Page 13 of Spymaster

Down the hall was a café known as the UN Delegates Lounge. Here, United Nations diplomats and staff could meet and chat casually over coffee. The Americans, French, and British had nicknamed it the Russian Café for the “secret” bottle of vodka kept under the bar. Throughout the day, members of the Russian delegation would pop in, speakeasy style, to fill nondescript containers with the spirit before rejoining the current meeting or proceeding to their next.

Off to the side, she saw the people she was looking for. Seated at the table were the Ambassadors for Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. All three stood as she approached.

“Thank you. Please sit,” said Strum as she joined them. “I have bad news. And none of you are going to like it.”

•••

Across the room was Russia’s Deputy Permanent Representative to the UN for Political Affairs. He was within sight, but out of earshot. As he sat sipping his morning “coffee,” he couldn’t help but notice the meeting.

Strum was doing most of the talking, but it was obvious that her tablemates were not happy. In fact, the Baltic Ambassadors looked deeply concerned. One was so angry that after jabbing his finger at her, he stood and stormed out of the lounge.

Something was afoot and he took careful mental notes. Any strife between NATO members was always of interest to Moscow. NATO was the only enemy Russia worked as hard to undermine as it did the United States.

He waited for the meeting to end and once it did, returned to his office and began typing up his notes. His superiors were going to have a very interesting report to send to Moscow.

CHAPTER 11

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY EVENING

The five-star Ristorante La Perla in Georgetown was known for some of the best Italian cuisine in the city. In addition to being walking distance from Embassy Row, it was also open until almost midnight. It was the perfect spot for a clandestine dinner that wasn’t supposed to appear clandestine.

As Lydia Ryan walked in, carrying a Brooks Brothers shopping bag, her guest was already waiting for her. He sat at a table in the back, facing the front. Knowing his commitment to tradecraft, she figured he had arrived at least twenty minutes early, checked everything out, and then, given his proclivity for alcohol, had begun drinking.

Artur Kopec worked under official cover at the Polish Embassy for the Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence service. He had been at the spy game for decades, and he looked it.

His fair hair had gone white long ago. He carried a spare tire around his middle—the product of spending too much time behind a desk running spies, rather than just getting out and running. His red-rimmed eyes were milky with the onset of cataracts, likely sped up by a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. The end of his large nose was a sea of broken capillaries, brought on by his alcoholism.

He had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and symptoms indicative of the onset of diabetes. He also had a doctor whom he paid handsomely to keep all his medical issues out of his file and off the radar screen of his superiors. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He had plenty of years of service left in him.

The Pole watched as Ryan entered the restaurant. How such a tall, gorgeous woman had evaded marriage for so long, especially in a town like D.C., was a mystery to him. If he had been twenty years younger, he might have considered making a play for her. As it was, he was not only old enough to be her father, but he was dangerously close to grandfather territory. He stood to greet her.

“Hello, Artur,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Of course,” he replied, kissing her on both cheeks and then pulling out her chair. “It’s been too long.”

“I know. I’ve been busy. I’m sorry.”

He returned a gentle smile as he sat down. “Completely understandable. How is he?”

Ryan sighed as she placed her napkin in her lap. “Not well.”

“I was afraid of that. I tried to call him not too long ago. They told me he had been moved?”

“He’s in hospice. According to the doctors, he has less than six months.”

Kopec shook his head. “My God. Such a shame.”

Ryan nodded solemnly.

“Did he ever tell you the story of how we first met?” he asked, a smile coming to his face as he tried to buoy her mood.

“He did,” she replied. Leaning down, she removed a wrapped parcel from the shopping bag and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

The Pole, who had just picked up his glass, looked at it for a moment and asked, “What is this?”

“Open it,” Ryan encouraged.