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Short-sleeve weather now, and Finns on the sidewalk waiting for the pedestrian light to change all had their faces turned to the sun, like sunflowers, eyes closed. The broad lawns and benches of Kaivopuisto were dotted with lunchtime secretaries sunbathing in their bras, chins up, drinking in the light.

The note was taped to his door, and Nate walked into Forsyth’s office and sat down. Gable was sitting on the couch. Forsyth handed him the short Headquarters cable announcing the availability of the new Director of the CIA, recently confirmed, to travel incognito from Copenhagen to Helsinki for six hours, for a controlled meet and greet with DIVA to express the Agency’s appreciation for her service so far. Nate looked up at Forsyth, and then over at Gable.

“How can he travel incognito?” asked Nate. “He was all over the news.”

“He’ll be in Copenhagen for the NATO thing,” added Forsyth. “How he’ll slip away from the Danes beats the hell out of me. Allen Dulles used to do this, Angleton too, get on a plane, not tell anyone, show up unannounced.”

“Yeah, in fucking 1951,” said Gable. “And those guys traveled solo, and you walked down the steps of the Constellation across the tarmac into a taxi, and checked into a hotel by signing the register. Those pillbox hats on the stewardesses, though…”

Forsyth ignored him. “I sent a polite no-thank-you response last night, and Chief Europe called me on the green line half an hour later and chewed my ass. Not a request. Director wants to get involved.”

“There’s another inflated balloon, fucking Chief Europe,” said Gable. “Thinks he’s a ship’s captain at Trafalgar. Ever read his Christmas benediction to the troops?”

Forsyth continued to ignore him. “We can control things only from the minute he gets off the plane. VIP gate, drive him around, dry-clean him, stash his security guys in a van downstairs, get him up there, shake her hand, then get him out. Just pray FAPSI—Russian SIGINT Service—doesn’t pick up his flight plan.” Forsyth looked at the cable again. “They must have briefed DIVA to him recently. Well, at least it’s good PR for the case.”

“PR? He’s going to get her killed,” said Nate. “It’d be safer for us to put her in a car trunk and run her over to Sweden for a long weekend. Why don’t we tell him she’s not available?”

“No,” said Forsyth.

“Tell him she refuses.”

“No. Get her primed, tell her to smile. Those blue eyes will do the rest. Let’s get some food up there, some drinks.”

“A bug-out car, parked close,” said Gable.

“What about Dominika?” asked Nate. “Who eats the shit sandwich if something goes wrong?”

“You do,” said Gable and Forsyth.

=====

Footsteps on the landing, and the door opened and Dominika stood up as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency shrugged off his coat and came across the room and pumped her hand up and down, saying how glad he was to meet her, then pumped Nate’s hand too, told him he was doing a great job with this young lady, a beaming smile in her direction, and they both could be proud of what they were doing for the United States. Dominika tilted her head a little at that, and they sat down, Dominika and the Director on the couch, and he opened the charm spigot from his legislative days and he tapped her knee to make a point, and sometimes his hand stayed on her knee, a habit from the Senate cloakroom and the pages.

He was tall, and thin, and squirrel-eyed, with sunken cheeks and shiny hair dyed black. Dominika decided he looked like Koschei, the mythological evildoer her father used to read to her about when she was a little girl. Dominika looked hard at him, but his aura was faint, a pale green glow around his face and ears. Green, zelenyj, emotional, not what he appears to be, an actor, thought Dominika. So different from Uncle Vanya, but the same, different services, the same yashyeritsa, the same lizard.

He was asking Forsyth about the “operational ambient” in Scandinavia, and they all knew that was nothing to be discussing in front of an agent, so she got up and brought out a plate of pelmeni, steaming dumplings just fished out of the pot, stuffed with savory ground meat and spices, slathered with sour cream. Dominika had insisted on making something, a Russian way to honor the guest. Nate thought they should have served dry näkkileipä crackers and warm cream soda.

“Quite excellent,” said the Director, clotted sour cream at the corner of his mouth.