Conspiracy in Kiev Read Online Free PDF Page B

United States State Department, a vast complex covering two city blocks. To come in out of the cold she used the Twenty-first Street entrance, which had been built in the 1930s as the War Department for the US Army.
    The handsome marble-clad art deco lobby had a curious mural featuring peaceful Americans at work and prayer. They were surrounded by protective soldiers in gas masks, cannons, and then-new-fangled four engine bombers. Out of embarrassment at the martial theme, the State Department had long hidden the picture behind a curtain, but later more tolerant minds had prevailed.
    Alex’s meeting was not in that part of the building but in the much larger part built onto the original structure under Eisenhower. The two components had different floor plans that Alex always found disorienting when she paid a visit.
    She arrived in a small conference chamber with a circular table and six chairs.
    The room tone was flat. Soundproofing. It was like being in a clinic for hearing aids. One window with double glass overlooked an inner courtyard with a statue of Atlas holding up the globe.
    At the desk, a small, trim man adjusted his spectacles but did not look up. He had a mop of gray hair and a reddish face. He wore a crimson tie and a cream-colored shirt. He was flanked by a half-finished container of Starbucks, the tall one with the full day’s caffeine punch. He had a look to him that she thought she recognized, one of those surly old State Department retirees who get called back for special assignments.
    “Alexandra LaDuca,” he said, finally glancing up.
    “Good morning.”
    “Good morning,” she said. “Yes. I’m Alex.”
    He stood. He was a smaller man than she had initially thought, not much more than five foot four. Over the years, she had learned to be wary of tiny people who might harbor king-sized complexes.
    “I’m Michael Cerny. State Department. Please sit,” he said. He indicated that she could take any seat at the table.
    “I’m afraid I don’t even know what this is about,” she said. She sat, choosing a seat that allowed several empty chairs between them.
    “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “This is the government. We’re soldiers, aren’t we? We march forward. Orders.”
    “Sometimes,” she said.
    “Sometimes,” he agreed.
    “I suppose you better bring me up to date,” she said. “Explain where I’ll be marching. You talk and I’ll listen.”
    “Quite,” he said. “Excellent. Tell me. Water? Coffee? Tea?” he asked. There was a service on a side table, which held all three.
    “Just some water,” she said.
    He fetched it. She glanced around the room. One reading chair. Reading lamps. Prints from second-rate paintings. Landscapes meant to offend no one. Bookcases without a single book. Michael Cerny sat down again.
    He related that he was actually retired from the State Department after thirty-five years but had returned for a special ten-week assignment. She was off to a good start, assuming he could be believed. She had called that one perfectly.
    “Well,” he said at length. “You have an overseas mission coming up. The president is going to Ukraine,” he said. “Official state visit. Arriving February fifteenth.”
    She glanced at a calendar. It was January seventh. The trip was five weeks and two days away.
    Cerny kept talking. He was, he explained immodestly, an expert on Ukraine, having done two tours in the capital, Kiev, and one in Washington on the Kiev desk, the office that handled Ukraine.
    “I’m not an expert on that part of the world,” she said. “The Ukraine.”
    “I suppose then, that’s where we should start,” he said, “with terminology. They don’t call it that with the definite article any more,” he said, his tone almost professorial. “Let’s backtrack a little. In English, the country was formerly usually referred to with the definite article. The Ukraine, as in the Netherlands or the Congo or the Sudan. However, usage without the article