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.”