“I have seen soldiers do that, but never women,” he said.

“You have now,” she said. “Hang around and you’ll see me do a lot of things you’ve never seen a woman do.” She snuffed out her cigarette after another drag. “I’m flying,” she said. “I mean, I am really flying. Too much alcohol.” Idly, she wondered what her late Robert would have thought if he could have seen the Slut Girl 101 role she was playing in a hotel bar in Egypt. Then she put it out of her mind. So impressed was Boris that he ordered another set of three shots. Then he took out his matches. He lit all three vodkas. He drew a breath, took a drink of some cold water from the bar. He stood and stepped back.

Then Boris repeated the trick, but using the vodka while it was still flaming. He tossed it high into the air, quickly positioned himself under it and caught it in his mouth. The second shot, the same. Then the third, which was a slight miss and splashed him across the jaw.

He staggered slightly, laughed, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Alex applauded as if drunk out of her mind.

More small talk. The room started to sway a little for Alex, but not as much as her body language tried to show. She wondered how much booze she had consumed in her life for the overall security of the United States of America. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. She knew that the fire had been extinguished from the top of the booze, but she had lit one in her target’s gut.

Two shots later, Boris got around to what he wanted to know, “Are you staying here with him?”

“Here with who?” Alex asked.

“Your boyfriend.”

“Oh. Him. No,” she said.

Good, she thought. He’s inquiring about my room arrangement.

In the periphery of her view, she watched Rizzo, who had arrived that morning, walk into the bar and sit down at a table.

“No,” she said to Boris. “He’s at another overpriced hotel. The Hilton. He was supposed to meet me here, and then we were going to go out. But he’s stood me up, you know that, Boris? You know how much it hurts a woman to be stood up?”

She took on a dispirited expression. “He probably went chasing after a younger girl,” she said. “So why should I care?”

“You’re here alone?”

“On business. For three days. Then I go on to Athens, then back to Miami. That’s where I live. Miami. The new capital of Cuba.”

Boris was more than intrigued. Alex slurred slightly, then took another sip of the wine that still sat in front of her. Her hand was shaky, and she spilled a few drops.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m bothering you. I should leave.”

“No, no, no,” he said, amused. “You’re not bothering. Please stay.”

“I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“You’re very beautiful,” he said again.

She looked away. “I don’t feel beautiful. I feel rejected. That’s how I feel. I hate being alone. I’m almost thirty,” she said.

“You could pass for five years younger.” He placed a hand on her bare thigh to steady her. The touch went through her like a shock, but she went along with it. His hand was every bit as strong as it looked. If things went the wrong way, this was going to be real trouble.

“You’re kind,” she said.

He glanced at the small bandage on her arm, the one that covered the vestiges of the bullet grazing.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“My boyfriend gets rough with me sometimes,” she said. “He’s a pig.”

That seemed to turn Boris on. Alex looked him in the eye. She had had her experiences with post-Soviet Moscow-style hoods, and this was another one. In a previous generation, Boris’s station in life would have been as one of the thick-browed KGB security gorillas who would stand by the door in a leather jacket to keep the trade delegates from going AWOL. These days, in the buoyant Putin-era consumer culture of workers-of-the-world-shop-till-you-drop, the same tough boys developed a taste for Swiss watches, German cars, and French cologne, while they pursued North American women.

Her gaze drifted away. She knew she had him. She wondered if Rizzo was getting jealous with the hand-on-the-bare-thigh stuff. She also wondered how much of this the bartender was taking in. The bar was otherwise quiet.

She looked back to Boris. His eyes were not on hers but rather on her breasts, or what he could see of them in a moderately low-cut dress. She caught him looking at her neckline. He grinned when detected.

She straightened up and withdrew slightly. She put her hand on his hand, the one on her leg. She made an effort to push it away, but he wouldn’t budge. He was grinning like a lecherous gargoyle.

“You’re a fresh boy,” she said.

“Yes, I am,” he said proudly.

“You’re coming on to me,” she said drunkenly.

“Most certainly,” he said.

“But we just met.”

“I don’t care.”

“Didn’t your mother warn you about strange women in hotel bars?” she teased.

“I like strange women in hotel bars,” he answered.

He wasn’t very smart, Alex was thinking. Occasionally, she liked that in a man.

“Maybe I’m offended,” she said.

“If you were offended, you’d walk away. You’re not doing that.”

She laughed slightly. “Are you always so sure of yourself?” she asked.

“Often,” he said. “I’m drawn to beautiful women.”

She said, “I’m much too drunk. Before I fall off this stool, I should go upstairs.”

“I would like to join you,” he said.

She didn’t answer. She took a final swig of wine, rose from the bar stool, and turned. “Do what you want, Boris,” she said. Then she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Follow me but be discreet. The ‘towel heads’ are terrible prudes,” she said.

Boris smiled and nodded. He lifted his hand from her leg so she could stand.

She took a tentative step to leave, played the drunkenness just right, and steadied herself with a hand on his massive shoulder. She turned toward the bar exit, struggled a little on her heels, and headed out. From her peripheral view, she saw him knock back another shot of vodka. He then reached to his pocket and dumped a fistful of cash on the bar.

Alex passed directly by Rizzo. She left the bar and crossed the lobby with another wobble. She went to the elevator. She turned.

Good. He had followed. Now Boris was about ten feet from her, trying to make a decision. She gave him a smile and then, to seal the deal, a wink.

The elevator door opened. There was no one else in it. She stepped in and he followed again.

“My room is on the sixteenth floor,” he said.

“Mine is on the seventh,” Alex said.

“We will go to mine,” Boris said.

“I need to stop at mine first,” she said.

She wondered if she had somehow alerted him to danger. His expression suggested that he didn’t like that idea, her room. In the Russian services, or any services, survival was contingent upon the continuing talent for suspicion. And so far, Boris had survived very well.

“I will wait for you upstairs,” he said.

“If I lie down in my room I might never get up,” she said.

The elevator arrived on the seventh floor. The door opened.

“So if I don’t come upstairs, I’ve gone to bed alone. Don’t wait.”

Impulsively. Boris stepped out of the elevator behind her. But she could pick up the scent of suspicion from him. He didn’t like this. Something about this was setting off alarms.

“Why do you have to go to your room first?” he asked.

She held his hand and gave him a wink.

“Never ask a woman too many questions,” she said. “But if you really want to know, I want my toothbrush and a few overnight things. Is that okay?”

He didn’t answer. She moved to her door. Everything was going the way she wanted it to so far, but it was essential that she bring him into her room, if only for a moment. If he held out for his own room, she was sunk.

But he followed her to her door. She felt his body hulk behind her. She could smell the bad cologne and imagined that she could feel his breath on her neck.