Airports all look the same. That’s what my dad used to tell me, when he returned from a business trip. But Moscow was utterly, terrifyingly alien.
There was something in the air, as soon as I stepped outside the terminal building. It felt harsh against my lips, as if they were being scoured. It wasn’t just the cold, although it was snowing and a long way below freezing. It was the rawness of the air. It made the air back home seem warm and perfumed and soft as satin.
Behind me, the terminal building was like a long, green bottle on its side, all clean lines and elegant curves. Beautiful, but uncompromising. And on top of it, in huge metal letters, a sign in Cyrillic that looked straight out of the Cold War. I spent all day listening to Russian, back home, but to see the unfamiliar letters was still a shock. Your brain gets used to the alphabet, ever since you were a kid watching Sesame Street. Stumbling over letters again is like suddenly forgetting how to swim.
I hadn’t been ready for customs, either. It wasn’t that it had taken a long time, or that they’d asked all that many questions. It was just something in the look the officer had given me, the way he’d almost flung my passport back to me. Travelling from the US to Mexico or Canada—the only other countries I’d ever been to—I’d always felt welcome, or at least accepted. Here, I was tolerated.
Maybe it was the jet lag but, when I climbed into a cab and heard Russian pop music on the radio, I almost wanted to weep. I just longed for something familiar.
Pull yourself together! You wanted this! I asked the driver to take me to my hotel and we set off.
I couldn’t wear an earpiece because, if things went well—my heart missed a beat—Luka would be getting close enough that he’d spot it. I could call Adam on the brand-new cell phone they’d given me, but even then the presumption was that the authorities might be intercepting foreigners’ calls. I’d have to pretend Adam was my dad.
I’d never, in my whole life, felt so alone. There was a big part of me that wanted to tell the driver to turn around and take me back to the airport, then get the next plane home and quit the CIA. Get a normal job where I didn’t have to lie to everyone I met.
But then I’d never see him again.
***
My reunion with Luka was meant to be accidental, so it had to be thoroughly planned.
We knew he had a thing for ice hockey—one of his few indulgences beyond women. He’d played, when he was in his teens, and in the winter he still liked to smack a puck around each weekend at Gorky Park.
Gorky Park is the Russian equivalent of Central Park. In the summer, it’s full of joggers and couples pushing baby strollers. But each winter, all of the paths are deliberately iced over to create Europe’s biggest ice rink. You can skate around the entire park on the paths, or there’s a separate area for dancing and another for ice hockey.
Our agents in Moscow had reported that Luka usually showed up early, before his friends, and hung around near the ice hockey rink, watching the skaters. The idea was that I’d be skating and he’d see me and approach. I’d tell him how I was on vacation, starting off in Moscow before maybe taking in Rome, Paris and Venice. The team at Langley had carefully set me up with an itinerary that would give him a sense of urgency—I’m only in Moscow for a few days—while also leaving the door open for something to happen—but my tickets are flexible…
It was brilliant and ridiculous. Would he believe it was just a coincidence? My heart started thumping. Would he want to believe enough that he’d buy it?
And there was another problem: I can’t ice skate. I mean, I might be able to stumble around with some friends, all holding hands, and the falling over would be part of the fun. But who goes to an ice rink on vacation on their own when they can’t skate? I was going to look like the world’s most stubborn woman. I bet Elena and Natalia and Svetlana could skate. During my briefing, I’d seen some long-lens photos of Luka with his last few girlfriends, finally putting faces to the voices I’d listened to for months. All of the women had been just as gorgeous and slender and blonde as I’d feared. Why the hell is he interested in me?!
I knew that, somewhere in the crowd, a local CIA agent would be keeping an eye on me and reporting back to Adam. But they wouldn’t intervene unless things looked like they were going drastically wrong. I was basically on my own.
I went down on my ass for the fiftieth time. My hired skates were too tight, my jeans were soaked through, and my fingers were numb, even in gloves. I had no idea if Luka was watching me, or if he was even there. What if he doesn’t recognize me? I had a woolen hat pulled tight over my ears and was cocooned in a thick coat. It was a long way from a dress and heels.
I stumbled towards a bench and clutched at it for support, panting. What if he doesn’t show up at all?
I decided to give it one more try. I pushed off from the side, dodged a family who were all skating together and nearly collided with a young couple. Veering away from them sent me into a skittering mess, my arms circling desperately as I fought for balance, and then I went down—
Strong hands caught me under my armpits, just before I hit the ice.
I got my feet under me, blew my hair out of my face and tried to compose myself. I could feel him behind me. My chest was suddenly light with relief and a warm glow was spreading through me from where he was touching me. Look surprised. Look surprised. Should I pretend I don’t recognize him? No, that’s too much. Look surprised—
I turned and looked at him.
It wasn’t Luka.
“...hi,” I said. It was all I could think of.
The guy grinned. He was about my age and had sandy-colored hair that fell in tangled curls. “Hi!” he said enthusiastically. “American?” His accent wasn’t nearly as strong as Luka’s.
“Yes.”
“It’s cold here, yes? Want to get coffee?” He nodded to the side. A little way down the path, there were stalls set up selling tea and coffee, and you could skate right up to the counter. He was cute, in a rosy-cheeked, farm boy sort of a way.
An arm clapped around my waist and spun me around. I’d forgotten, for a second, that I was still balanced on a couple of metal blades and I nearly fell, but the arm tightened and held me.
I looked up into Luka’s eyes.
“Hey,” said the other guy. He sounded halfway between angry and friendly, as if he wasn’t sure which would get the best result.
Luka glanced at him over my shoulder. My stomach plummeted about a thousand floors and then exploded into a deep, dark heat. The look said she’s mine.
I heard the other guy skate away.
I remembered that I was meant to be acting surprised, but the whole thing had happened so fast that I didn’t have to act. I just stood there, my back resting against Luka’s muscled arm, and blinked up at him. Up being the operative word—I’d almost forgotten how big he was.
“You don’t need to go for coffee with him,” said Luka. “You are coming to lunch with me.”