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Leaning back in her deep desk chair, she knew she had won this skirmish. General Packard never ceased to be impressed by how much time and energy in Washington had to be spent beating back the small incursions into one’s own territory. It was an enormous waste of effort; but there was no doubting she was very good at it.
Silence permeated the secure phone line. She said nothing, patiently awaiting Tolberg’s verbal retreat. But when he spoke, she could not believe what she was hearing.
“General Packard, you’ve known me for a long time. Unlike you, I don’t like to be blunt. I’ve always believed adults should be courteous in their professional interactions. I don’t believe in rapping people on their knuckles to get a message across.
“However, it’s obvious I haven’t been clear enough with you. President Gene Laurence believes that having a White House presence on this trip would be beneficial. Notwithstanding Mr. Ruiz’s young age, President Laurence has developed an enormous respect for his political insight. As a result, the president has asked Tony to accompany you to Moscow. I am calling you to advise you of the president’s decision, not to ask your opinion on the subject.
“Now, General Packard,” continued the chief of staff with ice in his voice, “I would like to ask you if all this is clear enough?”
Martha Packard closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She could not believe that the director of central intelligence was being forced to accept the presence of an underage agent from the president’s office.
But she had no choice.
“Yes, sir. Crystal clear.”
GERMANY
FRANKFURT
AUGUST 21, 2:45 P.M.
LUFTHANSA, FLIGHT 891
Anne-Sophie Perlmutter let her weight slip deep into the plane’s window seat the minute the Frankfurt-bound Lufthansa Airbus 320 lifted off from Kiev’s Boryspil State International Airport. Overwhelmed by the feeling of losing control, she tried to close her eyes.
A few hours ago, Anne-Sophie had careened down the highway from Kursk to Kiev. The Ukrainian capital was the closest airfield to her house with direct flights to Frankfurt. Over flat farmland and across the Ukrainian border, the drive had taken less than three hours.
As the airplane climbed through Eastern Europe’s overcast skies, Anne-Sophie could feel her hands tremble. The rivets that had long held up the load-bearing fixtures of her life were now buckling. Her existence had become like a runaway freight train, plodding at a steady speed down tracks that led to a precipice. So far, she hadn’t been able to find a way to alight. Hopefully, this trip to Germany would provide a road map.
Five weeks had passed since the fateful argument at her father’s house. Since then, not a single word about the fight had again crossed Daniel’s and Anne-Sophie’s lips. The two had bent over backward to be polite—particularly in front of the children.
But the lifeblood was seeping out of the couple’s relationship. The caring was draining away. Like water in a bathtub. Sucked into invisibility, gone and irretrievable.
She had tried to find a dialogue with Daniel. But he had hardly engaged. His responses had reverted to a standard monotone—neither hot nor cold. Still, Anne-Sophie had decided on a final effort, if only out of respect for over a decade together. She needed to tell herself that they had attempted to repair it.
It didn’t go well. The conversation that was supposed to be about reconstructing a way to live together had instead turned into the final rupture. Over steaming cups of coffee and croissants at Kursk’s turn-of-the-century Ustinov Café, Anne-Sophie’s attempt to reglue their marriage had unraveled into another bitter exchange about his job and Russia.
And that was before Daniel had sprung yet another one of his surprises.
“Stop exaggerating Russia’s problems,” he had admonished her a half hour into the conversation in a voice that dripped with irritation. “In the year and a half of working for Zhironovsky, I’ve come to understand that our gas is a powerful weapon against those who want to do us harm. These guys in Moscow are sophisticated. They are using gas to send a message to the world.”
“What is that message, Daniel?” asked Anne-Sophie impatiently. She had struggled to remain composed against yet another reappearance of his paranoid xenophobia.
“The message is that the fall of the Soviet Union doesn’t mean that Russia can be mistreated. We are the largest country on the planet. A world power. And we require respect. The mistake of the communists was to believe that military power and nuclear weapons were the only way to get the world’s respect.”
She hadn’t known what to say to him. But Daniel clearly had more. It was his big revelation.
“Zhironovsky has offered me a job at headquarters, in Moscow. He told me last week that we should move there. He has given me a new assignment. And I said yes. This move will solve a lot of the problems between us. You need a big city. You need to see foreigners. You need to take your mind off your little life in a little town. I can go now and you can come at the end of the school year, with the children.”
He had been excited to share the news about the family’s move. He had talked on, needing his wife to understand the alluring heights to which he now had access.
“My new job will be to take care of Volga Gaz’s international issues. And, if we are successful, we will push the Americans down a few notches. If our project works, the Americans will suddenly wake up one day and find themselves depending on Volga Gaz for a huge part of their gas needs.”
Daniel Vladimirovich Uggin’s mouth had curled into a wide smile. “We’re going to force the Americans to look at Russia in a far different light.
“So you see, Anne-Sophie,” Daniel was saying, “we’re moving to Moscow.”
Yesterday’s coffee was the very moment Anne-Sophie Perlmutter would always remember as the end of her marriage. The realization had hit her like lightning when her husband dictated his unilateral decision to move. There was no bridging the gap. She was stuck in Russia with a man who had fallen out of love with her and in love with his country and his job.
A thousand questions had zoomed through her mind—separation, moving, and, above all, the children. But she had held her tongue. She needed time. She had to get away.
“Moscow?” she lied, forcing a smile to cross her lips. “Hmm? Moving to the big city? That is something I never thought of. It could be just the right thing. Let me think about it and we can talk in a few days.
“Can I change the subject?” Anne-Sophie had asked, forcing an easy smile to her lips. “My father called to tell me he wasn’t feeling well. He is getting tests done on Monday and Tuesday at the hospital. I would like to go for a few days. You’re home for the next few days, right? Do you think that is okay? I can catch the Lufthansa flight from Kiev tomorrow afternoon.”
None of it was true. Her father was fine. But knowing the conversation might go wrong, Anne-Sophie had already planned this trip. Blaise would pick her up tomorrow. What forethought, she had said to herself, waiting for Daniel’s answer.
He hadn’t hesitated. Daniel had clearly been pleased that Anne-Sophie hadn’t rejected outright the sudden notion of moving to Russia’s capital. “Darling, you haven’t told me anything about Hermann! I’m sorry he isn’t well. Yes, of course, of course.
“Leave the children with me. Go to your father.”
FRANKFURT
AUGUST 21, 4:00 P.M.
FRANKFURT AIRPORT
Anne-Sophie squinted right and left as she walked through the terminal’s electronically rotating glass doors, pulling her small Samsonite suitcase behind her. The bright sunshine blinded her.
Traffic was a constant mess at Frankfurt’s Rhein-Main airport. Named after the two rivers that converged in Germany’s business capital, the airport was one of the world’s busiest. The terminals’ access roads were a jumble of cars, buses, taxis, shuttle vans, and masses of passengers struggling to reach their assigned lanes. Vehicles serving airport destinations such as terminal transfers, park
ing lots, and local hotels were directed to the near curbside. Taxis and private cars to downtown and other places in the Frankfurt metropolitan area picked up passengers fifty yards away, on multiple concrete islands accessed and connected by pedestrian crosswalks.
Elite units of Germany’s border police in instantly identifiable yellow shirts walked in between cars eyeing drivers and vehicles approaching the terminal. They were heavily armed with submachine guns and protected by gray bulletproof vests. The border police did not mingle or talk to the traffic cops whose shrieking whistles and frenzied gestures moved the endless flow of cars pouring into the airport.
The chaos at Frankfurt Airport was not the picture of Teutonic orderliness one would expect in Germany’s financial center.
Anne-Sophie studied the crisscrossing directional signs that distributed passengers to their preferred means of transportation. Picking her way through the airport shuttle services to the passenger pickup islands, her attention was caught by one particularly noisy car whose horn would not stop blowing. She smiled as she recognized the driver. Not even Italian or Turkish immigrants would risk the social opprobrium that inevitably befell anyone making this much noise in Germany.
Only Blaise Ryan could be so oblivious to the rules of German etiquette.
Anne-Sophie picked up her pace and ran toward the noisy gray Ford Focus. Contrary to all rational expectation, the fact that the Ford had found its passenger did not diminish the driver’s need to make noise. In fact, Anne-Sophie noticed that her proximity to the vehicle only increased the driver’s rate of pressure on the car’s horn.
Anne-Sophie threw the Samsonite next to the compact roll-away suitcase already in the open trunk and jumped into the passenger seat. She threw her arms around her old friend. The two women embraced and kissed each other multiple times on both cheeks.
“Get your seat belt on and let’s get out of here before one of those border police guys comes and arrests us. God, they look scary!” Blaise accelerated the car forward and zigzagged between the maze of drop-offs and pickups arrayed in front of them. Within just a few minutes, the Ford had accelerated to over 150 kilometers an hour.
“I just love your autobahns,” said Blaise, gray eyes gleaming through the streaks of red hair falling over her eyes. “There is no speed limit, and whatever the car is telling me right here is meaningless because I don’t read kilometers. I’m oblivious.”
Typical Blaise. She knew exactly that 150 kilometers per hour equaled over ninety miles per hour. But with Blaise, the truth was something that could be temporarily blurred. Not to mislead, but rather as a useful social tool to enhance pleasurable conversation.
“Don’t act so innocent. You know exactly how fast you are going,” giggled Anne-Sophie. Somehow the combination of blue sky, sunshine, and her friend’s California smile was already lifting the burden off her shoulders. “Where are we going?”
“To Heidelberg. Only an hour’s drive. You came one-tenth of the distance that I flew last night. Don’t tell me you’re tired. I landed about four hours ago—I’ve stood in a long line at passport control, had breakfast, and bought some expensive underwear in that silly shopping mall underneath the airport.”
To prove her purchase, Blaise pulled one hand off the Ford’s steering wheel to hitch up her already short skirt, revealing newly minted, orange-colored La Perla thong panties. “I also read the newspaper, rented the car, went into a smelly bathroom at the rental agency to brush my teeth and do up my hair, drove around for an hour, and now…here I am, so happy to see you!”
“Put your hand back on the wheel, you crazy woman.” Anne-Sophie was in full-scale cackle now. “Heidelberg? Why Heidelberg? Shouldn’t we just call my father and say we’re here and go to his house? Anyway, I haven’t been to Heidelberg in fifteen years. I don’t know anybody there.”
“Good,” snapped Blaise. “That is another reason on a long list of good reasons to go to Heidelberg. It’s close. It’s beautiful. I’ve never been there and have always wanted to go. We’ll be alone because, as you just told me, you don’t know anybody. It’s the inspiring home of philosophers like Friedrich Hegel and Karl-Otto Apel. And God knows we need to do some thinking. Enough reasons?”
Blaise glanced over at the woman sitting next to her. Anne-Sophie was a shadow of her former self. She was too thin, nearly gaunt. Her sculptured face read exhaustion. Blaise wasn’t surprised—even in faraway San Francisco, the two women’s daily e-mail exchanges had given ample warning of Anne-Sophie’s state of mind.
Blaise’s right hand reached over to stroke her friend’s cheek. Though Anne-Sophie smiled broadly, Blaise’s quick look away from the windshield had picked up the gathered clouds of sadness in her friend’s eyes. The soft touch of Blaise’s hand was designed to remind Anne-Sophie that, behind the laughter, there was a soul mate who knew her. Loved her. Felt with her.
For a second, Blaise’s grin disappeared as her hand returned to the steering wheel. “The most important reason we’re going to Heidelberg is because you and I need some time alone. We need to talk, friend.”
HEIDELBERG
AUGUST 21, 6:00 P.M.
THE PHILOSOPHENWEG
In German, it is called the Philosophenweg. A tree-lined, flower-strewn walk on the northern side of the broad Neckar River, the Philosopher’s Lane was a burst of cross-river fairy-tale views toward the turrets and domes of the old city’s ramparts and castles. For seven hundred years, philosophers from Heidelberg’s Ruprecht Karls University have walked, talked, debated, and disagreed across from the magnificence on the other side of the Neckar.
Heidelberg’s original name came from the famed fruits of the great hill behind the old town—Heidelbeerenberg, or Blueberry Mountain—but it was the beautiful storybook cityscape that had given it the reputation as Germany’s most romantic town. It was not a coincidence that the city’s most popular bumper sticker was Ich habe mein Herz in Heidelberg verloren.
I lost my heart in Heidelberg.
This was a place where people spilled their hearts, opened their souls. Blaise had chosen well.
An hour ago, they had checked into the Goldener Hirsch—the Golden Stag—an elegant, small hotel where Blaise had prepaid for a suite for two nights. Once in the sumptuous three-room chamber, Anne-Sophie and Blaise raided the minibar, pulling out a small bottle of champagne and a bag of cashews.
They had burst out laughing at Blaise’s imitation of the harsh look of the stout woman who had checked them in at the hotel’s reception desk. With hair mounted in a large beehive at the top of her head, the matronly clerk clearly had disapproved of the new, apparently lesbian, guests. The fat lady had resented the fact that the room’s prepayment meant she was left with no choice but to give the lodge’s best quarters to this undesirable gay couple.
Blaise had traveled far longer, so Anne-Sophie had insisted that Blaise be the first to, according to the hotel’s overwritten brochure, “luxuriate under our enormous showerhead’s wide barrage of independently delivered water pixels.” They had lounged in the hotel’s thick white bathrobes while waiting for room service to deliver the apple strudels ordered for a snack. They had made a pact with great fanfare on the run-of-show of the rest of the day’s activities: It would be a quick snack, a long walk, and a big dinner.
Now, at 7:30 P.M., the two women were a half hour into their stroll on the Philosopher’s Lane. The sun, still warm, but low in the western sky, extended their shadows far ahead of their bodies. Anne-Sophie told her friend about yesterday’s coffee with Daniel. She ended with his plans to move to Moscow.
As Anne-Sophie talked, Blaise noticed how her friend, in only thirty minutes, had imperceptibly moved the conversation from a sad recount of a dying relationship to a discussion of how to end a marriage.
“What kills me is that the gentle, idealistic man I loved has replaced me with an infatuation for the bureaucratic equivalent of the caveman—the Russian State,” said Anne-Sophie. Her sadness was pierced by a bitter sarcasm.
“My husband is the only university graduate to be found in Russia’s eleven time zones who believes the government is honest and well-meaning. There are two Russias, Blaise. One is the Russia of the new capitalism—it’s a treacherous cauldron of oligarchs, gamblers, and real entrepreneurs who are changing the landscape, creating jobs and wealth. And the other Russia is the state. It is made up only of thugs and the mafia.
“Nobody with an education wants to work for the government. Nobody. Except for Daniel.”
“So, since that disaster at your dad’s house five weeks ago, are you any clearer on what he does for Volga Gaz?” asked Blaise.
“I know you think I’m stupid, Blaise. But I don’t know. They have something planned against the Americans. I don’t know what it is, but yesterday he was bragging about pushing the Americans ‘down a few notches.’
“I find everything out by accident. I know about Anfang because my best friend spent a morning spying on him. I find out about Bolivia from my nine-year-old daughter. I discover he is moving to Moscow over breakfast in a café. Everything is smoke and mirrors.”
For once Blaise Ryan didn’t have words. It didn’t matter because Anne-Sophie had more to say.
“Sit with me here. Let’s take this bench and look at the view.” Anne-Sophie guided her friend to the wooden seat directly overlooking the river. The old city, drenched in the waning sun’s orange light, dazzled, in front of them.
“I need to confess something. You have come such a long way, but I asked you to meet me not only because I need a good shoulder to cry on. I also need Blaise Ryan’s creative mind. You see, I’ve come to realize that I need to get out. Out means out of Russia. Out from under his constant paranoia. But I can’t go without the kids; I won’t leave my children in Russia, Blaise.”
“Did the kids come up in yesterday’s conversation?” asked Blaise, putting a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder.