The Russian Woman

Chapter 11

It was the end of the working day in Moscow. Anya Volkova was putting the finishing touches on her latest report to General Stepanov. She'd made sure Stepanov had been kept current on EAGLE, as he'd requested. For the moment, she'd put aside her doubts about the operation and what it might mean for the future.

It hadn't been easy, but she'd managed to ensure an unimpeded stream of supplies moving through the pipeline to Syria. It had been a major challenge to ship the enormous quantity of things needed in the field, getting them stockpiled and ready to load as space became available in the transports.

Her first priority had been getting all the materials needed to construct the base delivered in the right amounts at the right time. She'd had to solve the problem of how much fuel would be needed for all the various needs and where it would come from. There were requirements for the combat brigades, the engineers, and supporting aircraft.

Then she'd had to estimate what would be needed once EAGLE got underway. Anya researched historical operations, factored in an increase, then added twenty percent. The surest way to demotion and disgrace was for the tanks and armored carriers to run out of fuel when the troops were engaged in the field. The drain on national resources was going to create civilian shortages, but there was nothing she could do about that.

She figured out how the fuel would be transported and stored. At that point she ran into a major problem. The bureaucrats who oversaw the daily production and distribution of aviation fuel, gasoline, and diesel in the Federation had resisted diverting the large amounts required from domestic and foreign consumption. That had been the only time she'd been forced to go to Stepanov and ask him to assert his authority.

That had solved the problem.

She signed the report. A tap on her computer keyboard sent it upstairs. It was almost time to quit for the day.

Her phone rang.

"Lieutenant Colonel Volkova."

"Colonel, General Stepanov requires your presence."

Major Petrov's voice was an unwelcome intrusion.

"Very well. I'm on my way." She disconnected.

Now what?

As she rode the elevator up to the top floor, she went over everything in her mind. Had she forgotten some critical element? Had there been a complaint from Syria? Had something happened? Had someone interfered with her carefully orchestrated plans? Why else would Stepanov want to see her this late in the day?

As usual, Major Petrov was waiting when she stepped out of the elevator.

"Follow me, please, Colonel."

They came to the double doors of Stepanov's office. Petrov knocked and opened the door.

"Lieutenant Colonel Volkova, sir."

Petrov stood aside and watched her enter. Anya felt his eyes on her. She'd be damned if she'd give him the satisfaction of turning around to give him one of her withering looks.

Pointing to a chair to the side of his desk, Stepanov said, "Take a seat, Colonel."

"Yes, sir."

She sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, at attention.

"At ease, Colonel. Relax. You're not here to be reprimanded."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Anya softened her stiff posture, a little.

"I have been paying close attention to reports on the status of EAGLE," Stepanov said. "I am pleased with your work."

Anya didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. General Stepanov was not known for handing out compliments.

"Thank you, sir."

Stepanov looked at his watch. "It's after working hours."

He opened a drawer on the side of his desk and took out a bottle of vodka with a green label and two glasses.

"Please, join me in a drink."

Anya's father had been a heavy drinker. It hadn't made her a fan of vodka, Russia's unofficial national beverage. But you didn't turn down the offer of a drink from one of the men who stood behind the presidential throne.

"Of course, sir. Thank you."

She took the proffered glass and raised it with his.

"To the success of our operation," Stepanov said.

Our operation?

"Success," Anya said.

They drank. The liquid was smooth and fiery at the same time.

He refilled his glass and held the bottle out toward her.

"Another, Colonel."

It wasn't a question. The ability to drink vodka in Russia was a national strength and a national curse. Anya had learned long ago how to hold her liquor. It was part of the game a woman had to play to show she belonged in the masculine culture of the Army. She watched him fill the glass, wondering if he was testing her, wondering if she was expected to match him drink for drink. She would never be able to do it. She could already feel the effects of the first one.

Thankfully, Stepanov settled back in his chair and sipped from his glass instead of throwing it back all at once.

"Tell me, Colonel, do you enjoy your work?"

"Yes, sir, I do. It provides satisfaction when things go as they should."

"And when they don't?"

"Then I try to improve my understanding of the problem so that it won't happen again."

Stepanov nodded. "That is a sensible approach, the approach of a leader. No one leads without making mistakes. Are you comfortable with the added responsibility this assignment has brought to you?"

"I wouldn't say I was comfortable, sir. It's much too complex for comfort. I would say that I feel challenged, in a good way."

"An honest answer. Had you said you were comfortable, I would have wondered if I had made a mistake by giving it to you."

"You haven't made a mistake, sir. I can handle this."

Stepanov changed the subject.

"I've been invited to a gathering of a few friends tomorrow evening. I would like you to attend with me as my guest. Dress is civilian casual, but elegant. Not formal. My car will pick you up at eight."

Stepanov hadn't asked whether or not she wanted to go. Anya knew she had no choice.

"Yes, sir. I'd be honored."

"Good, good."

He rose and held up his glass one more time. Anya rose with him.

"To the Rodina."

"The Rodina."

The intercom on Stepanov's desk had been left open. Outside the closed doors of the office, Major Petrov listened to the conversation.

The dirty old bastard. He's making a move on her. He's at least twenty years older than she is. This will look good in my report.

As the door to the office opened, Petrov turned off the intercom. Anya walked past without looking at him.

You will wish you had been nice to me, Volkova.

Petrov worked for Russian military intelligence, the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. The GRU had been around since the days of World War II. Many things had changed since Stalin was in charge, but not the paranoia of the government regarding security and its military. The GRU was as powerful and pervasive in its own right as the better-known security organs of the SVR and FSB.

Petrov's position meant there was little he didn't know about Stepanov. If he started sleeping with Volkova, it might provide an opportunity to get even with the snotty bitch. In any event, his superiors would be pleased. Sexual affairs always provided opportunities for asserting pressure, if pressure was needed. Smiling to himself, he began composing the report in his mind.

Going down in the elevator, Anya felt the vodka working, wondering what she was getting into. It could be innocent enough. Stepanov was married, but his wife was ill and never seen in public. Certainly there were times when social occasions would be easier if he had an attractive woman with him.

Anya knew she was attractive. She had a good body, she kept in shape. There was something about her face, her intense eyes, her high cheekbones, that drew men like bees to honey.

The Army wasn't an easy place for women. It was still a masculine society. There was a lot of lip service paid to the equal role of the women and men who served in the military, but the reality was far different. During her training to become an officer she'd been subject to harassment, crude sexual advances, efforts to sabotage her performance, even physical threats. It hadn't tapered off until she'd finished her final year of training. Even now, she still had to deal with people like Petrov.

She understood why men were attracted to her, but she'd never really understood why some men felt threatened by her presence. It was easy to dismiss them as insecure or angry at rejection, or to explain their behavior by saying it was because she was a woman who stood up for herself. But that reasoning seemed too simplistic to her. It felt like something more fundamental. Something atavistic, primal, something that went back to the caves. A need to dominate and control that had nothing to do with who she was, but had everything to do with her sex.

She thought about Stepanov's invitation. It was possible he had no ulterior motives, but she doubted it. She'd picked up on the desire hiding behind the invitation. If he wanted to bed her and she turned him down, there would be consequences. Stepanov was a man used to getting his own way. He wouldn't take rejection gracefully.

She decided to push her concerns away. She was doing that a lot, lately.

Time enough to deal with the devil when he offered something for her soul.

*****

It was past the end of the workday. Petrov waited for Stepanov to leave. He couldn't go home until Stepanov dismissed him. Somehow it never occurred to the general that his aide might have things to do. Finally the office doors opened and Stepanov emerged, carrying his leather briefcase. Petrov knew it was full of files, most of them classified. It was against regulations to take files home from the ministry. Even Stepanov was not exempt.

Not that he gives a shit, Petrov thought. No one's going to stop him from doing whatever he wants.

Petrov stood and came to attention.

"That will be all, Major," Stepanov said. "You can go home now."

"Yes, sir."

"I need to get an early start tomorrow. Be here at 0600."

"Yes, sir, 0600."

Bastard.

"Good night, Petrov."

"Good night, sir."

The outer door closed behind him. Taking classified files home was only one of Stepanov's breaches of security. Sometimes Petrov wondered how the man had ever reached his high position.

Petrov got up and went into the office. One of his tasks was to make sure everything was secure at the end of the day. More than once, he'd found papers left out on Stepanov's desk that needed to be locked up in the safe. He always reported these errors to his real boss, Colonel Ivanov.

So far, Stepanov hadn't done anything serious enough to bring leverage against him. But the GRU was patient. One day, there would be something.

Petrov was sure of it.