The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two

by Lindsay Smith

  She was making an entrance now, just as she’d calculated: heads swiveled toward her, someone called out her name. Zerena lifted one hand in greeting. “Hello, Jakob, darling,” she called out over the stair’s banister, and then breezed the rest of the way down. Her Givenchy gown was perhaps a bit too formal for a cocktail party such as this one, but Zerena preferred to be overdressed. Clothing was one of the clearest expressions of power—something the bourgeois West understood well. Tonight, her silver gown hung in sharp, cruel angles, and her new necklace glittered at the base of her throat. She was a knife, primed to cut.

  “Marco,” she said, floating over to a group of agricultural secretaries from the Italian embassy. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening.”

  “I’m so glad you could join us this evening,” Marco replied. He plucked a wine flute from a passing drink tray and offered it to Zerena with a twinkle in his eye. “I wanted to congratulate you on the party. It’s been absolutely sublime so far. Love the ice sculpture.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Zerena touched the wine to her lips but didn’t drink. She glanced at the others. “Renato, Pietro, Cesare—thank you all so much for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss a Zerena Pulnoc party if the embassy were burning to the ground,” said Pietro, and they all laughed uproariously. Zerena only smiled. What a sweet thing for him to say, said the tilt of her head, the idea that treason was worth an evening of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

  “I was wondering,” said Renato, the oldest of the four and the most seasoned at the diplomatic circuit, “if your husband would be joining us.”

  The other three men looked toward her expectantly, and Zerena put on an expression of carefully cultivated disappointment. “I’m afraid the ambassador is not feeling well this evening. And you know how he is with parties.” She touched Renato’s arm softly, a gesture of calculated intimacy.

  He chuckled. “Never had the patience for them. That man. How he manages as a diplomat is beyond me.”

  “Now, now,” Zerena said. “There’s more to diplomacy than just parties.”

  Renato swiped one hand dismissively, and the others laughed. Zerena took this moment to make her departure—“Oh, I’d love to talk a bit more, but I need to make the rounds, you know how it is. Shall we chat later?”—and then she was on her way, flowing slowly through the party, scanning the faces for anyone of interest. The lights in the ballroom were dimmed, hiding the worn shabbiness of the wood paneling in the walls, the faded spots in the silk curtains that cascaded down from the soaring ceilings. Zerena knew how to capture the opulence of her fading estate, even if its bright gleam lasted only a moment.

  She stopped and chatted with a few more clumps of guests, going through the motions expected of her as the Soviet ambassador’s wife. She air-kissed and pretended to sip her wine and asked about Leandro’s daughter, away at boarding school in England. And then she moved on, gliding like a shark through the eddies of guests.

  She had been circulating for about fifteen minutes when she saw Tatiana Mikhailovna and Nadezhda Fyodorovna speaking with an attaché from West Germany. They did not see her, and they were involved enough in the conversation that it was acceptable for her to breeze past. Here at the party, muffled by her drab Soviet clothes, it seemed impossible that Tatiana would have given an illegal radio to the Americans. She was a perfect little Party girl, Zerena knew, and hard to find good gossip on. This radio was good gossip. Weaponized gossip. Zerena had no doubt it would come in handy sometime in the future, assuming she could uncover the truth, and then keep Sasha distracted from learning it himself.

  “Oh, Zerena! Over here! I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Zerena turned in one liquid motion, following the sound of the voice to Martyna, wife to the Andorran representative and a dull woman who fancied herself one of Zerena’s friends. Zerena hadn’t yet disabused her of the notion; she was still too useful. Zerena threaded her way over to her.

  “Hello, lovely,” she said, and they kissed the air around each other’s cheeks. The scent of alcohol was already seeping through the heavy floral curtain of Martyna’s perfume. Tacky, yes, but she was notoriously chatty when she drank too much.

  “Are you having a good time?” Zerena asked.

  “Of course.” Martyna giggled. “I think it’s impossible to have a bad time at one of your parties, Zerena.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of you to say.”

  “Have you seen Luisa? She wasn’t sure she would be able to come, she’s been sick with the flu the last two weeks—I do wish this weather would just warm up, don’t you?”

  Zerena gave a sharp smile. “Oh, darling, I’m used to it.”

  Martyna’s cheeks pinked, and she made a flustered noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, yes, of course, I know, I just find the cold so dreadful. I’m looking forward to summer. I tell Sebastian that he needs to be stationed someplace warm, the Philippines or Algeria or some such place, and he tells me I should be grateful that we’re here in Prague—”

  She blathered on. Zerena’s irritation tightened into a coil inside her. If only she would blather about Tanya’s radio. Not that the wife of the Andorran representative would know anything about that.

  Zerena angled her body toward Martyna as if listening closely, but her gaze turned out upon the sea of party guests. More people had arrived, and the party was beginning to form its own ecosystems, its own bureaucratic channels, the way all parties do. Zerena took note of it all, watching who toasted with whom, and who gathered together near the bandstand, and who stole away into the smoking room together.

  And then she saw someone she had never seen before.

  “Martyna,” Zerena said, and tapped the woman on the arm to get her to shut up. Martyna glanced over at her expectantly. “Tell me, who is that man there? The handsome one.” She gestured discreetly. The newcomer was stocky, dark-haired and brown-skinned, but he had an easy smile and a glimmer in his eye that she found appealing. Something about him seemed familiar. She hated this feeling, that there was information out there she should know and yet it had somehow slipped by her.

  “Oh,” said Martyna. “That’s the new arrival at the American embassy. Dominic Alvarez. He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

  “I should go introduce myself.” Zerena looked apologetically at Martyna and then whisked herself away. Dominic Alvarez. She rolled the name around inside her head. What secrets can I get you to share?

  Dominic sipped at a whiskey, watching the room with keen eyes. Zerena floated over to him, and he glanced at her, smiling in a devastatingly charming way.

  “Hello there,” he said, as if she were a surprise.

  “Hello.” Zerena held out one hand, and Dominic gave it a firm shake. “I always introduce myself to new faces. I’m—”

  “Zerena Pulnoc,” Dominic said, eyes bright. “I saw a picture of you in the embassy, with your husband. I’d never forget a face like that.”

  Zerena pretended this kind of flattery worked on her. “Oh, you’re too much, Mr.—?”

  “Alvarez. Dominic Alvarez. I just arrived at the US embassy.”

  “Ah, of course.” Zerena smiled at him, taking in the details of his person: his suit fit him well but it was shabby, the fabric worn and shiny in places. He smelled faintly of cigars. His hands had been rough to the touch—an outdoors man. A military background, Zerena guessed, and she wondered what job he could have at the American embassy. It did not escape her notice that he hadn’t offered the information freely.

  This was her project for tonight, she decided. Finding out all she could about this stranger.

  “Tell me, Mr. Alvarez, how are you liking Prague so far?”

  “It’s cold as shit.” He winked at her. “But it’s getting warmer. And please, call me Dom.”

  “Dom,” Zerena said. “I think I can do that. Shall I show you around the party? If you’re a new arrival, I can think of quite a few people who’d be interested in being introduced.”
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  “That would be fantastic, Mrs. Pulnoc.”

  She tittered, the lilting little laugh that set men like this at ease. “Oh, Zerena, please.”

  “Zerena it is. Shall we make the rounds?” He offered his arm to her, a proper gentleman underneath those threadbare clothes. Zerena looped her arm through his and led him into the crowd. She leaned in close as they walked, talking to him in a low murmur, pointing out certain people. She wanted to know if he already recognized them or not.

  “And that’s Lars Janssens, the Belgian ambassador.” She pointed her head toward a tall, rather lanky man dancing with a voluptuous heiress. “And the woman he’s dancing with is Simona Fiala. She’s a socialite here in Prague. You’ll encounter her often enough, if you attend the right parties.”

  “I never miss a party,” Dom said, grinning. He didn’t seem interested in the ambassador or the heiress, and Zerena filed that information away. They drifted on, a pair of feathers twisting together on the wind.

  “Oh!” cried Zerena. “There’s Oliver and Marianella Haik. Have you met them yet? It would be dreadfully useful for you to know them, since you’re connected to the American embassy.” She gave him a shining smile, and he returned one just as bright.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  She guided him over. Oliver and Marianella were part of a ring of conversation that fell silent as she approached. Oliver lifted his glass in greeting. “Zerena!” he said. “Lovely party.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” She gestured at Dom. “This is Dominic Alvarez, the new arrival at the American embassy. I wanted to show him a taste of our hospitality here in Prague.”

  This statement was greeted warmly, and Zerena made the rest of the introductions, pointing to each person in turn as she spoke their name and offered a bit of background, for Dom’s sake. She watched Dom’s face as she performed, looking for a spark of recognition, a recoil of suspicion. Any break in his facade could be useful to her. But he was good. Charming to the last, and he gave nothing away.

  “You’re stationed in Prague at an interesting time,” said Oliver, who drained his glass and then gestured for a nearby waiter to bring him another. Zerena could tell he was already drunk. “We don’t usually find ourselves with murdered StB officers in our cemeteries.”

  Marianella looked over at him in alarm, but Oliver just laughed and slapped Dom on the shoulder. “I wanted to be honest, that’s all!”

  “I assure you I’m not an StB officer,” Dom said smoothly, “but I’ll avoid cemeteries for the time being, just in case.”

  Zerena considered this. Such a classic American, entirely unflappable. This coolness under pressure made her even more intrigued, more curious to peer into his closets.

  And so she politely excused Dom and herself from the Haiks and angled him back out to the party.

  “Don’t mind that talk about murdered StB operatives,” she said, scanning the room for their next target. “The gossip hounds are making it out to be more than it is.”

  “Sometimes the gossip hounds learn the truth before the rest of us.”

  Zerena looked over at him sharply.

  He was smiling down at her, eyes twinkling. “Surely the wife of the Soviet ambassador would understand that.”

  “I’m not a politician. Just a housewife. I couldn’t say.”

  They wove through the party. Tension crept into Zerena’s shoulders, but Dom seemed as loose as the first moment they’d spoken. She hated being in this position. It was not the place for her. She was used to being in control.

  And then, across the room, she caught a flash of something interesting.

  “I see one of your colleagues,” she said softly, watching Joshua Toms, another member of Prague’s CIA office. She knew all about this one, had been slowly cultivating scraps of information about him since he first arrived in the city.

  Tonight, he was speaking with Alestair Winthrop.

  Curious.

  “Shall we go say hello?” she asked Dom. “The man with him might be a good contact for you, as well.”

  “You lead the way,” Dom said, pointing to the crowd.

  Zerena kept her eyes on Alestair and Joshua, squeezing her fist in frustration whenever a crowd of guests passed in front of them. The two men were leaning in close. Joshua’s head was tilted toward Alestair, and Alestair rested his hand on Joshua’s shoulder and smiled to himself whenever Joshua spoke. Very curious.

  Zerena knew quite a bit about Alestair. He was from an old British family—in the way of such families, they were more proud of their past than their present. But that had only made Alestair more interesting to her, and so she’d sent her whisperers out. They’d come back with stories about his career in MI6, about his absurd tales from his time spent abroad, about his preferences for sweet-faced young men who spent too much time poring over books.

  Young men very much like Joshua Toms.

  Zerena approached the pair, Dom trailing alongside her. Alestair glanced up as she approached, and although he did his best to keep his expression flat she saw a darkness pass over his features. A flicker, a shadow. She smiled brilliantly at him.

  “Alestair, how are you?” she cooed, and he held out his hands as if to embrace her as she rushed up to him. They kissed the air—once, twice—all the usual rituals.

  “Wonderful, as always, Zerena. Absolutely smashing party, by the way.”

  Joshua had jerked away, his gaze fixed on the floor, cheeks tinged with pink. Naughty boy! Zerena thought, and she glanced at Dom, who seemed to have taken no notice of it. Of course. Men like him never saw the obvious.

  “Alestair, I’d like you to meet the new arrival at the American embassy, Dominic Alvarez.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Alestair, striding forward, not missing a beat. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Have you, now?” Dom wasn’t so keen to employ his charm on Alestair, it seemed, and Zerena wondered if this was because he knew of Alestair’s preferences after all, or because Alestair was British, or both. An American like Dom, he probably thought the two were interchangeable.

  “Nothing but good things, old boy. No need to worry.” Lines crinkled around Alestair’s eyes. It wasn’t exactly a smile. “I know you and Joshua already know each other.”

  Dom nodded at Joshua, who had managed to collect himself from his earlier embarrassment. “Dom,” Joshua said. “Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Sure.” Dom gave a shrug, then glanced at Zerena. “Can’t complain about the company.”

  Zerena laughed and swatted at him. She knew her cues.

  “Well, Dom, I was just telling Josh about an old colleague of mine back in London. I think you’ll like this one.” And he launched into his story, one Zerena had heard at least twice before, about an old Eton chum of Alestair’s who had gone on to become an important figure in British intelligence. Zerena used the story as an opportunity to study Joshua, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot, brushing at his hair, giving a strained smile at the droll moments in Alestair’s story.

  Joshua, Joshua, Zerena chided him silently, you’re a better spy than that.

  It amused her, seeing his discomfort. The party was running smoothly, like all her parties. All tasteful and glamorous and very, very dull. But Joshua and Alestair had added a wrinkle to its glossy finish, an intriguing imperfection. Standing so close together, at a party like this! Practically flirting for all to see. They should have known better.

  Alestair finished his story, on the same ridiculous note he always did—“And then we splashed down into the Thames!” Dom let out a roaring laugh and slapped Alestair on the back.

  “And that’s why you never trust a German,” Dom said, which made Alestair laugh in turn.

  Joshua smiled, too, a little calmer than he had been before.

  The music swelled, then: “Dance of the Hours.” Ah, here was Zerena’s chance to make a little trouble, to scratch at that imperfection and see what she could find underneath
. She slipped her arm in Dom’s and purred in his ear, “Oh, would you dance with me, darling? I’ve always loved this song.”

  Dom smiled down at her, looking pleased with himself. “Well, if you’ve always loved this song.” They spun away from Alestair and Joshua and into the whirlpool of dancers. Dom straightened his spine, lifted Zerena’s hand, pressed his palm into the small of her back. They swirled off, moving in slow, elegant strides.

  “You’re a talented dancer,” Zerena told Dom. Her skirt flared out behind her, a silver gleam in the lights.

  “My parents are Cuban,” he said. “You can thank them.”

  “Cuba?” Zerena smiled. “And yet you work for the Americans.”

  “I am American, sweetheart.” He led her into a turn. She smiled at him across the sudden distance.

  “Of course,” she said.

  He pulled her back to him.

  “I see Alestair and Joshua are getting along quite well.” She pressed herself into him, tilting her head so that she was murmuring into his ear. “It’s always gratifying to see that sort of interagency cooperation.”

  “Sure.”

  They swooped around in time with the music, with the other dancers. The trajectory of the dance was bringing them around to Alestair and Joshua again. Alestair said something to make Joshua laugh, and he peered up at Alestair, his eyes shining.

  “There they are,” Zerena said. “Britain and the United States are working very closely together, don’t you think?”

  Dom gazed across the room. His brow wrinkled. His mouth worked into a frown.

  Zerena knew he saw it.

  “They should be careful,” she said, watching Dom as she spoke. “Even allies can get too close. Don’t you think?”

  Dom gave a grunt of disapproval. “Yeah.” He swung her around, into the main current. Alestair and Joshua disappeared behind a wall of guests. Zerena let herself fall into the dance, even as Dom became inattentive, his steps too short and off-rhythm. A seed planted, then. Zerena didn’t know what it would grow into, but that was the joy of gardening, wasn’t it? Laying future plants in the soil, coaxing them out with water and sun, and waiting, watching, as seeds became a work of art.