“Everything.”
“Like what?”
“How does Rebecca tell you when she wants to hand over material?”
“She leaves the light on at the end of the walk.”
“Where are the drop sites?”
“Currently, we have four.”
“What are the fallbacks? What’s the body talk?”
“Thanks to Sasha, I can tell you all of that in my sleep. And more.” Eva reached for the vodka again, but Mikhail moved the glass aside. “If you know the identity of the mole,” she asked, “why do you need me?”
Mikhail didn’t answer.
“And if I agree to cooperate?”
“I thought we covered that ground.”
“No prison?”
Mikhail shook his head. No prison.
“Where will I go?”
“Back to Russia, I suppose.”
“After helping you catch Sasha’s mole? They’ll interrogate me for a few months in Lefortovo Prison and then—” She fashioned her hand into the shape of a gun and placed the tip of her forefinger to the nape of her neck.
“Vysshaya mera,” said Mikhail.
She lowered her hand and reclaimed her glass of vodka. “I would prefer to remain here in America.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not Americans.”
“You’re British?”
“Some of us.”
“So I’ll go to England.”
“Or perhaps Israel,” he suggested.
She made a sour face.
“It’s really not so bad, you know.”
“I hear there are a lot of Russians there.”
“More every day,” said Mikhail.
There was a small window next to the table. MacArthur Boulevard was quiet and damp. Christopher Keller was sitting in a parked car at the edge of the reservoir, along with a couple of security kids from the embassy. In another car was a courier from the station who was awaiting Mikhail’s order to come upstairs and take possession of Eva’s SVR communications gear.
