Nate swallowed. “Agnes, what are you doing? Are you all right?” He knew the answer.
“I always am a little nervous before an operation,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
“Nervous about what?” asked Nate.
“Well, not nervous, exactly,” said Agnes, running her fingers through her hair.
“What exactly?” said Nate.
“More like amorous,” she said.
“Amorous?”
“As in horny,” she said, stepping toward him. She touched his cheek.
“Agnes,” said Nate, “this is not a good idea. We have work tomorrow.”
“It will steady our nerves,” she said, trailing her hand down his chest.
“My nerves are fine,” said Nate. Her perfume was citrusy and made his head swim. She was exotic and primal. He could feel the heat of her hand through his shirt, and he felt dizzy. Benford, Gable, Domi, regulations, kicked out of CIA, separated from the Service, the citrus-and-musk bloom of this busty tuning fork named Agnes standing a foot away, breathing on him. His arms involuntarily moved a fraction; he knew that in three seconds he was going to twist his fingers in that mane of hair with the white forelock and crush their mouths together. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts under her shirt; the bottom hem vibrated as her body trembled. Three, two, one. Fuck. Stop. His hands stayed at his sides. Agnes took her hand off his chest, stepped back, and shook her hair.
“I’m thinking about the team, that’s all, about us doing this right,” said Nate.
“So I shall go?” Agnes said.
Nate took her hot hand in his. He didn’t want her to leave mad. The last thing they needed in hostile territory. “You’re incredibly beautiful and sexy. But don’t you think it’s not the right thing?”
“I think it is the right thing,” she said flatly. She turned and slipped out the door without a sound. Jesus, she’s furious.
Nate woke up an hour later, his room pitch-black, the smell of citrus in his nose again. He felt Agnes slip naked under the single sheet, mash her breasts against his chest, and swing a leg over his hip. He registered a soft wetness on his leg. Her skin was feverish, and she breathed into his ear. “I have changed my mind,” she said. The white streak in her hair fell across his face.
* * *
* * *
The bustling port city of Sevastopol simmered under the Crimean sun. Its eight scalloped inlet harbors were bordered by war memorial parks, pebbly public beaches, and elegant whitewashed mansions. Farther inland, high-rise apartment blocks were squeezed between thoroughfares clogged with traffic. In the largest of the harbors, Sevastopol Bay, were the massive concrete piers of the Russian Black Sea Fleet, a dozen bristling gray hulls moored stern-to. Sevastopol was twelve kilometers from little Balaklava, over the mountains. At noon, Nate and the WOLVERINEs took the Number 9 marshrutka bus from Balaklava harbor to the five-kilometer exchange outside Sevastopol, and then rode the Number 14 city bus to the Omega Beach stop at the bottom of Kruhla Bay. The route had been charted by Headquarters photoanalysts who had “walked” the entire twelve kilometers via digital satellite imagery. The small buses were crowded and Nate shared a seat with Agnes, who that morning looked as if she had ridden a long distance on horseback, which was not entirely inaccurate. As the others dozed in the hot, swaying bus, Agnes pushed her thigh against Nate’s.
“When do I meet your parents?” Agnes said in Russian.
Nate closed his eyes. “Agnes, stop kidding around.” He was experiencing remorse on two levels: Sleeping with Agnes—a member of the team that he was leading, with a sensitive job ahead—was reckless. Sleeping with her weeks before he was going to see Dominika was worse. It had been as if he were observing himself from an opposite corner of the room, unable to control events. Fuck, had he weakened maybe as a way of defying his scolding superiors? Maybe to create some space between him and Domi? Go ahead, he thought, rationalize your ass off. Agnes had been active and insistent, clapping her own hand across her mouth so as not to wake the whole hotel. Wet-lipped, she had held his face in her hands and whispered jestes taka sliczna, you are very beautiful in Polish, without Nate’s knowing what she had said.
Now she was the debauched older woman, with a morning-after glow, having fun. “I never told you I can bake,” she whispered. “What kind of cake do you like?”
“I’m not listening to you,” said Nate. Secretly he was amused and interested. This woman, from her early twenties, had risked everything fighting in the shadows for her country. She was second only to Witold in planning sessions, and it was obvious that he respected her. During training, Benford had once glowered at her, and she had glowered back, earning Benford’s grudging approval. Nate had seen hurt in her eyes only once, when Piotr had teased her about becoming an old maid. She was different, strong willed, and passionate.
“Oh, yes, I feel marvelous this morning,” she said, conversationally. “You’re quite a musician, do you know that?” she said. She pushed sweat-damp hair off the back of her neck and fanned herself with a piece of cardboard.
Nate shook his head. “Let’s concentrate on today. We’re not clear until we’re on the boat tonight and outside the twelve-mile limit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m ready. We are all ready,” Agnes said. She put her hand on his arm. “We will succeed, you will see.”
Nate did indeed see. From the Omega Beach stop, the team walked separately and casually down busy six-lane Mayachina Street, mingling with afternoon shoppers and citizens heading home. Three carried backpacks over their shoulders, the other three carried well-used zippered shopping totes seen in open-air markets. They maintained the same distances from each other that surveillance would take—in effect becoming their own countersurveillance. Halfway down the boulevard they peeled off into three pairs: the first crossed a vacant lot; the second walked through leafy courtyards between apartment blocks; the third ghosted down a dusty lane strewn with garbage. Besides hostile surveillance, they looked for druzhinniki, the pensioners sitting on stools in front of apartment blocks who were the unofficial neighborhood watch. Nate was in hyperdetection mode, senses alert, scanning, listening, smelling. Nothing. Maybe the citizens were all at the beach. Status: Black. Time check. Go.
They converged from three directions on the four gray-metal warehouses, standing in a row on a weed-choked cement apron. The traffic roar on Mayachina a block away was barely audible. The buildings were streaked with rust and the roofs sagged. Hand signals from the flankers indicated there was no one around. A bird chirped and a cricket zinged from the weeds. Nate squatted and took a breath. Too quiet? A thought of ambush flickered in his mind. Would the GRU leave munitions unguarded like this? He processed sounds and looked into the shadows under the far trees. All clear. Witold knelt beside him.
“What is it?” said Witold. The back of his shirt was wet.
“How does it feel to you?” said Nate.
“I know what you mean,” said Witold. “Doing this in daylight is not normal. But we need the light, and the buses stop at nine. The plan is solid.”
“Would they leave rockets and mines unattended?” said Nate.
“Do not forget, these are Russians,” said Witold. “This is the GRU engaged in an illegal operation; they will be determined to keep it secret, especially from the Ukrainian locals.”
“Alarms? Booby traps?” said Nate. DIVA had not reported anything, but she might not have been briefed on such details.