Timokhin smiled. He liked this feeling of power. It was the reason he was where he was, sitting behind this desk on the top floor, and why he’d gone to hell and back to get there.

He leaned back. “Whatever is it that she does for you?” he said.

“Use your imagination,” Igor said.

Timokhin smiled. He was beginning to smell a rat.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re really up to, Igor.”

“I want to bring her back, Timokhin.”

“You can’t be that naive,” Timokhin said. “She’s a traitor. It’s beyond question. I don’t care what she can do with her cunt.”

“If she was speaking to the Americans,” Igor said, “that’s something we can use.”

“Disinformaciya?”

“We could use her to feed them a crock of shit. We’ve done it before.”

“We’re already using her, Igor. We’re drawing out her contact in the CIA. We’re ready to pounce.”

Igor brought the glass to his lips, but paused. “She’s so talented, Fyodor.”

“She’s a rat.”

“She’ll be your rat.”

“She lied to you, Igor.”

“We all lie in this place, Timokhin. Who knows what she was up to, or why? Maybe she was obeying someone else’s orders.”

“Your agent, Igor. Your slut. Taking orders from someone else?”

“Let’s at least bring her back for questioning. Find out what’s going on.”

Timokhin drained his glass and slammed it sharply on the table. “Enough,” he said. “This is nonsense. She sold us out. Now she’s got to pay. You know the rules.”

“Timokhin.”

“You’re fishing Igor, and I don’t like it.”

Igor refilled Timokhin’s glass. “Very well,” he said, raising his glass. “A final toast.”

“Very well,” Timokhin said.

“Only the good die young.”

“The good die young,” Timokhin said, and drank.

Igor knew he needed to offer something of value now. He looked at Timokhin. “Tell your man she carries a Browning pistol in her purse, chambered in a 9x19 millimeter round.”

Timokhin nodded.

Igor had to be very careful next. He was feeling the booze. Timokhin’s guard was up. The wrong move could blow everything.

“I know who was watching her,” he said.

Timokhin laughed. “If you did, you wouldn’t be up here plying me with vodka.”

“It was the hag,” Igor said.

Timokhin laughed. “You’re guessing, Igor.”

And that was it. As simple as that. Igor’s secretary was no spring chicken, but she was far from the only hag he might have been referring to. For Timokhin to get the reference so quickly, that was the slip.

“I think,” Igor said, wiping his brow, “that I’ve had too much to drink.”

Timokhin’s eyes were glazed. “You’re a soldier, Igor,” he said. “You’re not paid to think.”

Igor made to get to his feet. He had to steady himself on the chair. He was drunk.