Threat Level Black by Jim DeFelice

A few strategic groans kept him from being bothered, and when he finally emerged, the attendant steered well clear of him. Fisher made his way back to his hotel three blocks away; Madison flagged him down in a small Toyota.
    “Nobody followed you,” the CIA officer told him. “You must’ve put on some act.”
    “Looking stupid just comes naturally to some of us.”
    They headed toward Arbatskaya, an area west of the Kremlin that once had a vaguely bohemian flavor and lately had become something of a tourist trap. Kung and the gnome were already en route, driven by a CIA operative disguised as a taxi driver; Madison would “deploy” them once Dr. Park arrived in the area.
    If he arrived in the area.
    “Your partner’s bugged, so we’ll hear what happens.”
    “Who’s my partner?” objected Fisher.
    “What’s-her-name—the short one. Mathers.”
    “The gnome is not my partner,” said Fisher.
    “Will he show up?” asked Madison.
    “Got me,” said Fisher. “His minder will, though. I just about cleaned him out of smokes.”
     
    Dr. Park walked past the shop, his heart thumping. Moscow was supposedly undergoing a very warm winter, but he felt like ice, even inside his warm parka. It had not been difficult to persuade Chin Yop to come here; he mentioned that he had eaten in the area during his one previous trip to Moscow and that it was very inexpensive. Chin Yop was undoubtedly being paid an allowance, and thus any savings on meals would go into his pocket.
    Were the Americans following? How would they approach him? When? What would they do to Chin Yop?
    Dr. Park tried to clear the questions from his mind. If they were following him—and they must be following him, he decided—then they would make contact at a time and place of their choosing, a time they felt was safe for everyone. He had to trust that they would handle the business appropriately: They had done well so far.
    Dr. Park let his companion choose the restaurant, a small basement café at the foot of a large brick building that held apartments. The man who greeted them at the door spoke English in such a heavy accent that Dr. Park could not make it out. They found a seat in toward the back and managed to pick out items that seemed benign from the menu. In truth, anything they ate here would be exotic; Dr. Park’s diet consisted mostly of rice and bits of vegetable or, on occasion, fish. From the looks of his thin wrists and neck, Chin Yop did not fare much better.
    “Oh, hello!” said a woman in English from across the room.
    Dr. Park looked up. Ms. Kung and another woman were making their way across the room. Chin Yop had a strained look on his face.
    “Mr. Chin,” said the shorter woman, bowing her head toward Dr. Park’s minder. “And your friend?”
    Dr. Park introduced himself. The short woman said that her name was Ms. Mathers and she remembered the pair from the conference. Chin Yop smiled faintly, then said to Dr. Park in Korean that the taller woman was quite beautiful.
    Dr. Park seized the chance to look directly at Ms. Kung. She was, he agreed, most beautiful.
    “Mine,” insisted Chin Yop.
    Dr. Park turned to him in surprise.
    “Don’t be a prude,” insisted the minder, pushing his chair back and insisting in his poor English that the two women join them.
    Dr. Park did not know what to do. His minder’s instructions would undoubtedly have been explicit: Such contacts should be kept to a minimum; certainly dinner would violate that edict.
    A test?
    Dr. Park could smell her perfume. What if the minder wanted to defect as well?
    Perhaps he had his own plan.
    Or perhaps he knew that Ms. Kung was here to contact him.
    “I think perhaps we might eat alone,” suggested Dr. Park in Korean. Chin ignored him, talking with the women, asking them about America.
    America!
    Surely this was a trap. Dr. Park sat silently as the others ordered. When the food arrived he tried to eat slowly, but he could not: He was too hungry. He