The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

“Michelangelo I can see every day,” she said. “You’re here now with me, in my little house, and that’s all I need. Do you remember what I told you in Romania? Czuje miete dla ciebie, I feel mint for you, I have feelings for you.” She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, and leaned to kiss him, slowly at first, then more urgently. She suddenly stopped and looked him in the eyes. “Is that other woman still in your life?” Agnes asked. “I can still feel you carry her inside.” Nate had forgotten how perceptive Agnes was. She didn’t have a witch’s white forelock for nothing.

“It’s still very difficult,” said Nate. “It involves work, and it didn’t go well. I may have put her in danger, and that’s inexcusable.”

“I hope she is safe,” Agnes said softly. “I miss the work, the excitement; I miss the old colleagues, and I miss Poland.” She was silent for a moment. “I won’t ask you anymore about her. I am glad you came. Are you hungry? Come and watch me.”

They went into the kitchen, where Agnes quickly prepared foil-baked salmon and a Polish cucumber salad called mizeria, misery, because it was a staple of peasants. They sat outside in the dark eating by torchlight, Agnes watching Nate’s face as he ate. Beyond the garden fence a peacock shrilled its creepy mating call that sounds like a soprano trilling “help me, help me.”

“The last time I heard a peacock howl like that I was in the woods in northern Greece, meeting someone special,” said Nate. “Scared me to death at the time.” Agnes leaned forward, her chin in her hands, smiling at him.

“I do not think you are scared very easily,” said Agnes.

“I don’t know, feels like I’m scared more now than when I was younger,” said Nate. “That’s what experience does to you I guess.”

“Do I scare you?” Agnes asked.

“No, Agnes, I think you’re wonderful,” said Nate. Her eyes were shiny with emotion, and Nate felt a wave of tenderness welling up inside him.

“When you return it would be nice to have you visit longer, take a vacation,” she said. “I could sneak you into the museum workshop and show you the Medici panels; they are special.” She searched his eyes for a reaction.

“I’d love that,” said Nate. “But no more of that hammock. I think I have a hip pointer.”

“What is a hip pointer?” Agnes said.

Nate got up and put her hand on his bruised hip bone. “See? Hammocks are out, please.”

“I have hurt you? Jeny kochane, oh dear, what can I do to relieve your pain?” she said, mock concerned. Nate kissed her, and she pressed against him, nuzzling his neck and softly biting his lower lip. He held her by the hand and led her to her bedroom, where Agnes flopped onto the bed on her back. Nate stood over her, slowly undoing his belt buckle. From outside, the peacock called “help me, help me.”

“I know how that bird feels,” said Agnes, untying the belt of her kimono.

Nate took the Airport Express from Chek Lap Kok Airport, looking out the window as the train rocked past emerald-blue lagoons and the dark-green peaks of the islands scattered in the South China Sea. The gleaming downtown rail terminal in Central Hong Kong was a beehive of orderly activity. The rank of cherry-red taxis waited for passengers, and the rear doors of the vehicles swung open automatically at the push of a button, striking Nate as quintessentially Chinese, welcoming foreigners to the Orient with a bow. The taxi raced through the teaming downtown business district, sidewalks jammed with pedestrians, and deliverymen pushing carts stacked with boxes. The cab rocketed up steeply curving Garden Road and came to a squealing stop in front of the US Consulate, a four-story concrete box with square tinted windows, the American flag hanging limply in the humid air.

Nate slid his passport under the receptionist’s glass—she was a Foreign Service National, a local Hong Konger—and was buzzed through to the Marine Security Guard Post One where Nate’s passport again was examined by a young steely marine in Blue Dress “C” uniform, a crisp khaki shirt and necktie, and a holstered sidearm at his hip. A young woman came to the lobby to collect him, leading him through the hard-line door, and up an elevator to the fourth floor. Appraising the newcomer with a sidelong glance, she introduced herself as the Chief’s secretary, and punched a red button to open a thick vault door that swung outward with an electric whine. They stepped up into a huge furnished container with blue-gray carpet on the floor and up the walls, an acoustic-shielded enclosure impervious to outside electronic eavesdropping. Inside it was chilly and dry, people at a dozen desks in the container wore light sweaters.