a quick trip down to the office after the end of a stakeout detail.
Running her knuckle across her full, wide lips, Laserka tried to interpret the disappearance of Alexandronin’s e-mail account. It was probably a security ploy on her old mentor’s part, using a one-time temporary address, then closing it down. Alexandronin was still a reviled name in the halls of the RIA because of his interference with an effort to put things back to what many KGB veterans felt was a finer time and way of doing business. Laserka had escaped the prejudice of the old hard-liners by being young, pretty and a hard worker. A short hospital stay during the time Alexandronin was offending the old guard also conveyed a cloak of anonymity to the lady agent.
Whenever Alexandronin wanted to get in touch with his former student and partner, he would create a temporary, easily disposable and recognizable e-mail address that would last only long enough for a brief, anonymous exchange. This kept Laserka from getting into trouble with her superiors, but kept the friendship the pair shared alive and vital. Sometimes, the two gave each other news of prevailing politics that would affect her career or his exile, as far as they could determine.
The death of Catherine did not appear to be a random act of violence. That Catherine and Vitaly both were targets of bitter old enemies was not news to Laserka. Husband and wife both kept themselves armed, contrary to Great Britain’s inane and ineffectual firearms laws. Laserka had noted several instances of violence over the years that the English nanny legislation had failed to prevent.
On a whim, Laserka performed a quick search, entering the keywords “Russian, violence and London” into the news database. Almost instantly, several article links popped up on the screen, detailing a violent battle that had left eight dead in the London docks, only a few hours before. The only person with identification was a Russian national. The name was not a surprise to Laserka, though reading “Vitaly Alexandronin” plunged a dagger of sadness between her ribs. She tried to blink away the beginnings of tears, swallowing hard to remove the knot of a forming sob from her throat.
Laserka closed the search engine and hurried to the washroom after shutting down her computer.
Though they had been separated for almost fifteen years, the man had been like a surrogate father to her. She barricaded herself into the toilet stall and took a seat, allowing the tears inspired by the death of a dear friend and his wife to flow. Being in the minefield of RIA office politics had given her the ability to smother her sobs to inaudible squeaks and deep breaths, but her eyes cast forth a torrent of weeping. Laserka was glad that department regulations frowned upon the wearing of mascara at the office. At least now she didn’t have to mop streaks of black left in the wake of her tears.
She could imagine Alexandronin chiding her for being so lazy and mannish about her appearance, happily giving in to regulations rather than spend a few moments beautifying herself in the morning. A chuckle broke through where sobs had been held silent and at bay. Her mentor had always been one to find the positive in life. It was a trait that the cold war veteran had developed to keep himself sane through years of Soviet oppression. The gentle memory of friendly admonishment felt like a message from the ghost of her mentor, reaching between the worlds of the living and the dead to give her a bit of comfort.
It took a few minutes for the tears to pass, toilet tissue sopping the wetness from her cheeks. Finally, Laserka took a deep breath, checked her reflection in the mirror and returned to her desk. No one paid attention to her; a pair of reading glasses swiftly perched on her nose hid her eyes somewhat. They wouldn’t have a good chance to see the redness in them. She fired up her computer again, keeping herself buried out of sight inside her drab, gray cubicle.
Laserka had paperwork on the surveillance operation to complete, and the sooner it was done, the sooner she could go back home to her Spartan apartment and mourn for her friend and mentor, preferably with a bottle of vodka. The quiet goodbye ceremony would be a proper send-off for Alexandronin and his beloved wife.
Laserka opened her notebook to enter her data into the GUI when she noticed a small warning flag on her screen. She clicked on it and opened up a new window.
“Unauthorized Web search activity, Laserka, K., scanning articles pertaining to Vitaly Alexandronin,” the pop-up declared. Laserka bit her lower lip in concern, cursing her curiosity and decrying the snoopiness of the RIA information technology team.
“Report to Supervisor Batroykin for debriefing,” a new pop-up informed her.
Batroykin was a bastard and a half, stuffed into a half-bastard-sized container, she thought. The old-school KGB veteran was five feet tall and nearly five feet in circumference, a bald little blob of rice pudding packed into a polyester tent of a cheap suit. For the illustration of the pathetic old guard who clung to the ideals that Alexandronin betrayed, Laserka didn’t have to go much farther than the bloated, multiple-chinned official.
Laserka took a damp kerchief and pressed it to her eyes to lessen the bloodshot qualities of her whites. The cool water from her glass helped to ease the burning irritation behind her lids, but not the irritant that now started to fester under her skin, the irritation of Batroykin. She frowned, looking at her eyes in the small mirror she kept in a drawer. They still looked reddened, but there was no sign that she had been crying. It was more as if she had just suffered a small allergy attack. Many of the things in her office, from the hand-sanitizing gel to shavings from her pencil sharpener could have given her eyes her current amount of discoloration.
She gathered her nerves, then walked into Batroykin’s office. The bald, pasty gnome glanced up at her, his beady eyes looking at how her skirt hugged her athletic but still curvaceous hips, eyes lingering down to her feet clad in short-heeled pumps.
Laserka cleared her throat. “You called me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Kaya,” Batroykin offered, waving his hand to a chair in front of his desk. He made no bones about the leer he directed at her toned, muscular calves.
Laserka took the offered seat, in no mood to raise a fuss over his obvious sexual harassment. In fact, she was hoping to capitalize on it to keep her out of trouble. For the man-blob’s sake, she even crossed her legs to give him a good show. It was callous to appeal to Batroykin’s lechery to lessen any harsh punishment she may have incurred by snooping online for news about Vitaly Alexandronin and his wife, but surviving in a Russian bureaucracy was a deadly chess game. “You sent a warning to me about a news article I looked up? The murder of Vitaly Alexandronin?”
“Actually, it was the article about the brutal attack on a defected reporter in London,” Batroykin said. “A hyperlink in an e-mail you opened today.”
“Oh, because I had done a little digging. Alexandronin was found dead earlier this morning,” Laserka replied.
Batroykin showed interest in the form of a worm-like white eyebrow arching on his puttylike brow. “So you weren’t contacted by the traitor? He didn’t try to ask for your help in determining the assassination of his wife? After all, you had been his partner for the first year of your career.”
“My training officer, not my partner, sir,” she lied. “How would you like being condescended to every day for eight hours?”
“How am I sure you’re not talking down to me right now?” Batroykin asked.
Laserka sighed, letting her so-called superior get a look at the low neckline of her blouse, purposefully unbuttoned to reveal her freckled cleavage. She caught a glint of delight in the old gnome’s eye, his pink, slug-like tongue glistening as he licked his lips. She spoke again, drawing his attention back to her face. “Because, sir, we have always had a good relationship. Or your approval of my performance has lead me to believe.”
