Mirror Image

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"I think they forgot all about us."

Private George was amused by the thought as he drove toward the Hermitage, negotiating the tricky turns he had to make after crossing the Moika River. He stayed to the right of the Bronze Horseman, then turned right on Gogolya Street and made his way toward the adjoining Palace Square.

Peggy had shut off the radio after Orlov and Paul Hood had switched satellites and it became clear that no one else was coming on the line. After leaving their shaken but grateful passenger off, she and George decided to continue on to the Hermitage, where they could leave the car, lose themselves in the crowd, and get their bearings before undertaking the second part of their mission.

"I mean, that's kinda rude, don't you think? We travel like watery walnuts a couple thousand miles, do the job, and no one bothers to get back on the line and say, 'By the way, guys-nice work.' "

"Did you come here for their approval?" Peggy asked.

"No. But it's nice to get it."

"Don't worry," Peggy said. "I have a feeling that before we're out of here, you'll crave anonymity."

As the white columns of the Hermitage came into view, growing amber in the late afternoon light, George could hear and then see the army of workers that Captain Rydman had warned them about.

He shook his head. "Who'd've ever thought it?"

Peggy said, "Probably the last time anyone protested here was when it was still called the Winter Palace and Nicholas II's itchy guards gunned the workers down."

"It's scary," George said, "that there are people who want to bring the iron heel back."

"Which is why I don't mind not getting thanked," Peggy said. "It's fear keeps us going, not a pat on the rump. Vigilance is its own reward. That's how Keith felt."

George looked at her in the rearview mirror. There wasn't a hint of nostalgia in her voice for her dead lover, nor did he see the loss in her eyes. Maybe she was one of those people who didn't cry in public, or perhaps not at all. He wondered how she would react when they reached the building where Keith had died.

There were at least three thousand people scattered across the large checkerboard of the Palace Square. They were facing a low stage and podium that had been erected in front of the General Staff Arch. Police were directing traffic away from the square, and Peggy told Private George to pull over before they reached them. He parked next to an outdoor café with brown umbrellas over every table, each umbrella advertising a different brand of beer or wine.

"The marketers didn't waste any time coming here," he grunted disapprovingly to Peggy as they stood side by side.

"They never do," she replied, then noticed that one of the police officers was looking at them.

George noticed him too. "They'll ID the car," he said.

"They won't expect us to stay in the area, though," Peggy said. "As far as they know, we've completed our mission."

"Don't you think our friend Ronash has already given them physical descriptions which are being faxed all over St. Petersburg?"

"Not quite yet," she said. "But we do have to get out of these uniforms anyway if we're going to leave as tourists." Peggy checked her watch. "We've got to meet Volko in an hour and ten minutes. I suggest we go inside. If we get stopped on the way I'll tell them we're from the Admiralty, which is a block to the east. I'll say we're just watching to make sure the crowd doesn't spill over. Once we're inside, we'll change, pose as a young couple in love, and make our way to the Raphael."

"Finally, a masquerade I can relate to," George said as they started toward the square.

"Don't like it too much," Peggy said. "We're going to have a little spat inside so I can stalk off and strike a conversation with Volko.

George grinned. "I'm married. I can relate to that too." The grin broadened. "Strikers among strikers," he whispered. "I like the irony."

Peggy didn't return his smile as they went around the fringes of the crowd in the Palace Square. George wondered if she'd even heard him as she looked at the orderly mob, at the sculptural grouping over the General Staff Arch, at her feet— anywhere but the Hermitage itself and the river beyond, on whose banks Keith Fields-Hutton had died. He thought he saw dampness in the corners of her eyes and a heaviness in her step that he had not seen before.

And he finally, happily, felt close to the person he had been sitting beside, hip-to-hip, for them better part of a day.