“I think it is the right thing,” she said flatly. She turned and slipped out the door without a sound.
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
“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?
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
