“Devushka?” someone whispers. I turn to the man in the aisle. He holds out a small leather-bound book. “Eta tvoya?” Is this yours?
I’ve only seen his picture for a minute, but I recognize the salt-and-pepper hair and beard, and friendly smile lines at the corners of his eyes. He presses the prayer book into my hands and I accept it. “Da, spasibo, dyadya.” (That’s “uncle,” and I’m not ad-libbing a cover this time; it’s a term of respect.)
Are we staying through the whole church service? I gaze-point at the doors.
My liaison gives an almost imperceptible nod. I check behind me once as he meanders out. I linger a minute before I follow.
He’s waiting on the sidewalk and starts walking toward the rynok, the open-air market by the cathedral, as soon as I reach him. “You should button your coat,” he says as a Russian greeting. Yep, he’s been here a while. I heed his pestering. It’s everybody else’s business whether you’re dressed for the weather here. Everything is everybody else’s business.
“Was the flight too terrible?” he asks.
“Always.” Doubt he knows how much I hate flying. I try not to make it a big deal, but I wish Danny had been there to distract me from the vicissitudes of aviation.
My liaison’s quiet until we’ve rounded the corner to the cathedral’s side. “Name’s Semyon,” he says in English.
A Russian name. Uh huh. “Lori.”
“First time in Russia, Lori?” he asks. “Or just Rostov?”
“Neither, actually.”
“Welcome back.” He monitors the straggling worshipers hurrying to the doors. “Need anything?”
“Another suit and a couple skirts. Shoe polish. Sponge.”
“Measurements? European sizes?” He starts walking toward the market again, trying to look like we’re not together.
I tuck my coded list of requests — fall weather wear and another business outfit — between the prayer book’s pages. “Cheritishop is good.” James Bond might wear a newly made, freshly tailored suit, but in the real world, you draw a lot less attention with normal, local, gently worn-in clothes. Real spies shop thrift stores: nothing too new, nothing too nice, nothing too foreign.
“Delivered to your room, tsaritsa?” That would be empress.
I pretend he isn’t being sarcastic. “Sure. Hermitage Hotel.” I pause to admire a table of lacquer boxes (cheap knockoffs, not the real kind painted with a single squirrel hair) (seriously). Semyon wanders on, and I take a few minutes before I catch up.
“You all set?” he asks. “Any tools or anything?”
Gadgets and gizmos are kind of cliché, but I do have a few — and more than a few standard-issue tools on board. “I’m going shopping, but I’ll let you know if I need anything else.” This time, I amble ahead, and he reaches me between two stalls.
“So, how’d they task you with executive protection? No offense,” Semyon adds quickly. “Just that I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”
“That’s why I make the perfect bodyguard.”
“Got a point there.” He hands over a SIM card. “Text me the room number; my number’s on there.”
Good thing I packed a spare phone. Though I’d love for our communication to be more secure, I’m sure he’s got our calls set to be rerouted until they’re next to impossible to trace. He’d better — he’s the only thing in Rostov linking me to the Agency.
I walk a couple feet ahead, past a booth selling spoons and shoes. “You have a good cobbler?” I ask. Doubt English slang for a document forger translates.
“Yep. Need something?”
“Backups never hurt.”
“I’ll pull your files.” He glances around, and the chilly air changes. Something’s coming.
I let the prayer book slip from my hand and we both stoop to pick it up. “Don’t know if they told you in Paris,” he whispers just before we stand, “but we believe there’s an FSB officer in Shcherbakov.”
F. S. B. Federal′naya sluzhba bezopasnosti. Russian domestic intelligence. Yeah, that’s a pretty big deal. “Didn’t mention it.” Before I dragged my husband in to this company. Thanks a lot, Paris.
Semyon takes the prayer book and rises. “Deep under. Recruiting an agent or maybe keeping tabs on their imports and exports.”
I don’t know him well enough to judge whether he’s trying to downplay this, but the implications stream through my mind. Danny could be in more danger than I anticipated — both of us could. My pulse speeds up and I suck in a slow breath to cool it, slowly starting a circuit back to the cathedral.
Semyon takes the lead and pauses around the corner of the cathedral — a blind spot. We have maybe thirty seconds to wrap this up. “Top priority’s executive protection,” he says, “but a close second: find that officer. We know something’s up, and we can’t figure out how to get at it. Haven’t been able to recruit any Shcherbakov employees from outside.”
“Figured out where in the company the officer works?”
“We’ve narrowed it down to R&D. Stay on your toes.”
“You think?” I’ve always operated on my home turf. I’m doubly on my guard just being here. Now I need to step up my game again. I promised Danny we’d be fine — but rather than keeping me apprised of the details, the CIA and its secrecy are biting the hand that spies for it.
“What sector are you meeting with?” Semyon asks.
“R&D.”
He smiles for the first time. “Starting in the right place.”
“Speaking of starting.” I hand over my extra room key. “Thanks, ‘uncle.’”
Even with Semyon’s help, again, I’ve got a lot of work to do before Danny gets here.
I’ve refreshed my Rostov recall and stocked up on the stuff I didn’t ask Semyon to supply — and I could spend another week on prep, easy. Whether I’m ready or not, my time’s up, and I’m back in Rostov International Airport. It feels like a huge, temporary shed that was used for so long, people forgot the “temporary” part and added on. Classic Russia — and pretty confusing. Danny had better arrive okay. The airports in Moscow are about as English-friendly as we get here, and even then, navigating alone without a word of Russian? Yeah.
His flight should be here by now. I scan the crowd. After four or five forevers, my heart rate’s accelerated enough I could be the next flight departing the runway. He has to be here. Unless he’s stranded in Moscow. What would we do? Would they send someone after him? How fast? How long do I wait before I text Semyon? Nerves invade my stomach like angry kuznechiki — grasshoppers — getting madder by the minute.
And then Danny strolls in, scanning the signs like he reads Cyrillic. As usual, all my worrying is a waste. He’s here. He made it.
I should run up to him. I should throw my arms around his neck. I should kiss him. But I can’t. I’m Lori. Not Talia. I’m normally good at comopartmentalizing my professional and private lives — almost too good sometimes — but today, Danny has been tossed into my CIA box, and even I’m not sure how to make this work.
He walks past me — hardly surprising, given I’m in the disguise and (some of) the makeup I’ll be living in for the mission. I march up behind him. “Mr. Fluker?”
He jumps a bit and turns. I wait for the exact second it registers that underneath this flashy red coat and the almost too-stylish red hair, it’s his wife —
No. I can’t be his wife. I’m his interpreter, and that’s how I introduce myself. “Lori Dolman. I’ll be your interpreter.”
“Hi.” He shakes my hand, barely veiling the amusement in his eyes. “Call me Danny.”
“Let’s go get your bags, Danny, and head to your hotel.”
We reach the depressingly bare gray walls of the baggage claim. Never thought I’d miss advertising. I watch for his luggage on the conveyor — well, I watch him watching. I’m not supposed to recognize his bags. “Done much business with Russians?” I ask.
“Not a whole lot.”
“I’m sure you’ve read the typical advice: have your business cards and documents translated, be punctual, use an extremely firm handshake.”
Danny stoops to get his suitcase and turns back to me. “Define ‘extremely.’”
“Most people use the term ‘bone-crushing.’”
The laugh and the smile I love shine in his eyes again, but I avoid his gaze. I’m Lori, not Talia. And I’m also not kidding about the “bone-crushing” part. They’ll go easier on a woman, but with guys, it’s like a middle school game of Mercy.
What else does he need to know? “Oh, names. Naming structure’s important. When you want to address a superior, someone you’d call Mr. Jones, here, you’d use his first name and patronymic. That’s like his middle name, but it’s formed from—”
“His father’s name. I know what a patronymic is.”
I snap my fingers like I’m remembering something. “Right. Rocket scientist.”
“Yep.” He flashes a grin and grabs his other bag.
I lead him toward the exit. “You address people at your level — business acquaintances — by their whole first name. You’d call friends by the short form of their name. They’ll tell you what form to use.”
“And more than friends?”
We pass through the glass doors to the outside, the icy blast chopping the conversation short before I can read his expression. I answer him anyway. “Close friends and family members usually use a diminutive form, like a nickname,” I say, conspicuously skipping over one important category. “So a woman could be Natalia Petrovna at the bank, Natalia with business contacts, Tasha to her friends and Tashen′ka to her grandma.”
“Tashen′ka,” Danny repeats like he’s mulling it over, not quite looking at me.
Another teasing response springs to my lips and I almost literally have to bite it back. This idea suddenly feels really stupid. Not only does Danny not belong in my CIA box, but seeing him is the one thing that seems to tell my subconscious it’s safe to relax in my “private life” box. Can any amount of compartmentalization hide our real relationship, my real identity?
We have to. I straighten my shoulders, all business. All Lori. (My version of her.) “We’ll drop off luggage at the hotel and get changed. Then I hear you’re meeting with Mr. Zverev?”
“Yep.” We hit the outer doors and the humidity and chill — feels like home for a whole new set of reasons: this is exactly what the weather’s like in Ottawa now, and to have Danny at my . . . well, not at my side. I monitor Danny and his first glimpses of Rostov. He peers up at the milky sky, a reminder of the winter closing in (as if the freezing temperature wasn’t warning enough). “You’ll want to button up.” I nod at his jacket, too light for this weather. We didn’t pack for a Russian detour.
“I’m fine.”
I give him an okay-but-you’ll-regret-that expression and look to the curb to scan the cabs (and for surveillance). If you’re taking a taxi while traveling abroad, I don’t envy you.
“What are you looking for?” Danny asks, studying the cars.
“Something standard, marked. A company I recognize.” Cabs are a classic way to trap tourists, extort them, mug them, or . . . worse. I lower my voice and angle my head for him. “And surveillance. Get in the habit of checking behind you and scanning crowds for familiar faces.”
Concern flickers over his features, and I add, “Keep in mind that if anyone knew why we’re here, we’d be in trouble.”
The concern in his eyes deepens to a frown, but before I interpret that, I spot a cab marked Lider, a company name I know. Danny follows me and loads his bags, and we get in.
The cabbie, an elderly man with curly white hair, turns to us. He’s missing a few teeth, replaced with gold ones. Cabbie’s got a grille? Welcome to Russia. Somehow the gold makes him endearing instead of threatening.
Not that I trust the guy completely. I give explicit instructions in my most polite Russian, including the exact route to the hotel. The cabbie knows how to get there, but now he also knows I’m familiar with the route, and if he deviates from our course by one turn, I’ll be able to tell.
(He doesn’t realize I’m trained to leap from a moving vehicle, but that’s probably best kept on a need-to-know basis.)
The cabbie confirms my directions and pulls out. When he makes a sharp left onto the street, Danny slides across the seat with the turn, ready to slip his arm behind my back.
The second he starts moving, however, my reflexes kick in, and I plant a hand on his hip to stop him. Danny jumps, eyes wide with surprise, and the daggers I’m staring at him aren’t communicating clearly enough. I eyeball the cabbie (the witness). He’s still on my set course, not spying on us in the rearview (that’s my job). But for all we know, he speaks English.
So I say the only two words I can to communicate the message to Danny. “Mr. Fluker.”
The realization slowly dawns in his eyes — what he’s gotten himself into. I’m not being mean. I’m being Lori. This is exactly what we signed up for.
He shifts away, looking down. “What else do I need to know about Russians?”
Whew. He understands. We both know this is only a few days, but yes, I will have to put my job first. For both our sakes.
“Don’t smile without a reason,” I start the list. “You’ll come off as an idiot. Be on time.”
“You said that.”
“Glad you’re listening.” Before either of us make this into an inside joke, I resume my list. “Dress your best — suit, polished shoes — but I’m sure you can handle yourself.”
His eyes stay fixed on the window. “You really think so?”
I wait until he looks at me to smile. “Yeah. I do.”
He smiles, contemplative, and I take his hand for a surreptitious squeeze. This mission is going to be great — no, it’ll be perfect. I hope.
The cab leaves us at our hotel, its mint-colored exterior and white pilasters and molding like a mini replica of St. Petersburg’s Hermitage (transplanted a thousand miles to the south). I lead Danny under the awning, through the oak doors and up the half-flight of stairs to the lobby. It’s not huge — nothing about the hotel is — but the finishing touches are nice, from the tray ceiling to the gold drapes and sofas, to the gleaming ochre tile. Danny’s lips form a somber line, but he nods his approval.
“Have you worked with an interpreter before?” I ask.
It bugs me I don’t already know the answer to that question. I should, right?
“Not formally.” He focuses on the gold Cyrillic script floating on the wall behind the (empty) walnut and marble reception desk.
“Well, keep in mind it’s my duty to translate everything verbatim. So if you say, ‘I think he’s a jerkface,’ I say, ‘I think he’s a jerkface.’”
Danny finally looks at me, one eyebrow quirked. “Can you translate ‘jerkface’?”
“Guess I’d have to think about it.” I allow myself a little smile. “Why, planning on calling someone that?”
“Only if that’s the next custom you’re going to brief me on.”
“Russian insults are an art form. Not sure ‘jerkface’ qualifies.” I give him a wink just before a clerk arrives at the desk. I step up to get him all checked into room 302, next to mine.
The clerk gives me the keys to Danny’s room. I pivot back to him. “All set.”
I show Danny to the elevator alcove. “The ‘verbatim’ thing cuts both ways, so if they ask how the magnetic storm’s treating you—”
“As in the geomagnetic storm?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know. That’s a real thing?”
Danny casts me an amused smirk and takes the paperwork for his room. He indicates the fancy Cyrillic script logo on the letterhead. “Can you read that?”
“Ermitazh. Hermitage. Name of the hotel.”
He sends me an um-duh? look. Right. Rocket scientist. “Obviously,” I add belatedly.
D
anny makes an effort to keep our fake small talk alive. “Where are you from?”
I pick one of the many states I’ve lived in for an answer. “Oklahoma.”
“Sooners fan?”
“Not into sports.” The elevator finally arrives to rescue us from this awkward chat, and we board. No one else joins us, and the doors slide shut on our silence.
“Sorry about the cab,” I finally try.
“My own fault.” The words echo across a stilted distance, as if we really are strangers. But it’s only awkward because we have to keep up this front.
The elevator slows to halt at our floor, and the doors slide open to reveal two overstuffed armchairs, deep red with gold stripes. I take one of Danny’s bags for him and march down the hall to our rooms. Once I’ve unlocked the door, I give him the key. (No comment on where the other key went.)
Danny deposits his suitcase between the desk and another of those red-and-gold striped armchairs. I follow him to park his other suitcase there. Not much space anywhere else in the nice but narrow room. I keep my gaze on the obnoxiously rosy two-tone walls — do they have ears? Or eyes?
He holds out a hand, but until I can answer my question, I have to turn him down. “I’ll let you get changed,” I say, ready to make for the hall again.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” I keep my voice neutral to play dumb, but when Danny and I face each other, I give an exaggerated shrug. I don’t know if the room’s a safe place to talk. One of a dozen things I would’ve done if I’d had more time to set up.
But I’m not totally unprepared. “Remember, there’s no such thing as business casual,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He gives me a thoughtful “hm” before I hurry to my room. I’ve got to change, too. In Russia, no respectable interpreter — no respectable woman — would work in a professional environment in pants. (You can wear them whenever you want, but if you’re doing business, buck tradition at your own peril.)
I didn’t bring business attire on my honeymoon, but between Lori and Semyon, I’ve got a decent wardrobe and my makeup case is now ridiculous. We’re talking the works: moisturizer, toner, primer, foundation, concealer, highlighter, contouring powder, lipstick, lip liner, lip gloss, three shades of eye shadow, two kinds of mascara, loose powder, fake eyelashes, and the latest edition of PhotoShop. (Kidding.) (Kind of.)
Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 61