagonize the old soldier. Keep the agent happy, start him talking about the secrets he has in his head. He casually tapped the screen of the TALON, activating the recording device. “I’m glad you had time to meet. We appreciate your unique insights.” LYRIC’s lofty general officer’s ego was immovable, fueled by years of Soviet bluster and Slavic certainty that the enemy was at the gate, and foreigners were plotting against the
Rodina
at every turn. Washington’s bilateral reset policy with Moscow had run aground on these very same xenophobic rocks, never mind that the State Department had misspelled the Russian word for “reset.”
“I am glad your superiors find my information of use,” grumped LYRIC. “At times it seems they underestimate its value.” Nate, not for the first time, noted that LYRIC overlooked the fact that he had volunteered to CIA, that he had been a walk-in.
The afternoon light was low in the pines. They sat on the riverbank watching the sun sparkle off the rapids. The general, an old campaigner, pulled a package of butcher paper out of his pack and unwrapped a dozen chunks of lamb he had bought in a nearby village. Two sprigs of wild oregano lay atop the meat. Nate watched fascinated, delighted, as LYRIC gathered dry tinder, scraped a small flint, and started a fire. “GRU survival kit,” said LYRIC offhandedly, handing Nate the steel. “The best. Magnesium.”
He stripped the oregano leaves and threaded the chunks of lamb onto the woody stems, then pressed the oregano onto the meat, and handed one kebab—he called it
shashlik
—to Nate. Together they grilled the meat over the open flame, chuckling, trying not to burn their fingers. When the meat was charred deep brown—LYRIC examined Nate’s
shashlik
critically—alemon was cut to be squeezed over the sizzling kebabs, eaten with alternating bites of raw scallion.
“I used to cook like this for my children on leave,” LYRIC said, turning his skewer sideways to bite a piece of lamb. “It is good to share food now with you.” He looked down at the fire. In a rush, Nate registered that this relationship was fueled by more than revenge for Russian beastliness. It was more than an intelligence operation, more than the start of a priceless penetration of Moscow’s vast military tech transfer establishment. This old man needed human contact, kind consideration, metaphysical needs somehow to be addressed while CIA debriefed him like a rubber squeeze toy.
Will he survive,
thought Nate,
or will he end up like Korchnoi?
He gritted his teeth at the
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