“He’s expecting me,” Tatyana said.

Agniya looked up at her over the rims of her glasses. “Agent Aleksandrova,” she said. “Welcome home.”

Tatyana eyed her cautiously. Agniya wasn’t normally one for pleasantries.

“Thank you,” she said.

Behind Agniya were two armed guards, standing at attention, their eyes glazed over as perfectly as if made of wax.

“Take a seat,” Agniya said.

Tatyana was tired, she badly wanted to get home to her apartment and run a bath, but the slightest hint of impatience would only make the wait longer.

She sat down and waited. Agniya completely ignored her, working fastidiously on her computer.

After ten minutes, Agniya got up from her chair and entered Igor’s office. It was only then that Tatyana allowed herself to think the worst. Her little excursion in Istanbul had been discovered. Or the missing vial had been reported. Or someone on the American side let something leak.

Agniya came out of the office and looked at Tatyana.

“The direktor will see you now,” she said.

Tatyana smiled meekly and went into the office.

“My darling,” Igor said, “I’m so sorry to have you dragged from the plane.”

Calling her darling was no accident. He did it with all his widows. It was a point of pride, like there was a relationship there that went beyond the merely professional. Igor was one of those men who saw his agents as his own personal property, his pets, and to a large extent he was correct. He’d created them. He’d recruited them. He ran them. They owed everything to him. Widow was his term. It started out as black widow and got whittled down.

“Worse has happened,” Tatyana said.

“Quite so,” Igor agreed.

He had an unlit cigar in his hand and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Tatyana set herself the challenge of getting the meeting over with before he lit it.

“I sent a full report from Istanbul,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” Igor said, uninterested.

He ran his tongue over his ripe lips. They were so red one could be forgiven for thinking he was wearing makeup. But Igor was a man who steered clear of adornment of any kind. He knew instinctively it drew attention to a body no one wanted their attention drawn to. Not other men at the banyas and steam baths he frequented. Not the women whose company he paid so handsomely for at the strip clubs off the Garden Ring. And certainly not Tatyana.

He picked up a gold-plated cigar lighter from his desk and lit the thing. Blue smoke billowed from it.

“I’m afraid there’s been a development in Yekaterinburg,” he said.

“Yevchenko?”

“Yes.”

“He started production.”

“Yes he did.”

“The idiot.”

“He was following orders.”

“His directorate doesn’t know the first thing about working with those microbes. It should have been left to the scientist at the institute. What’s her name?”

“Doctor Sofia Ivanvna.”