Conspiracy in Kiev

“You had a wife,” she said. “You used to beat her.”

“She wasn’t a smart woman.”

“That’s why she was your wife. But you didn’t have any right to beat her.”

Surprisingly, his look went far away, then came back as he poured more drinks. “Yes, I used to think I had that right,” he said. “Perhaps not. What about you?” he asked.

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“Would you marry a wealthy Russian man, a former gangster, and be the smart, rich wife of a Swiss farmer? Marry me and I will retire and grow cheese.” His eyes twinkled in a devious way. “You would be Madame de la Gruyere, and I would make many babies with you.”

She smiled grudgingly. “Is this part of your plan to seduce me tonight?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Or is it the vodka talking?”

“Either way, your plan isn’t working.”

“Shame on me. I must try harder.”

“I’ve already found the man I want to marry,” she said.

“See, I was right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You’re very smart.”

The music was blasting, then came to a halt. An a

She was about twenty, slim and feline. She had legs that wouldn’t stop. Her voice was husky but smooth and velvety. She sang beautifully. Great to look at, great to listen to. She took a microphone and launched into a series of Tina Turner songs from the seventies and eighties. She performed from a stage that was elevated about three feet above the club floor.

Alex took her to be Estonian or Latvian, judging by the blond hair and cheekbones, though she worked under a French name. Yvo

Federov watched Yvo

“Really? For how long?” she asked. “A week?”

“One night,” he said. It didn’t sound like a joke.

Alex had never heard soul music sung by a six-foot blonde in a silver-blue mini before. But in the old Soviet republics, she well knew, anything was possible. Believe nothing that you hear and only half of what you see.

Yvo

Alex sca

Yuri forced another vodka on her. She got through half of it before she realized she was flying. For a moment she wondered again if the drinks were spiked, but she equally realized that they were all drinking from the same bottle. Yuri knocked back a third and a fourth shot. So did Sergei.

Alex cautioned herself. No more booze. She tried to make conversation, her mind rambling all the way back to the FBI dossier that she had read on Federov, and the warnings about him personally.

“Now we dance,” Federov said.

“Oh no! Oh no,” she protested.

“Oh yes!” he said, standing. He gave her an amazingly handsome smile.

“No,” she said.

“Please,” he begged.

“One dance, in exchange for answers to some questions,” she bargained.

“Dance first,” he said.

Several seconds pounded past her. The vodka loosened her inhibitions and wore down her reserve.

“All right,” she said.

Federov took Alex by the hand and pulled her out onto the floor. The singer on stage moved quickly from Tina Turner to Whitney Houston and the next thing Alex knew she was breathlessly being swung around to the tune of “I Wa

The song came to an end. Applause filled the room. The singer took a break, excusing herself in Russian, French, and English. Alex wobbled while Federov led her back to the table. He held her arm supportively as she slid into her seat.

She was sweating, not from nerves now, but exertion.

“See?” he said. “I’m not such a monster, hey?” he asked.

“I’ll need more convincing than just a good tumble around a dance floor,” she said.

“What else do you need?”

He poured two double shots of vodka. He knocked back his; she didn’t dare touch hers. Meanwhile, Sergei and A

“What do you sell to the North Koreans?” Alex finally asked.

“What?”

“Pepsi-Cola or Playboy?” she asked, continuing Cerny’s facetious comment of two weeks earlier. “Park Enterprises,” she said, recalling the dossier. “What’s that all about?”

He smiled. “Like much of what is in your files about me, this is not accurate,” he said. “The government does business with Park, not me. As for Playboy, I would only want a copy if you were in it.”

“You’re much too fresh with too many drinks,” she said.

“So if I’m fresh, slap me, hey?” he said.

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m not going to give you an excuse to hit me back.”

“I won’t hit you back,” he said with a gracious smile. “Slap me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

She started to laugh, her head spi

“There,” she said.

He shook his head. “That wouldn’t have broken the shell on an egg,” he said. “Do it for real.”

She hesitated, then, buoyed by the vodka, impulsively proceeded. She whacked him one at three quarters strength, hard enough to make some noise, hard enough to be heard at the adjoining table. People who saw it stopped talking and gazed with horror at how Federov, probably the most feared man in the place, would react.

With half a grimace and half a smile, Federov’s mouth formed a perfect “O” for a second or two. His hand patted his cheek. He shook his head and laughed heartily. For a moment that was frozen in time, Alex looked at him in panic, thinking she had overstepped or blundered into a trap.

But he reached to her with his powerful arm and hugged her in congratulations. Then he removed his arm. His expression told everyone around that all this was in great fun, there would be no problems, no violence.

“I’ve never allowed a woman to slap me in public and get away with it,” he said. “You are the first.”

“And why is that?” she asked. “Why am I so privileged?”

“Because I say so,” he said. “That’s the only reason that would matter.”

Then they both laughed. The whole table was laughing now. More vodka went around. By now, almost everyone was flying. A

Several minutes went by. The sound system kept the place at a high decibel level. Two traditional Ukrainian hits: “Summer of Sixty Nine” and “The Wall”. Bryan Adams and Pink Floyd. Glasnost on steroids. Yuri turned back to Alex who by now had moved onto some chicken dumplings, which were, like the live entertainment, better than they had any right to be.