The Russian Woman

Chapter 27

The next evening Stepanov sent his car to pick her up. Anya had been thinking all day about what she was going to do when Stepanov propositioned her, but when she got into the limousine she still hadn't decided. She could give in to his demands, and watch her career flourish. She could refuse him, and find herself in a meaningless job somewhere far away where she couldn't embarrass him, her career over.

It was the way things worked in Russia. Maybe it was the way things worked everywhere. She was a woman working in an organization run by men who were used to getting their way. Up until now, she'd been successful in fending off those who saw her as sexual prey, but Stepanov wasn't in the same category as the rest of them. He was far too powerful to ignore or evade.

The knowledge that she wasn't the first woman forced to choose between virtue and safety brought no comfort.

Stepanov had an apartment on the top floor of a building on Ostozhenka Street, near the Prechistenskaya Embankment. Ostozhenka Street was one of the most expensive streets in the world. Only the elite could afford to live here, the powerbrokers of the Federation. It wasn't Stepanov's primary residence. That was out in the same neighborhood as the oligarchs and the president, where his wife was under twenty-four- hour care in their Rublevka mansion. The Moscow apartment was convenient to work and to the Kremlin.

It was also convenient for conducting an affair.

Stepanov's driver rode up with her in the elevator and escorted her to the door. He knocked twice. Anya heard the lock release. The driver opened the door.

"Please, Colonel. Go right in. The general is expecting you."

Really? I never would have guessed.

"Thank you," Anya said.

Anya stepped inside and looked around. In spite of herself, she was impressed.

The ceilings were fourteen feet high, the floors made of polished stone. Everything was decorator coordinated in white and black. A wide coffee table of black marble rested in front of a long, sectional couch covered in soft white leather. A huge television screen dominated the wall across from the couch. Recessed overhead lights and a modern chandelier illuminated the room. Paintings of quality decorated the wall. That surprised her. She hadn't expected Stepanov to have a taste for art.

A white piano stood near a row of windows facing out over the street below. They were covered with white damask drapes.

Stepanov came into the room. He'd dressed in a gleaming white shirt open at the collar, loose black slacks and black loafers. Anya guessed the casual outfit had cost thousands of rubles.

She thought of a proverb her mother was fond of repeating

The Devil lives in a beautiful mansion.

"Welcome, Colonel. I am pleased you could join me this evening. Perhaps a drink to begin? A glass of wine? Vodka?"

"Wine, sir, thank you."

"We are not at work, Colonel. Let's dispense with the formalities. May I call you Anya? And please, call me Yuri."

"Of course, sir...Yuri."

Stepanov walked over to a bar at the side of the room and took a bottle of red wine from a rack. Anya couldn't help but think that most of her apartment would fit within this one room.

"This is a particularly fine vintage," Stepanov said. "A Château Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. Very smooth. I'm sure you'll like it."

He opened the bottle and picked up two glasses.

"You have a beautiful apartment...Yuri."

"Thank you. Yes, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. The building is almost new. The developer was in financial difficulties, and I was able to secure this top floor for a good price. The floor below me is still unoccupied, though I expect it will be gone soon."

"You have the entire top floor?"

"Yes. It's extremely private and quiet. I find it quite relaxing after a day at the ministry. Come, let's go into the other room."

She followed him into a sitting room. Comfortable chairs were placed around a low table burdened with artfully arranged dishes of food.

Anya was worried about how the evening would turn out. She had tried to formulate a plan, but the only thing she could think of was to try and get him drunk. Drunk enough that sex was out of the question. She'd stroke his ego, and hope that would be all she'd have to stroke. When he got around to propositioning her, she still didn't know what she was going to say or do.

"How did you manage such a feast?"

"I have a good chef," Stepanov said.

Flatter him.

"I think a man's servants reflect the quality of the man," she said.

Stepanov laughed.

"Do you? Well, perhaps you're right."

He poured the wine and handed her a glass. She swirled the wine in her class and breathed in the aroma, then took a sip. There was no need to pretend what she thought about it.

"This is wonderful," she said.

"Drink up, there's more where that came from."

Stepanov picked up a remote lying on the table and pressed a button. Soft music filled the room. A second touch on the remote dimmed the lights.

"Anya, I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

I'll bet you do.

She drank some wine, waiting.

"You know about my wife, yes?"

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry she is ill."

"I enjoyed having you attend the party with me at Korosov's home the other evening. I confess I have little love for events like that, but it is an obligation of my position. My proposal is simple. I would like you to accompany me in the future when I am required at social functions."

"I would be happy to go with you, General."

"Yuri, please."

"Yuri."

"From time to time I may require other...duties. In return, I can guarantee your advancement to higher rank."

Anya had no doubt what those other duties would entail. He wasn't guaranteeing promotion because he wanted her to escort him to public events.

"You're an experienced woman, Anya. I don't want to insult your intelligence by pretending that our relationship would be anything but one of convenience. There are obvious benefits to both of us."

"Such an arrangement would compromise my authority at work," Anya said.

Stepanov smiled.

"I am pleased to see that you do not make a pretense of false modesty. We both know my patronage can take you far in your career. You would continue in your present job for now, but my intention is to move you into Central Planning."

"Central planning? What would I be doing?"

"Supervising a larger picture of operations than your current position. Your organizational skills will be a good fit there. You will have more responsibility, and it will require promotion to higher rank. No one will question your authority. To do that would be to question mine. There are few who would dare."

He smiled again, a smile of raw power that sent a quick shiver along her spine.

"And if I found such an...arrangement...uncomfortable?"

"My dear Anya, I'm sure I don't need to point out that such a decision might have consequences for your career."

"I see."

"Let's have some food," he said. "Try the caviar."

Anya loved the classic movies of the Italian directors. Sitting here with him, she felt like a character in a film by Fellini. She was surrounded by the trappings of wealth. She was drinking Stepanov's wine, eating his food. It was all very civilized. Beneath the surface civility Stepanov displayed, she knew he'd crush her like a bug if she refused him.

Grigori was dead because of this man and his cronies. The thought triggered anger, sending blood rushing to her face. She turned away before he could see it.

They finished eating and went back into the living room to sit on the couch. Anya was on her third glass of wine. Stepanov had switched to vodka.

"Do we have an agreement, Anya?"

They are leading us into disaster. I have to find a way to stop them. But how?

Stepanov drank and watched her, waiting to see what she would decide.

If I give in to him, it will bring their secrets close. If I refuse, he will send me away. Then I can do nothing. God forgive me, but if sex is the price I must pay, I will do it.

She took a breath.

"Yes, Yuri. We have an agreement."

"I knew you would understand," he said.

He reached over and kissed her, probing her mouth with his tongue. She could smell his sweat under his cologne. He tasted of vodka and caviar.

A phone rang.

"Damn it," Stepanov said. "I told them no calls."

He stood, walked over to a sideboard and picked up the phone.

"Da."

He listened. "Da, khorosho."

He set the phone down and turned to Anya.

"I'm sorry, my dear. We'll have to continue another time. My presence is required at the Ministry. My driver will take you home."

She was careful not to show her feelings of relief.