The Kingfisher Secret

“Nothing suggests the CIA or FBI have any idea about you. Not from our end. At least the files we can access.” Mironov looked at Sergei and back at [Elena]. “Have they ever approached you, Mrs. Craig?”      “Never.”     “I know you are an intelligent and capable woman,” said Mironov, continuing to study her. “But you have to play dumber than you have, as things progress.”     “Why?”     “You are Czech. Craig married you because you are beauti­ful, not because you are smart. You are a ‘trophy wife,’ an aesthetic consideration, the status symbol of a rich man.”     “It does not have to be so. In America, women—”     “If you are too smart, Mrs. Craig, and everyone knows him to be stupid . . .”     “I don’t think they do.”     “Never interrupt me.” Still there was no anger in his eyes. “Never.”     Elena did not understand what was happening.     “I am sorry, Mrs. Craig. This is probably difficult for a woman of your age and intelligence, living in New York City, to hear: but we are only interested in your husband. And we are patient. He has enormous potential for us and we will not jeopardize it for any reason. Do you understand?”     Elena looked at her champagne, at the bubbles. What did he mean by “we”? This man was a non-entity in the KGB, like Sergei. Young and mean and, so far, powerless. This was not even a real meeting. A champagne bubble popped out of the flute and fizzed on her hand. She wanted to be away from this place. She wanted to tell Anthony, so he could . . . no, there was noth­ing he could do. Besides, if she confessed, Anthony would see only the risks to himself, to his reputation.     There was no running from Moscow Center, no running from Sergei and this new man, Mironov. There was not a village in the jungles of South America where they could not find her and destroy her, let alone on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She would die of a drug overdose, a heart attack, a car accident.      Her parents would be eliminated. Kristína.      “Tell us, Mrs. Craig, about our plans as you understand them.” Mironov filled her flute and his, and he did not fill Sergei’s. “Be frank with us. Tell us why you are in New York, married to this buffoon, where you intend to take him.”      Despite the champagne her mouth was dry.      “Kingfisher,” Mironov said, sternly. “We are waiting.”