| suit coat. He was not used to wearing a gun, disliked its heft, and he hated what he was about to do. But it had to be done. Corky had been adamant about it. The encoded message had been unambiguous. Metcalfe is a risk to the mission, therefore a risk to the fate of the free world. It is a sad necessity, but he must be eliminated. The young agent had accomplished what he’d been ordered to do. But he’d been blown. Moscow was crawling with goddamned NKVD and GRU agents who were on the verge of grabbing the fellow. They’d get him; it was only a question of when, how soon. Corky couldn’t possibly exfiltrate Metcalfe in time. And once they got him, they’d interrogate him as only the Russians could, and Metcalfe would crack; there was no doubt of it. The entire operation would be exposed, and Corky could not would not allow that to happen. Far too much was at stake. It must not be jeopardized by a single human being. Hilliard wondered at times like these whether he was truly cut out for this job. This sort of thing was truly the worst part of the assignment. He sort of liked Metcalfe, but that wasn’t the main thing. He knew that Metcalfe was one of the good guys, one of the white hats. The young fellow was no traitor. But Corky had issued the order, and Hilliard had no choice. He had a job to do |
hear the orchestra playing Tchaikovsky’s music; he recognized a theme from act two of Swan Lake. Compared to the grandeur of the Bolshoi’s public spaces, the backstage was surprisingly grubby. They went past reeking toilets, down creaking low-ceilinged corridors with missing floorboards, around rusting catwalks and ladders. Dancers in costume, their faces caked with makeup, huddled and smoked. As they passed near the stage, Metcalfe heard the haunting strains of the oboe and the harp and the swelling tremolo strings of Tchaikovsky’s score, and he recognized the beautiful melody of the act two pas de deux. A shaft of ghostly pale blue light lay across the backstage darkness; Metcalfe stopped and found himself looking directly at the stage and a section of the house. “Wait,” he said, grabbing the stagehand by the shoulder. The teenager looked at him, bewildered that the doctor wanted to catch a glimpse of the performance. The stage set was magical and glowing: a moonlit lake, a painted backdrop of a lake and surrounding forest, several large prop trees and in the center was Lana. Metcalfe watched, transported. Lana was Odette, the swan queen, costumed in a close-fitting white tutu that emphasized her tiny waist, fringed with feathers and tulle; her hair was up in a tight chignon, and on it a white feathered headdress. She looked delicate and vulnerable, astonishingly birdlike. She was dancing with Prince Siegfried, while around them spiraled the cygnets, which then spun offstage, leaving just Odette and Siegfried. He gracefully hoisted |
