Page 85 of Dead Fall

Leonid Grechko was a man who kept his passions under control. He ruled over them and not vice versa.

As such, he felt he had earned the right to indulge himself when he was off the clock. His personal time was just that,personal. How he spent it was no one’s business but his.

The typical trappings of male adulthood—a wife, a family, a bustling household—had never appealed to him. Part of it was because of the job. Intelligence operatives, at least those working out of embassies with official cover, were forced to move every few years. It was how the game was played and not conducive to that style of life.

The other part was that he could count on one hand the people he knew who were happy in their marriages. When you threw children into the equation, he didn’t even need all five fingers to count the people he knew who were honestly happy. Perhaps it was a Russian attitude, a tilt toward the nihilism so prevalent in their culture. Regardless, he was the envy of his male friends.

In his opinion, relationships, by their very nature, were transactional. Sex was no different. When he wanted it, he paid for it, and treated the women quite well.

He didn’t buy them expensive gifts or take them on vacations, but as someone who loved good food and exceptional wines, he included them in sumptuous meals.

There was often some form of entertainment—ballet or thetheater, after which they would spend the night in a luxury hotel room. He always paid for them to stay the night, though he was always gone before they awoke. He would leave a note, encouraging the young lady to enjoy breakfast from room service and thanking her for the evening.

He had only one rule. He never slept with the same woman twice. It didn’t matter how beautiful she was. It didn’t matter how skilled she was. Repeat visits could lead to foolish attachments, which could make him vulnerable to his enemies. The rule made sense and had served him well. He had only broken it once, but it had been worth it.

Inessa was the closest he had ever been to falling in love. In fact, if he were to be honest with himself, hehadfallen in love with her. That was why he had broken his rule and had agreed to see her a second time and then a third and a fourth. It was a white-hot, passionate affair that had lasted for weeks.

She was a woman of flawless beauty who possessed a deep appreciation for all things cultural. She was well read, well traveled, and well trained in the erotic arts. Had he not been so drawn to her, so absolutely susceptible to her spell, he might have recruited her and molded her into one of the best female agents the world had ever seen.

But he had known that was impossible. The idea of not being able to have her, fully, to himself would have driven him mad. The mere thought of her being with other men was enough to poison him with jealousy and to torment him beyond all reason. He had never, not even as a child, wanted anything as badly as he had wanted her.

She was his Helen of Troy. Hers was the face that could launch a thousand ships and send millions of men into battle. She was a drug more potent than any narcotic. His only guard against losing his mind, and himself, was to end it, to go cold turkey and cut off contact with her. And, for the most part, it had worked.

Because he couldn’t help himself, he had kept tabs on her from afar. He had watched as she became the mistress of a mining oligarch named Tsybulsky, who had relocated her to the South of France.

From that point on, he had spent many nights alone in his bed, wondering what might have been. It was a needless, self-inflicted pain thatpicked at a deep and very tender wound, which he never allowed to fully heal.

In retrospect, it was good that she had moved away to France. It was also good that she wasn’t on any social media platforms. Having to see photos as her life unfolded would have been too much.

It had been five years since he had last seen her. Then, this very morning, he had bumped into her coming out of a boutique on Tverskaya Street. She was even more radiant than he remembered.

Ever the fashion plate, she was dressed in designer brands from head to toe and was dripping with diamonds. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back, accentuating her high cheekbones and sleek jawline.

He felt his heart catch in his throat. He was angry with himself for being so overwhelmed by his emotions.

They made small talk. She was in town, only briefly, with her “boyfriend.” He had business to attend to and then they’d be flying off to Switzerland.

She asked him how he had been. He lied, said he was fine, and that work was keeping him busy.

She then asked if he ever thought of her. This time, he didn’t lie. He told her the truth.

She told him she thought about him quite often; that her feelings for him had not lessened since leaving Moscow. She had a good life, a comfortable life, but it wasn’t the life she dreamed of. He could feel his heart catch in his throat once more.

She asked if he was available for dinner. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? Two old friends could have a meal and catch up, couldn’t they?

When he asked about her boyfriend, she explained that he would be in meetings for most of the evening. As long as she was home early, there was no reason for it to be a problem.

Grechko didn’t even think. He said yes immediately. No matter what had been on his schedule, he would have canceled it for her.

She wanted to go back to the restaurant they’d had so many wonderful evenings together in. Could he get them a reservation at the WhiteRabbit on short notice? He told her not to worry and that he would see her there at seven.

They said good-bye and as they did, Inessa leaned in and kissed his cheek. She still wore the same heady perfume. She still pressed the palm of her hand against his chest the way she used to. She still drove him crazy. It was like being hit by a lightning bolt.

He walked the rest of the way home thinking about nothing but her. Back at his apartment, after he called the manager of the White Rabbit and reserved their most romantic table, he poured himself a drink, put on the music they used to listen to together—Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday—and tackled a stack of reports he had to finish from the office. It was difficult to keep his focus, but he pushed through it.

When the time came, he put together what he was going to wear—a bespoke, dark gray Henry Poole & Co. suit with an open-collared black shirt—then showered and shaved.

He no longer wore the same cologne he used to wear when they had been together—even that was too much of a reminder of her—but he had something similar that he had picked up abroad, less pepper, more tobacco.

---