They ate at the crowded Café Argo, dipping crusty bread into vermillion Georgian beet-salad spread, squeezing lemons over shashlik, sizzling lamb kebabs sprinkled with wild oregano, chased by ice-cold Lvivski beers. The WOLVERINEs were watchful but at ease. Steady nerves, top pros. Nate tried to tamp down his anticipation, the edginess he always felt before an op. He saw Agnes looking at him from down the table, sensing his mood. Tomorrow they would go active, travel to Sevastopol, and break into the warehouse; DIVA had reported the address from Moscow. Nate and the WOLVERINEs had rehearsed how they would tag the crates with quick-plant beacons, and Nate saw how good they were. So good, in fact, that they expanded the original plan. He had bonded with the Poles during the two days of training—Witold and Ryszard, rigidly proper; brainy Jerzy, well, brainy; and gruff Piotr, a Polish version of Gable. Agnes had kept looking at Nate, categorizing him, sizing him up. Now in Balaklava, she appeared calm and collected; perhaps the only sign of pre-op nerves was her habit of twisting a strand of her thick hair around a finger.
An hour later, Nash stood on the darkened balcony of his hotel room before going to bed, looking at the black harbor and the starlight on the hills across the water. Dominika. He would see her soon, if nothing went wrong in the next two days. He played in his head what he would say to her in Istanbul. Gable would be hovering, watching them, his big sheepdog head turned into the wind, sniffing. Jesus, he wanted to hold Dominika in his arms, put his hands on her back, and pull her tight against him. If he did that, Gable would feed him to the lions.
He knew, just knew, however, that Dominika would fly into a rage if he fended her off; she had done so before. She was of the view that she could be a spy and still be in love with her CIA handler, whom she desired. And she did not sympathize one bit with his conundrum that his superiors disapproved of their doing what they both most wanted to do. She would see to it he was not fired. If they loved each other, that should be enough.
If you love me, then nothing else matters, Dominika had told him. Nate resented being in this situation, resented Benford looking over his shoulder all the time, resented Gable’s acuity, resented Dominika’s damn Russian incorrigibility. And tomorrow he and this team would break into a warehouse in broad daylight and futz with antipersonnel explosives designed to blow them up. Chill, what’s the matter with you? he thought. He heard his door latch click and turned to see a sliver of hallway light widen, then go dark again. Someone was in his room. FSB? Had he missed hostile coverage today? Breathe. Heartbeat up. Nate moved quietly off the balcony, reaching for the heavy glass ashtray on the side table. He smelled perfume and his stomach flipped. No way. Agnes came out of the shadow into the bar of starlight slanting across the room. She was wearing a baggy sleep shirt and was barefoot.
“The locks on these doors are ridiculously easy,” she said.
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?”
