Declare

Neglinaya boulevard. “Moroz is probably dead, by now,” he said, still speaking in French. “The NKVD has learned about your Palestinian lover in Paris.” He laughed and shook his head. “A Palestinian radio operator! You would be food for Zat al-Dawahi yourself if we hadn’t been tracking you closely. Moroz planned to send you to Berlin?”
    “Who are you?” Elena demanded. “Hiding me from the NKVD—you’re not Russians!”
    The driver turned his head around to look at her, and she quailed. Under a wool cap his hairless face was pure Cossack, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. “We are the oldest Russians,” he said harshly in barbarous French, before turning back to the street ahead. “Our organization was old before Lenin returned to Petrograd from his Swiss exile in 1917,” he went on, “and Lenin blessed us and committed into our hands the protection of Russia.”
    “The secret protection,” agreed her escort. “Stalin and his NKVD hate the measures we take, and so we protect the motherland while hiding in foxes’ earths that are secret even to the secret service, true to the old covenant. Andre Marty noted you, in Spain, and would have killed you as soon as he didn’t need your wireless telegraphy skills any longer, if we hadn’t used the GRU to summon you out of Madrid. Marty wrote a report to the NKVD, in which he said you were particularly dangerous—you were baptized but nevertheless sensitive to the most-secret world, and you were nearly virgin, still, in ’36.” The word he used was vierge , a term often used in speaking of unexposed photographic film.
    “I was a virgin then!” protested Elena; and a moment later she could feel herself blushing.
    “A virgin in the sense of not having killed anyone,” her escort explained. “Marty said you had shot a Nationalist soldier, but it was before you had reached puberty, and we think you have probably killed no one else since, and never anyone up close. A soul’s first few bloody murders have a sacramental power that must not be spent promiscuously.”
    “We were at war,” said Elena now. “It was not a murder!”
    The man shrugged impatiently. “Killing, execution, riposte, establishment of truth. We don’t want you wasting any more of your baptized sanctity until you can spend it effectively.” He looked away from her, out the window at the old women sweeping snow from the sidewalks. “And not in Berlin.”
    These are Russians, she told herself; and they apparently want me to perform an assassination. She remembered her sleepless night after shooting the Nationalist soldier at the Sierra de Guadalarrama pass, but she took a deep breath and said, “I am at the command of the Party.”
    “The Politburo consigns you to us with her left hand,” dryly said the man she had danced with. “Our headquarters is in the Commissariat for Foreign Affairs on the Kuznetsky Bridge, where we still operate out of the Spets Otdel, the Special Department, of the NKVD. They don’t quite know who we are, and our very presence in so secret an institution forbids them to inquire.”
    Elena never saw her flat on the Izvoznia Ulitza again—she was quartered now in a single-story log cabin in one of the “Alsatias” down at the southwestern bend of the Moskva River, by the Lenin Stadium. The Alsatias were rookeries dating from before the Revolution, tangles of old streets and open sewers that had been slated for leveling and reconstruction before the war had intervened. The Alsatias were a perfect sanctuary for “hooligans”—criminals and deserters—and in fact a fugitive division of Azerbaijan troops had lately taken up residence in Elena’s neighborhood, and frequently could be heard firing their Army-issue rifles at the cavalry patrols who enforced the midnight-to-five curfew. Elena’s roommates were Betsy, an American-Armenian woman who, lured by the promise of a farm of her own in a new Armenia, had moved from New Jersey to Moscow in 1935 and irretrievably surrendered her American passport, and Pavel, a Roman Catholic priest who was generally too drunk to speak. Elena gathered that they were all working for the same unnamed agency, but it was never discussed.
    The man who had danced with her at the Metropol told her his name was Utechin, and he led her with cheery confidence through the mazes of the Soviet secret world. As his secretary, she went with him to the offices of various commissars and ministers, always having to