“It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?”
“Nonsense. They make a fierce martini. I taught them how.”
And that, she wrote, was how it all began, a drink at the bar of the St. Georges, then another, and then, inadvisably, a third, after which she could scarcely stand, let alone walk. Gallantly, he insisted on seeing her back to her flat, where they made love for the first time. In describing the act, she once again resorted to the unadorned prose of a reporter, for her memories of the event were fogged by alcohol. She recalled only that he had been exceedingly tender and rather skillful. They made love again the following afternoon, and the afternoon after that. It was then, with a cold Mediterranean wind rattling the windows, that she screwed up the nerve to ask whether any of the things they had said about him in England in the 1950s were true.
“Do I look like the kind of man who could d-d-do that?”
“You don’t, actually.”
“It was an American witch hunt. They’re the worst people in the world, the Americans, with the Israelis a close second.”
But her thoughts were running ahead of her pencil, and her hand was growing weary. She glanced at her plastic wristwatch and was surprised to see it was nearly six; she had written all afternoon. Having skipped lunch, she was famished, and there was nothing edible in the pantry, for she had skipped her daily visit to the supermarket, too. She decided an evening in town might do her good. A quartet from Madrid was performing a program of Vivaldi in one of the churches, hardly daring material but it would be a welcome break from the television. The village was a destination for tourists but something of a cultural wasteland. There were other places in Andalusia where she would have preferred to settle after the divorce—Seville, for one—but Comrade Lavrov had chosen the bone-white village in the mountains. “No one will ever find you there,” he had said. And by “no one,” he meant her child.
It was cold outside and a wind was getting up. Eighty-seven steps along the paseo a van was parked along the rocky verge, haphazardly, as though it had been abandoned. The winding streets of the town smelled of cooking; lights burned warmly in the windows of the little houses. She entered the one restaurant in the Calle San Juan were she was still treated respectfully and was shown to a lesser table. She ordered a glass of sherry and an assortment of tapas and then opened the paperback novel she had brought along for protection.And what does anyone know about traitors, or why Judas did what he did... What indeed? she thought. He had fooled everyone, even her, the woman with whom he had shared the most intimate of human acts. He had lied to her with his body and with his lips, and yet when he asked for the thing she loved most, she had given it to him. And this was her punishment, to be an old woman, pitied and reviled, sitting alone in a café in a land not her own. If only they had not met that afternoon in the bar of the St. Georges Hotel in Beirut. If only she had declined his offer of a drink, and then another, and then, inadvisably, a third.If only...
The sherry arrived, a pale Manzanilla, and a moment later the first of the food. As she laid down her book she noticed the man watching her unreservedly from the end of the bar. Then she noticed the couple at the nearby table, and instantly she realized why a van had been parked along the paseo eighty-seven steps from her villa. How little their tradecraft had changed.
She ate her meal slowly, if only to punish them, and leaving the restaurant hurried to the church for the recital. It was poorly attended and uninspired. The couple from the restaurant sat four pews behind her; the man, on the opposite side of the nave. He approached her after the performance, as she walked among the orange trees in the square.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked in labored Spanish.
“Bourgeois drivel.”
His smile was the one he reserved for young children and foolish old women. “Still fighting the same old war? Still waving the same old banner? I’m Señor Karpov, by the way. I was sent by our friend. Allow me to walk you home.”
“That’s how I got into this mess.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
She set out along the darkened street. The Russian walked beside her. He had attempted to dress down for the village but had not quite succeeded. His loafers were too polished, his overcoat too stylish. She thought of the old days when it was possible to spot a Russian intelligence officer by the poor quality of his suit and by his dreadful shoes. Like Comrade Lavrov, she remembered, on the day he brought her the letter from the famous English journalist she had known in Beirut. But not this one, she thought. Karpov was definitely a new Russian.
“Your Spanish is dreadful,” she declared. “Where are you from?”
“The Madridrezidentura.”
“In that case, Spain has nothing to fear from the SVR.”
“They warned me about your sharp tongue.”
“What else did they warn you about?”
He didn’t answer.
“It’s been a long time,” she said. “I was beginning to think I would never hear from the Center again.”
“Surely, you’ve noticed the money in your bank account.”
“The first of every month, never a day late.”
“Others are not so fortunate.”
“Few,” she countered, “have given so much.” Their footfalls echoed in the dead silence of the narrow street, as did those of the two support officers, who followed several paces behind. “I was hoping you might have something for me other than money.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He drew an envelope from his stylish coat and held it aloft between two fingers.
“Let me see it.”
