The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

“Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky and I are friends from childhood,” Murov said. “And we went to Saint Petersburg University together.”

“And Berezovsky is ...?”

“The former commercial attaché of our embassy in Berlin.”

“Read rezident?”

Whelan had asked the question to annoy Murov and was genuinely surprised when Murov replied: “All right, the former rezident in Berlin. And I was therefore genuinely surprised when word came that he and his sister, who was the rezident in Copenhagen, had deserted their posts shortly before they were to be arrested on charges of embezzlement.”

“This letter,” Whelan said, tapping the document with his fingers, “says they didn’t do it. ‘Come home. All is forgiven.’”

“They didn’t do it. Svetlana’s husband was trying to pay her back for leaving him. In the SVR, husbands are expected to control their wives; if they can’t, it puts their character into question.”

“Are you pulling my leg, Sergei?”

“Not in the slightest. Svetlana—”

“You keep using her first name. You know her, too, huh?”

“Very well. As I was saying, Svetlana not only moved out of their apartment, but had begun divorce proceedings against Colonel Alekseev. Having one’s wife—particularly a wife who is a co-worker, so to speak—find one wanting in the marital situation is very damaging to an officer’s career. Evgeny’s father was a general—”

“Evgeny’s the husband?”

Murov nodded and said, “Colonel Evgeny Evgenyvich Alekseev. And Evgeny wanted to be a general, too. And I would suppose there was a human element in here as well.”

“Human element?”

“Aside from everything else, his losing Svetlana. She’s a strikingly beautiful woman. Charming, elegant. Evgeny was crazy about her. Jealous.”

“Does the term ‘soap opera’ mean anything to you, Sergei?”

“I know what a soap opera is, of course.”

“This sounds like a soap opera. A bad one.”

Murov sucked in his breath audibly. And then he was spared having to reply immediately by the waiter.

“Excuse me,” the waiter interrupted. “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?”

He was pushing a cart loaded with steaks, chops, lobster, and other items from which one could select one’s steak, chop, lobster, or other item.

Whelan seriously doubted one actually got what one selected. For one thing, all the cuts were lying on a bed of ice, and were therefore presumably below room temperature, and you weren’t supposed to grill steaks unless they were at room temperature. For another, it was reasonable to assume the diner would pick the best chunk of meat. If this then went to the grill, another good-looking steak would have to be added to the cart.

It would therefore be easier to let the customer think he was selecting his entrée, and actually serve him with something from the kitchen, and he was sure they did just that.

“Filet mignon, pink in the middle, with Wine Merchant’s sauce, asparagus, and a small salad, please,” Whelan ordered without looking at the selection on the cart.

“Twice, except because of the big portions I’ll have mushrooms instead of asparagus,” Murov said, then looked at Whelan, and said, “We can rob from one another’s side dish,” then turned back to the waiter, and added, “And bring another bottle of the Egri Bikavér.”

The waiter repeated the order and then left.

“You will recall I used the phrase ‘touches on the incredible,’” Murov said, “when we began.”

“That was an understatement, but go on,” Whelan said. “What happened?”

“Well, all of this apparently pushed him over the edge. He decided to punish her. Or maybe he did what he did consciously, thinking that losing a wife who was a thief would be less damaging to his career than a wife who had kicked him out of the marital bed. So he started to set up her and her brother on false embezzlement charges.”

“Sounds like he’s a really nice guy,” Whelan said.