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darkened city when the phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Igor. Strange, as a matter of course, all calls from the Agency were ID-masked. He must be calling on a personal line, she thought, although why he didn’t mask that as well, she had no idea.
She picked it up. “Hello?”
“Natasha?”
“Yes. Igor Nikolayevich?” she asked, using the Russian patronymic form of address.
“Yes, I apologize for calling so late. I hope I’m not disturbing you?” His voice was slurred.
“No problem. What can I do for you?”
Pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t finish the briefing today.”
“Not to worry, I can come in first thing in the morning.”
“You fly out tomorrow morning.”
“Afternoon, actually. It won’t be a problem.”
“Rather do it tonight.”
“I appreciate your consideration, but I am rather tired, and I do think tomorrow would be better for me.”
“Busy tomorrow, please tonight?”
Natasha sighed audibly.
“Won’t take half an hour,” Igor said. “Promise.”
“Well…”
“Great. Meet at the front door of the Agency in twenty minutes.”
“The front door?”
“Right. Bye.” He clicked off.
Irritated, Natasha put her skirt back on. These Agency lifers…no reason why it couldn’t be done tomorrow, no reason at all. The only business still to be completed was her housing assignment, and that was usually left to the last minute as a precaution against leaks.
She drove down to the Agency, the big cold stone facade gleaming in the pale streetlights. In ten minutes Igor drove up, narrowly missing a light post. He parked on the sidewalk and left it there. No policeman in his right mind would bother a Mercedes in front of the Agency at night. He would check to make sure the lights were off, and move on.
Igor lurched over to Natasha, still sitting in her idling car. “That’s better, you drive,” he said, climbing in the passenger seat.
“Aren’t we going in for a conference?”
“Safe house,” he said, directing her to start driving down Ché Guevara Boulevard . “Secret stuff.”
Whatever, she thought, as she drove down the deserted streets, backtracking and stopping in the middle of the street as Igor “remembered” the right way to go. She’d heard that in the Northeast District, the streets were busy as late as
eleven o’clock
at night. Amazing.
They finally pulled up in front of an unremarkable–but weren’t they all?–office building. Natasha let Igor go in first, and discreetly nudged a stop in the front doorway as she followed him in. Not that she thought Igor would try anything, but it was better not to be locked in.
He took her to an office on the first floor. It was surprisingly well appointed, with comfortable tables, couches and chairs. It reminded Natasha of those pictures she’d seen of Ramada and Holiday Inn hotels in the Northeast District, which looked so luxurious for ordinary people that she suspected they were fake.
He flicked on a large computer overhead screen. “Housing.”
He showed her a streaming video of the Charles River in fall. People biked or strolled along the river, and a scull moved silently and smoothly in the background.
“We have an apartment on the first floor of this five story brownstone here”–Igor pointed with the on-screen cursor. “Two bedrooms, air conditioned, kitchen with a stove, oven, microwave, dishwasher and all the modern conveniences. And unusual for a building with only ten apartments, it has underground parking.”
The video switched to the apartment’s interior. Natasha’s eyes grew wide as the camera panned over rooms of paneled walls, Oriental carpets, wood and leather furniture, glass-topped hand-carved tables, crystal and Tiffany chandeliers and lamps, a bathroom with a tub on feet and other things she’d seen only in American movies.
Igor watched her. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“The Agency has this apartment?” Natasha asked in disbelief.
“We secured it some time ago to keep an eye on Professor Ginter who lives