Tatyana went into the bathroom to get ready. She looked at herself in the mirror. She knew she was attractive, although she didn’t always feel it. She had the classic Russian physique that men the world over seemed to bend the rules for. Igor told her she had the face of an angel and the body of a stripper. It was probably a compliment. But sometimes when she looked in the mirror she couldn’t help seeing her mother. And when she pictured her mother, she was always dead. Those days in the apartment, the lifeless eyes, the flesh slowly turning rancid, sometimes she woke up so drenched in sweat she had to change the sheets.

She’d been trained in two principal means of attack. Either she would work a target hard, like a stripper who was behind on her rent, or she would capitalize on the baby face, put her hair in braids, wear knee-length socks and a school girl skirt, and make the target feel like she needed his help.

Neither approach was guaranteed to succeed. She took her job seriously. She knew who buttered her bread. And she knew this mark could go either way.

Getting freaky at a private club in Beijing was one thing. A city like that could feel like another world to a guy used to the pace of Newport or Providence. There was no guarantee he’d act with the same sense of abandon closer to home. Manhattan was a world of its own, it could put a spell on people, but Tatyana knew she would have to help it along.

She was used to that. That was what made her good at her job.

Her first targets had all been foreign embassy staffers stationed in Moscow. Those guys were deemed fair game for training purposes. No one really expected her to succeed. They were far from home, and Moscow had a healthy reputation for hedonism, but the staffers all had their guards up. They knew where they were. They knew the GRU was watching. Honing her skills in that difficult environment helped her develop the techniques she would use on this Sheldon Goldin.

She put on the Chanel dress she’d purchased downstairs, some provocatively high black stilettos, and a Chanel purse. She tied her hair up, revealing as much of the dress’s jeweled neckline as possible.

When she was ready, she went down to the lobby and ordered herself a martini. It would help get her in the mood.

She’d also learned that men liked the smell of alcohol on a woman. It got their hopes up. And it helped explain what might otherwise seem like unusually forward behavior.

She sat at a table and the waiter brought candied almonds with the drink. Her job now was to wait. Her operator would tell her the next move.