56
Foxhall, Washington
She made a move on him, and a rather good one at that. It was a Moscow Center–trained move, full of elbows and kicks and compact punches and a knee toward the groin that, had it landed, might very well have ended the contest in her favor. Mikhail was left with no choice but to retaliate. He did so expertly but judiciously, making great effort to inflict no damage on Eva Fernandes’s flawless Russian face. At the conclusion of the match, he was straddling her hips, with her hands pinned to the floor. To her credit, Eva showed no fear, only anger. She made no attempt to scream. Illegals, thought Mikhail, knew better than to call out to the neighbors for help.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he licked blood from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be sure to tell Sasha that you put up a good fight.”
Mikhail then calmly explained that the building was surrounded and that even if Eva managed to escape the apartment, which was unlikely, she would not get far. At which point, a battlefield truce was declared. From the freezer Eva extracted a bottle of vodka. It was Russian vodka, the only Russian item in the entire apartment other than her SVR covert communications equipment and her Makarov pistol. She extracted those, too, from the hidden compartment beneath the floorboards in her bedroom closet.
She laid out the equipment on the kitchen table. The gun she surrendered to Mikhail. He addressed her only in Russian. It had been more than a decade, she explained, since she had spoken her mother tongue. It had been stolen from her the minute she entered the illegals program at the Red Banner Institute. She already had a bit of Portuguese when she arrived there. Her father was a diplomat—first for the Soviet Union, later for the Russian Federation—and she had lived in Lisbon as a child.
“You realize,” said Mikhail, “you have no diplomatic protection.”
“It was drilled into us from the very first day of our training.”
“And what did they tell you to do if you were caught?”
“Say nothing and wait.”
“For what?”
“For Moscow Center to make a trade. They promised us we would never be left behind.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. Not when the Americans find out you’ve been servicing the biggest spy since the Cold War.”
“Rebecca Manning.”
“You know her name?”
“I figured it out a few months ago.”
“What was on the flash drive you left in the glove box of that Ford Explorer?”
“You were watching?”
“From a flat across the street. We made a nice video.”
She picked nervously at her nail polish. She was human after all, thought Mikhail.
“I was assured the drop site was clean.”
“Did Moscow Center promise you that, too?”
Eva drained her glass of vodka and immediately refilled it. Mikhail’s was untouched.
“You’re not drinking?”
“Vodka,” he proclaimed, “is a Russian illness.”
“Sasha used to say the same thing.”
They were seated at the kitchen table. Between them were the bottle of vodka and the glasses and Eva’s SVR communications paraphernalia. The centerpiece was a device about the size and shape of a paperback novel. It was fashioned of polished metal and was of solid construction. On one side were three switches, an indicator light, and a couple of USB ports. There were no seams in the metal. It was designed never to be opened.
Eva downed another glass of vodka.
“Take it easy,” said Mikhail. “I need you to keep your wits about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
