Bad Russian 02.04 ivy Page 3

  The journey will take about an hour. Without haste, I should immediately leave this vicinity. For the sake of safety. My safety and that of the mission.

  I should absolutely not wait around by the street entrance to the State Department’s Annex.

  Under no circumstances should I follow my hunch that she will return. If she did, and I were to approach her, it could endanger the mission. So, whatever I do, I should not do that.

  Chapter Six

  Her

  My judgment around men is pretty much a dumpster fire. So the fact that I’m literally aching for him is enough to know for sure. I should keep a long way away from him at all costs.

  Lucky that there’s pretty much no way that I’ll ever see him again. What was he doing, looking at me like that? Like I was a steak. Or something in gift-wrap. How very fucking dare he?

  With the glass in one hand, I slip into the tiny bathroom that’s connected to my room. Turn on the water for a shower. As I’m undressing, I hook the chain with Momma’s ring over the door handle. When I take it off or put it on, the chain always gives me a sad feeling.

  I had the ring since Daddy left. Momma told me, ‘You keep it, little bear. As long as you’ve got the ring, I’ll know that your daddy will come back to us.’

  It was a little before my fourth birthday. Even then, I knew that she was kidding herself. Even worse, she was trying to get me to help her to do it. Daddy was never going to come back. I was angry that Momma chose to slip into the fantasy over getting on with reality.

  I step into the spray of water. Too hot. I’ve been in this apartment nearly a week and operating the shower is still at the edge of my skillset. Where’s the shampoo? As I feel the water on my lips they tingle. Where his lips touched mine.

  The water runs down my skin. I’m hot. The top of the bottle is… damn. Damn. I’m imagining him. Behind me. His sharp suit. Getting drenched. I can’t always stop myself. The bottle top…

  He’s too old. Way too old. A sensation that alarms me begins to stir. I push the thought away quickly.

  I’ll never see him again. What does it matter? Who cares?

  What difference does it make if I’m thinking about him now? His long fingers, the hard, gunmetal gleam in his eye. The slope of his cocked hip.

  I remember that bulge. I sigh. My fingers imagine how it would feel. I bend forward.

  What I saw, how it looked pushing the fabric of his pants, it couldn’t really be that huge. That was impossible. Still, it must be pretty big.

  The water splashes. I’m thinking of his pants. The beautiful shirt. I have that ability. I see something, someone, I can keep the picture in my head a long time. Feel it. Feel him. I remember the silver links in his white cuffs. The fine cotton of his shirt tucked in behind the belt. His heavy buckle. My mind wanders. I wonder. His pants. Buttons or a zipper?

  I don’t want to think about the thickness of it. Or how hard it would be. Or how much it might hurt. It really can’t be that big.

  Buttons, I decide. One, pop! Two, pop! Three, pop! And–four! POP!

  Silky boxers. Royal blue. With a great weight behind.

  Splash.

  How would that taste? I imagine the heat of it. Sliding over my tongue.

  Him. Taking charge. His hands. His lips. His tongue. Taking. Whatever he wanted. Touching me. His weight. His strength. Behind me. Opening me up. Taking me. Pulling my head so he can look into my pleading eyes. His lip. Curling.

  Fixing my eyes with his. Holding my lips apart. Burning me up. Snatching my breath with his mouth. Breathing me in. Sliding along my body, wet against his suit. Pressing into me. My wetness against his muscle. Gripping him. Me, soft, wet and slick, wrapped tight on him. Hard. Hot. Urgent.

  Oh.

  Feeling him. Thicken. Harden.

  Lengthen.

  I’m shuddering in the cascade, leaning almost helpless against the tiled wall. I hear my phone. I don’t care. Not for this moment.

  I see the image of his eyes. Feel the glow. Sink onto the strength of his huge hands.

  I tremble again.

  Whoever is calling, they can call back.

  I’m sitting in the corner. The water’s still running.

  My phone stops. Then it rings again. I ignore it a second time.

  Out of the window, it’s starting to get dark already.

  My phone doesn’t recognize the number calling. Neither do I. The unfamiliar number on the screen makes me jump. I guess my thoughts were drifting more than I realized.

  I fish the phone out of my purse. “Unknown number”

  Press the green button, hold the phone to my ear. “Yes? Hello?”

  I recognize my line manager’s voice. He sounds agitated. “Saskia? Are you okay? There’s been-” then someone interrupts him and I hear the crackle and rustle of the phone being handled.

  A steely female voice comes on the line, “Miss Keene? This is Donna McCleaver. I’m the Director of the records division. We met.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “You have to come back in.”

  “Yes. Of course.” I feel as though I’m yammering. I feel pangs of guilt. Guilt for buzzing with whiskey when the Director is calling me. I know that I’m wrong to feel that way. I’m on my own time now. I was already late leaving the State Department this evening. I have no reason to feel guilty. But people in authority always seem to have that effect on me.

  “Of course. I’ll be in, very first thing in the morning.”

  “Now, Ms. Keene. You have to come back right away.”

  “But, I…”

  “Now, Keene. Take a cab.”

  “But I’m only…” A dozen blocks away, I was going to say. But she already hung up.

  So I don’t have much choice. Now, out of my meager compensation, I get to take another cab straight back where I came from. Back to the State Department, although by the time I find another cab, it would probably be quicker to just walk.

  And now I can’t decide whether to finish the whiskey before I go, or if I should spend the time gargling with peppermint mouthwash. The thought makes me panic. The tone in the Director's voice was not friendly. When I arrive with the scent of whiskey on my breath, that’s not going to be making a good impression.

  I know I’m worrying too much. It’s how I react to authority. Always. I’ve tried to train myself out of it. Nothing seems to work, though.

  So back I go, rushing to the State Department Annex. Back to where I came, feeling worse than I did when I left and about thirty dollars poorer.

  Chapter Seven

  Him

  The spot where I park the van, in the shade of an old oak tree, I could be seen from the State Department Annex reception area. This is so against protocol. If I were still a case officer, running my old division of the GRU, I would have to hand myself in or sanction myself, or risk a very nasty court-martial.

  Lucky at least that I’m a contractor now. An entrepreneur in the post-Soviet Union era.

  From the hurry she was in when she ran out of the archive, I understand how desperate she was to get away. It’s not surprising at all. She must have been terrified. Drinkwater would certainly have killed her if I had been a moment later.

  I knew that he was an idiot, but I never suspected him to be that reckless.

  She must’ve reported the incident to somebody, but whoever it was, they didn’t send a search party. So I’m thinking, she gave a report to the first person she saw and then she ran. Understandably, as I say.

  So, they may work out that their Deputy Secretary is missing, they may not. Either way, though, it won’t be long before they realize that their surveillance system has been compromised. Then they will either tell her to come back, or they will go and get her.

  My guess is they will tell her to come back, because if she sees them coming for her in force, she will be likely to run away again. That will probably be their reasoning.

  So my question is, how far away will she get before they tell her
to come back?

  And I’m guessing, not very far. It could be that she took the metro, so she may have been without a signal until she left the train. If she traveled by ground transportation, then she’s probably on her way back already.

  Two Hummers pull up in front of the State Department Annex. A SWAT team, about a dozen strong, hassle out smartly and into the building. While they move into a room behind the reception desk, the two Hummers speed away around the corner and out of sight.

  So. I was right.

  She is on her way.

  This could be difficult.

  A few minutes later, a cab slows to pull up. Its light is off. This is her. I need to move fast.

  I drive around. Slow, keeping as far into the shadows as I can. The cab is pulling up by the curb on the other side street. I drive up behind it. She’s getting out. I wish there were a way to do this nicely.

  Pulling off the rubber mask, I drive around the taxi and pull up hard, by the side of her. I roll down the window. “Get in”

  She stops. Startled.

  “Quick!” With more urgency, I tell her, “Get in. Now.”

  She recognizes me. First she’s pleased. Eager. Then she’s suspicious. Reluctant, she pulls back. She is hesitant. Looking around her. Looking at the glass atrium of the State Department Annex.

  I tell her again, “Come on.” More urgently.

  She says, “I can’t,” and she looks around again. “I have to go.” I can see that she wants to. I love that I can read her so clearly.

  “Get in.” I’m firm. That’s exactly what she needs. She reaches for the door handle.

  “In the back,” I order her. At last, she moves quickly to do as I tell her. When I press the control, the door slides to close. I’m impatient. These automatic doors are so slow. Partly to keep her busy, I tell her, “My name is Arkady and I’ll be your savior tonight.” And from now on, but I don’t tell her that.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Saskia.”

  “Turn off your phone and give it to me.”

  At first she looks startled, but she looks straight in my eyes. I nod. Reluctant, she does it. I need her to trust me. But for now, I’ll make do with having her obey me.

  As soon as the door clicks shut, I lock it and gun the engine. We pass the State Department Annex. From the lobby, the SWAT team swarms out. They’re on the sidewalk with guns raised.

  “What’s happening?” She pleads. Her face is pressed against the window. I hope the SWAT team can’t see through the dark tint of the windows. At least one of them is bound to have an infrared sight, though.

  I turn the car away from the building. She spins to look out the back. I want to tell her not to do it. Tell her that she’s helping them to catch her. I know it won’t do any good, though. She doesn’t know who to trust. Anyway, if I’m going to get her away to safety, I need to concentrate.

  The Hummers are turning into the end of the street behind us.

  “Is that really your name, Arkady?”

  “It really is, and you are the only person in this country to know it, actually.”

  “Are you Russian?”

  “You are very observant, Saskia.”

  There’s a rumble from the box at the back. She’s startled. “There’s something in the trunk.”

  “I don’t think the Deputy Secretary is going to like you calling him ‘something,’”

  In the mirror I see her face drain and her eyes narrow.

  “Who are you?”

  “Right now? I’m your white knight. Your guardian angel.” She scowls. I tell her, “I’m your hero.”

  “I don’t know that I need a hero.” She is smart. And composed. Her voice is like cool water. Like fresh sunlight.

  “That’s exactly why you do need a hero at this precise moment.” My love, I have to stop myself from adding. “First things first. I need to stop us both from getting killed. And the Deputy Secretary, of course.”

  At the next available turn, I make a hard left. Accelerating hard, I get through a set of lights, then turn again. This time to the right.

  There’s no way that I’ll lose them by outrunning them. Their vehicles are too powerful. The Mercedes is fast and I’ve had the engine tuned, but it won’t keep in front of the Hummers for long, and they will be calling in support.

  I need to change the game. I’m hunting for somewhere to park up. I need a dark side street though, or an indoor parking garage. A cab was my choice because it makes great camouflage in traffic, when I’m on the move. Parked up, it would stand out like a beacon.

  “Where are you taking me?” Her voice trembles. I snatch a look at her eyes in the rearview mirror. I wish I could do something about how afraid she is. I feel good protecting her, but I wish I could reassure her. And I wish I knew how to answer her question.

  “Somewhere safe,” I tell her.

  “Were those men waiting for me?”

  I look at her in the mirror again. “You know that they were.”

  There’s a ramp up ahead to a parking garage. But I hear a siren too far behind. If they see me drive in, I could be trapped. Those Hummers can be fast. The next turn is too far away. They’ll catch up either way. At the turn or here. Better that I choose the ground. Keep the initiative.

  Quickly I decide. I swerve down the ramp. Catch a parking ticket at the barrier. Drive in. I know that they saw me. They’ll be accelerating to run in after me and to block the exit.

  Inside I turn, fast. Swipe the ticket, wait for the barrier to rise. Move forward and stop under the barrier.

  I kill my lights and wait in the darkness. The lights of the two Hummers swing. Tires screech as they turn to the ramp. I wait as long as I dare, while the front vehicle gets to the barrier on their side. The other one is moving to block the exit. They haven’t seen me here yet.

  Then I floor the pedal and blast out. I swerve back the way that I came.

  I screech out, right between them. Tires screaming. While the Hummers are reversing, maneuvering to get out, I make it to the next turn, and I’m gone.

  “You see?” I tell her, “They are after you.”

  “It’s more likely they’re after you.” She sounds more calm now. Maybe she has begun to adjust to the circumstances. Perhaps my display of skill is giving her some confidence.

  “They would be,” I chuckle, “if they knew who I was.”

  I’m impressed that she has shown almost no fear. Thought, anxiety, apprehension. But not fear. The corners of her eyes are tight and her lips are dry. But she’s very much in control of herself. She doesn’t give away any clue of panic.

  The only sign of nervousness I see is when she reaches to her throat. She puts her hand on her chest, and her fingers flatten and stretch. Like she’s looking for something that isn’t there.

  It’s the chain. I remember the chain with the ring on. I knew that it was sentimental for her. She lost it. Or, more likely, took it off and forgot to put it back on. Now she’s missing it.