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She flashed a brilliant smile.

“Come on now, how many people here agree with me that Piotr is of a new generation. He’s our hope. He needs to teach those old guys,” she concluded, looking directly at Rudzhin.

It was a classy performance. She had gotten everybody to agree that the government was paranoid while lauding Piotr Rudzhin as one of the few exceptions.

Daniel Uggin leaned over toward Dariya. He was amused to find himself a little nervous about talking to such a powerfully beautiful woman.

“Do you always have such strong opinions?”

She smiled.

“I’m a Russian woman. I’m genetically programmed to have strong opinions.”

Dariya’s tiff with Rudzhin and her quick answer about Russian women impressed him. Laughing at her joke, he looked at his surroundings. Just a few years earlier, the possibility of an evening like this would never have occurred to him—the GQ Bar, the flashing smile of a beautiful model, the elegant Muscovites. It was all still so new.

Yes, the past eighteen months had brought deep transformations. In just over a year and a half, he had become a very different man.

MOSCOW
AUGUST 4, 1:00 A.M.
THE GQ BAR

Uggin felt a shake on his shoulder.

“Daniel…Daniel, we’re leaving,” said Piotr Rudzhin with a laugh. “What the hell were you thinking so seriously about?”

Daniel Uggin was jolted back to attention, wondering how long his thoughts had wandered away. He smiled sheepishly as he found the group already standing up. Except for Dariya.

“Where are you going so early?” Uggin asked with a grin. He tried to change the subject away from his daydreaming.

“There’s still a long week ahead. And I’ve got an eight
A.M.
meeting at the ministry. Nina is off to St. Petersburg, and you, my friend, have an important lunch tomorrow. I guess you’re the only one who can sleep late.”

As Uggin rose from his chair, Rudzhin enveloped his friend in a huge bearlike embrace and whispered a quick, “See you tomorrow.” It was followed by a quiet admonition. “Get there early, Daniel. You don’t want to be late; this will be an important meeting.”

“I don’t have to work tomorrow,” Dariya whined, still frozen in her chair. In mock protest, she was the only one who had not gotten up. “Why does everybody have to leave?”

With a great show of feigned sadness, the model began to gather her things.

Suddenly, Daniel Uggin heard himself speak, but he did not know where the voice came from. He recognized it as his own. It was forming involuntary words that he did not mean to utter.

“Dariya, I’m not going anywhere. My room is a two-minute commute to the hotel. And my first meeting tomorrow is only at lunch-time. So if you don’t mind having me alone, I’d be honored to buy you a last drink.”

“Yes, yes.” Dariya was beaming a smile. She looked at the departing group with mock seriousness. “You see, this is a gentleman. These days, you have to go all the way to Kursk to find some manners in Russia.”

They spent the next hour together seated on a plush sofa. With the barely audible ripple of the Moskva’s waters just under them, they talked easily about her career, her travels, and her modeling shoots. He told her about his Kursk youth with Rudzhin. Dariya’s conversation was surprisingly relaxed; it had none of the tension that many non-Muscovites found typical of the city’s residents.

The few truly beautiful women Daniel had met in the past months commuting to the capital were like a flash of searing light. The heat of their beauty was magnetic, but it repelled any proximity. Not Dariya. Her bright personality was like a landing beacon. She was accessible, her smile welcoming. There was nothing hidden. No pretense of mysteriousness.

She curled her legs on the plush sofa and swiveled her body toward him. She held her chin in her palm, her blond hair and blue eyes reflecting the light of her effervescent smile.

“You’re a nice man, Daniel Uggin. It’s lovely to meet somebody who doesn’t feel that humanity has to bow in respect as you pass. The problem with these rich and powerful guys in Moscow is that they expect the world to serve them.”

As she said the words, her hand left her chin and slid over his palm. Lightly. Just barely touching. He felt his heartbeat accelerate.

She was looking into his eyes. He felt her hand sweeping again over his. His skin tingled.

Dariya leaned over and kissed him—just barely. On the cheeks.

“Yes, you are a sweet man. You are not even sure what to do when a girl tries to seduce you,” she said, her smile crashing all barriers.

Uggin could not say anything. She giggled.

“Okay, Daniel Uggin, I’ll do all the work. I want to stay here. With you. All night. Tonight.”

They walked the half block to the Baltschug Kempinski, into the
Art Deco elevator and then down the corridor to his ninth-floor suite. What ensued was one of the most beautiful nights Uggin had ever spent with a woman. It was long and sweet and loving. It went slowly. They undressed each other deliberately. Each article of clothing came off gradually, the unhurried pace heightening the need to belong to each other.

She put him on his stomach and kissed every part of his body. Slow, languid kisses that made him feel as if this woman belonged only to him. His back. His buttocks. In between his thighs. Her tongue went to his ankles and then to the soles of his feet, ending in between his toes.

They made love four or five times. Each time ended in heightened levels of tenderness. And each time they wanted more. There were no demanding bursts or any panting violence. Their two bodies relished the slow rhythm of their loving.

In the morning, Daniel ordered a room-service breakfast of waffles with cinnamon sugar, cappuccino, and orange juice. It came on silver platters resting on white linen. The waiter set the round table for them.

“Is it too much for me to ask you to call me when you come back to Moscow?” Dariya said to him, sipping her coffee. She was dressed in a plush white cotton bathrobe.

He hesitated for a split second. She caught the pause and held her hand up toward him in a gesture asking him to stop talking. Her free hand caressed his arm.

“Daniel, I’ve seen the ring on your finger. I won’t ask for anything. I don’t want you to feel you have to tell me anything. All I want to say is that we had something lovely together last night. If we promise not to ask each other questions, maybe we can have last night over again.”

Uggin smiled. He couldn’t resist her. A model of this caliber could easily have been arrogant and deceitful. Instead, she was caring and elegant.

She dressed, and after long, passionate kisses left Daniel alone.
On the way out, Dariya slipped a folded piece of paper into his business jacket, draped over the dresser chair.

“I want to see you again. I want you to understand that clearly. That is my telephone number,” Dariya said, pointing to his jacket as she receded into the hallway. Daniel lingered at his room’s door long after he heard the ding of the elevator around the corner. He felt strange. But he had no regrets.

Uggin finished dressing, went downstairs, and bought a newspaper. He needed to kill an hour before going to Zhironovsky’s lunch. Nestled in a hotel lobby easy chair, he tried to analyze what had happened the previous evening. But he was unsure of how to unwind the twisted confusion of his feelings. Daniel Uggin closed his eyes and decided that he wouldn’t make the effort. It had been wonderful. Enough said.

At about the exact time Uggin was relaxing with a newspaper in the hotel lobby, the cellular telephone of the deputy minister of the interior vibrated mercilessly. Piotr Rudzhin looked at the display on his Motorazr phone and his lips grimaced in disdain.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” said the high-pitched voice of Andrei, the Baltschug’s concierge. “I got it all on video.”

“Okay.”

“Jesus, they went at it until five-thirty this morning. I think it was six times. You’ve got to hand it to her; I don’t know how she does it. She figures out the target and what he wants. Then she acts out the part. Six hours later, the guy is in love. It’s amazing.”

“Amazing,” Rudzhin said, grunting his agreement. “Thanks for calling.”

Rudzhin flipped the phone to its closed position. He didn’t like what he had just done. And he hoped to God he wouldn’t have to use it.

Rudzhin shrugged his shoulders. There was no choice. A man in his position needed insurance.

MOSCOW
AUGUST 4, 12:50 P.M.
VOLGA GAZ HEADQUARTERS

Ten minutes before Daniel’s appointment, the car stopped in front of Volga Gaz’s twenty-four-story building on Paveletskaya Ploshchad, a posh square in Moscow’s business center. A pleasant-looking attendant waited outside to greet him, directing him to an elevator with the key turned to the off position pending his arrival.

Uggin was feeling good. All this attention was pleasant.

As the elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor, he was handed off to a well-dressed, officious-looking woman in her midfifties. She was slightly overweight and, notwithstanding a shy demeanor, was clearly in control of the chairman’s suites. She introduced herself as Gudrun Bashemov, one of Viktor Zhironovsky’s personal assistants. Daniel Uggin immediately picked up a familiar lilt in her spoken Russian.

“You and I have something in common, Mr. Uggin,” said Gudrun, identifying the recognition in his eyes. “You see, like your wife, I’m German. I was born in Berlin. I married a Russian and moved here fifteen years ago. Moscow has been wonderful to me.”

Gudrun flashed a sweet smile that was all welcome and caring. She showed him to a seat in the ultramodern waiting room. The room had a Zen-like feel. The walls were off-white, with no hangings. The furniture was a sleek combination of metals and dyed leathers from Ligne Roset in Paris. A number of large Persian rugs adorned the hardwood floor. A low glass coffee table with oversize books on Volga Gaz’s projects was centered in the middle of the collection of couches and love seats.

Gudrun was about to offer Daniel a coffee when the elevator doors opened and Piotr Rudzhin rushed out. He gave his friend a big embrace and looked quickly at Gudrun.

“Gudrun, can we go right in?”

Again, the sweet smile flashed on Gudrun’s pretty face.

“Of course, Piotr. Please be my guest.”

Uggin was impressed by Piotr’s clear intimacy with Zhironovsky’s office. Daniel had been aware that the two men worked together, but this was the first time Uggin had realized their level of close familiarity. He followed Rudzhin into a richly paneled office. A huge floor-to-ceiling glass window framed one entire end of the office. The view was breathtaking. The domes of the Kremlin and St. Basil’s Cathedral were in the glass’s dead center.

Next to the window was the chairman’s large steel-and-marble desk. Exquisitely lit paintings and sculptures dotted the room’s walls and shelves. An elegant sitting area—with leather couches in the same modern style as the outside waiting room—was already set up with small vodka glasses and tiny bite-size sandwiches. The fireplace, just a few feet to the left of the sitting area, was stacked with wood, awaiting winter.

It was August, but Daniel noticed the fireplace. He had never seen one in an office before.

Viktor Zhironovsky got up from behind his desk and slowly made his way to greet his visitors. Though overweight, the sixty-eight-year-old chairman’s step was agile. The few strands of white hair left on his balding head bounced freely as he kissed Piotr Rudzhin on both cheeks.

“Uggin, Rudzhin! Delighted to see both of you. Come, let’s have a drink before going to lunch,” Zhironovsky said, directing the group to the couches.

“Now, Uggin, I’ve heard this story of the two of you in school. How is it possible that you are still a friend of Piotr, after he led you on the seventh-grade stink-bomb mission that got both of you expelled? Your judgment concerns me, my boy. I wonder about your ability to choose friends.” Viktor Zhironovsky bellowed in laughter as he slapped Daniel on the back. The chairman’s nearly transparent blue eyes were dancing.

The three sat down and after a white-gloved waiter filled the vodka glasses, Zhironovsky immediately turned serious. The blue eyes lost their joviality and became impregnable.

“Now, before we go to lunch, I have a couple of things to say,” Zhironovsky announced, looking straight at Daniel. “Uggin, you have done an excellent job for us so far. Rudzhin recommended you for our Latin American plans, but—trust me—I did my own digging before accepting. And I found four qualities that interested me.”

Daniel was completely taken aback by Zhironovsky’s directness. He had expected to answer queries about his trip to Bolivia, not talk about himself.

“The first is that you are a childhood friend of Rudzhin’s. This is critical. One discovers quickly in politics that old friendships are irreplaceable.” Zhironovsky’s cold eyes zeroed in on his visitor. Daniel felt increasingly uncomfortable. So far, the chairman’s words were positive, yet he couldn’t help feeling that he was under intense scrutiny.

Uggin shook himself to attention as Zhironovsky kept the list going.

“Second, you are a mechanical engineer and have been a loyal employee of Volga Gaz for over thirteen years. You did your job when I gave you tough orders on the Ukrainian issue. I appreciated the loyalty then. I appreciate it now. Third, I found out that you come from an impressive military family that sacrificed for Russia—your father and grandfather were both high-ranking officers in the Red Army and, indeed, your grandfather died defending our Russian land in the First World War. Russian patriotism runs in your blood, my boy.”

Uggin wondered again where all this was going.

“Fourth, notwithstanding your family heritage, you’re a modern Russian. You speak English and German, you have traveled, and you have even married a foreigner.”

Daniel looked at Piotr, next to him. His arms were crossed, his face impassive. Uggin was completely taken aback by Zhironovsky’s
recitation of his family background. Not sure of what to say, Uggin opted for silence. Zhironovsky moved right on.