by Greg Ahlgren
Natasha blanched. “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”
“Of course not. And as I’ve said, we’re all anxious for your mission in Boston to succeed. I’d hate to wake up one morning and read about deVere in the newspaper, or in one of those intelligence briefings that come with the black tape, know what I mean? I don’t like surprises. And my superiors don’t like them much either.”
“Of course not. You can count on me.”
“Let’s hope so,” Igor had said.
But thus far she had come up with nothing she could send back to Yeltsengrad. The Agency certainly wouldn’t conclude from that that deVere and his cronies were clean–indeed, the total sanitization of his files would be a suspicious tip-off. But she was at a loss to formulate a cogent report to her superiors. And, there was nothing in deVere’s personal history that revealed any clues. For the umpteenth time, she checked the thick paper file she had brought from Yeltsengrad. Born October 2, 1972 in Manchester, New Hampshire. DeVere had grown up in Bedford, New Hampshire, on one of that town’s last dairy farms. Educated in public schools, then at Cal-Poly, a Master’s Degree from the University of Michigan, a PhD from Cornell, a teaching fellowship at MIT followed by the quick achievement of professorial status. A career straight and uneventful. No evidence of radicalism.
Natasha tossed the folder aside on her bed and reached for the nail polish. She had done her left toes first-she always did-and as she waited for the IM3 to hack into another folder she began applying the mauve to her right ones.
DeVere’s computer files were of little help. His career was uneventful until two years earlier when he had participated in the discovery of a subatomic particle now known as SU44, for sub-uranium 44. The discovery had made a mild splash in geek circles. A particle of SU44 could be accelerated to speeds faster than light without converting to pure energy so that it would momentarily appear in two physical locations simultaneously. This was a slight anomaly to Einstein physics, but its existence had been theorized for years. Not exactly Nobel Prize winning quality but interesting to physicists and warranting an inside story in the Boston Globe. Shortly thereafter deVere’s personal files included references to Stephen Hawking, Kip Sone and that Bennett David crackpot. Then eight months ago deVere had stopped making references about his research or his interests.
There was nothing further in his files. And this troubled Natasha the most: the sanitization of all his folders. No trace to sexually explicit websites, no chatting with unhappy marrieds, no anti-Soviet jokes clandestinely Gorenected between fellow closet Soviet-phobes, no gambling pools on college football bowl games, not even the storage of the television schedule for his beloved Red Sox baseball team. If deVere were up to something, he wasn’t storing the information in any of his computer files, and he wasn’t hiding it in written form at his office. It had to be recorded somewhere. What was he up to?
Natasha finished the toes on her right foot, studied them for a moment as she wiggled them around, and then impulsively slammed her laptop shut. She threw herself back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe tonight she’d catch a break. Nigel was picking her up for a Sunday evening department barbecue at deVere’s home in Concord. She didn’t especially like Nigel-he wasn’t her type-but feigning reciprocal interest allowed her to get invitations. Without Nigel, there was no way a lab intern could have wrangled an invite to the department chairman’s home, especially since anyone with half a brain suspected she was Agency.
As an added benefit, Nigel was the old fashioned type who still paid the tab on his dates. On a lab intern’s salary-agents still had to live on their cover’s salary-that kicker was appreciated.
She wiggled her toes again. Satisfied they were dry, she removed the cotton balls and pondered what to wear. She smiled mischievously as she considered ignoring the heat and going with the short black leather shirt with open toed stilettos. THAT would cause a reaction, especially in a wolf like Ginter. Ultimately, she settled on perpetuating the struggling lab intern motif: flat Birkenstocks, bell-bottom jeans and a loose fitting white pullover top. With bra. And long hair put up, of course.
She got up and walked to the bedroom’s only window. The heat continued pouring in. Along the street windows were thrown open but she doubted that the other residents were experiencing any more relief than she was. Maybe, she mused, she should have given in to Igor’s clumsy advances and gotten the air conditioned Charles River digs. The night before leaving she had stood in her Yeltsengrad apartment looking out at a half 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 on the top floor. We’ve kept it since.”
Natasha struggled to control herself. “How far is it from where I’ll be working?”
“Twenty-five minutes by bike,” he said, moving the video feed to the garage. “Which is a fifteen-speed Fuji you see here, beside the car. Your car.”
Natasha squinted at the screen. In the lower corner of the picture behind the red bike with the sleek titanium frame protruded a yellow fender. Could it be?
“Is that a Subaru?” she asked cautiously. It couldn’t be.
Igor consulted his paper file and flipped over a page. “Yes. It says WRX-51, whatever that is.”
Natasha sucked in her breath. The Subaru WRX-51, right out of the showroom without any modifications, was supposedly the fastest car ever made. She had never seen one, but recognized the sleek fender from magazine pictures.
“My car?” she asked cautiously.
“Of course. It goes with the apartment.”
“Looks functional,” she managed to say.
“We like to keep our best agents happy,” Igor said. “Of course, there are other options.” He clicked the video to a quite different neighborhood.
“This is Dorchester.” The camera panned a street of houses in various states of disrepair, with mostly black people staring suspiciously at the camera.
“This neighborhood?” Natasha said almost in disbelief. “We have a house here?”
“This one,” Igor said, zooming in on a corner house. The first floor was ugly brick with rusted but solid-looking iron grating. “As secure as the one on the Charles, if not more so. Nobody expects an Agency operative to live here, of course, so it’s a wonderful cover. If anybody suspects you of being Agency all you have to do is let them follow you home one night and they’ll be cured.” He chuckled.
“How far is this from my work?”
“Half an hour, in good traffic.”
“And the car?”
“It’s on a bus and subway line,” Igor said. “Most convenient. Although we can arrange to lease a Trabant for you should you fill out the necessary paperwork.”
“Given the sensitive nature of my work…”
“Yes, yes, you need the apartment on the Charles. Fancy. I’m so surprised you should think so, Comrade Nikitin.” He clicked back to the first apartment, and let the video run as the camera panned from the heavy wood door of the apartment with beveled stained glass to the restaurants and markets within easy walking distance of the apartment. White mothers and Hispanic nannies played with children along Commonwealth Avenue. Outdoor cafés were busy with what looked like foreign exchange students from Italy, Spain and Scandinavian countries laughing over drinks. The screen showed clothing boutiques and homemade ice cream shops a few minutes walk from the apartment…
“I said, do you have a preference?”
“I, I think the first apartment would be more suitable to my mission,” Natasha said.
“Oh I’m not sure,” Igor said, pausing the video on the view from the back den of the Charles River. “As you know, I have complete discretion in the assignment of housing for Northeast District operatives.
“I would think you could influence my choice,” Igor said. “You see, I don’t get to the Northeast District much, but when I do I like having a place to stay.”
“Of course,” Natasha said.
“I prefer to stay at the Charles River location, as it’s closer to the airport and, as you say, generally more convenient to my mission in Boston. I don’t mind sharing it with you so long as when I’m in town you don’t mind sharing it with me. Make it seem a little less…lonely.” He began caressing her shoulder.
“So show me how you share,” Igor said, moving his hand down Natasha’s blouse. “Good working relations are–yow!” He jumped up, his cheek stinging. Natasha stood across from him, hands held in the defensive posture she’d learned at the academy.
“You know, I could send you to gulag for that,” he snarled. “I could throw your potato-eater of a sister in Siberia. She’d wish she was in Jovanograd.”
Natasha didn’t say anything. She didn’t doubt that he could.
“Normally I would. There’s no shortage of agents willing to cooperate, here and in Boston.” He touched his cheek again. “But there’s somebody above me who wants you there. You’re lucky, Comrade Nikitin, if this were completely my project you’d be on the next train to Nevada. But someone else in the Agency hierarchy must get into your pants.”
Natasha blinked and looked up at him, a look of surprise etched across her features.
“Enjoy Dorchester,” Igor said, digging a key out of his pocket and throwing it on the floor.
For a split second Natasha reconsidered. She saw the wood-paneled rooms and cafés, the bicycle and river, the stroll over the Charles Bridge to MIT and the walks along Commonwealth Avenue. Then she thought of Igor showing up for weekends, and expecting her services, since something told her he’d find reasons to visit Boston frequently.
“Why thank you, Comrade,” she said, stooping to pick up the key without taking her eyes off him. “I think Dorchester should be fine.”
Chapter 4
Natasha and Nigel pulled up in front of deVere’s residence a little after 7:30 p.m. Nigel guided his BMW hybrid convertible in behind a cream colored vintage Ford Pinto parked directly in front of the house. Natasha raised herself up from the deep leather seat to read the sticker on the Pinto’s rear bumper. “The United States will rise again,” the slogan read. At the left end of the bumper sticker was a caricature of the Statue of Liberty and on the right, a waving Stars and Stripes.
“Where does one get such bumper stickers?” Natasha asked in wonderment.
“Oh, those.” Nigel cleared his throat in an embarrassed manner. “A lot of the fire-eaters are putting them on their cars this year. You can get them at the Harvard COOP but you have to ask. They keep them under the counter.”
“Is that Professor Ginter’s car?” Natasha asked.
“No, that one belongs to Judith Wolfe in the Astronomy Department. She and Ginter are old car hounds. I was told she restored it herself.”
“How old is it?” Natasha asked, exiting her door and slinging her bag over her right shoulder.
“I think it’s a 1975 but I’m not sure,” Nigel answered as he came around the BMW and slipped his arm around Natasha’s waist. He appeared annoyed at the question.
The sky was still bright though the sun was low in the sky. The air outside the city was noticeably cooler. Natasha resisted the urge to recoil from Nigel’s arm and instead looked up and smiled shyly. As they proceeded up the walkway he smiled back.
The two-story house was painted bright yellow with five windows across the top and two windows flanking each side of a red center doorway. A mammoth brick chimney painted white protruded from the peak of the roof. Natasha assumed it was a reproduction colonial dating from the 1980s until she saw the granite foundation behind the shrubbery. Inside, the lower than usual living room ceiling confirmed her suspicion.
If her host were disappointed at her attendance he hid it well. “Miss Nikitin!” he beamed upon spotting her. “Nice of you to come.”
He turned and introduced Natasha to his wife and daughter. Natasha estimated Grace to be about 16 years old. Valerie deVere, a tall, thin blonde, looked Natasha up and down before coolly offering her hand. It was a look
Natasha recognized.
Natasha shook the woman’s hand and smiled. No, bitch. I’m not sleeping with your husband.
Nigel ushered her through the house and out the rear kitchen screen door to the back yard. Natasha would have preferred to see the rest of the house-especially deVere’s study-but Nigel’s encircled arm was insistent.
“Yes, I do believe that I’ve met Dr. Arnold,” Natasha said in response to the introduction. Arnold was a squat, balding man with a large head, a former professor who had drifted into some administrative position at the University and who no longer dealt with students. The students were likely pleased. And, according to his file, Arnold was pro-Soviet. Natasha sighed and wondered why it seemed to be the ugly ones who were pro-Soviet.