watched her with rapt appreciation, then cleared his throat. “So, do you know who had sent you the article about Catherine Rozuika?”
“I had asked when he first started these updates, but he evaded the question,” Laserka continued to lie. Having had over a decade and a half to develop a good cover story for the mystery e-mails, should they have been discovered, gave her more than sufficient practice to let the misinformation roll off her tongue. She hated to be duplicitous about her connection to Alexandronin and his wife, but the truth might cost her more than a paycheck.
She could always get another job, but she only had one brain for an irate hard-liner to put a bullet into.
“Any suspicions?” Laserka asked.
“Many loyal agents were purged from Russian Intelligence in the wake of Alexandronin’s exile,” Laserka said. “I have a list of four possible former operatives who would rightfully bear a grudge against him. It’s on my computer.”
“You mean this list, Kaya?” Batroykin asked, handing her a slip of paper. He had likely hoped to surprise her into revealing any inconsistencies in her story, but Laserka had purposefully constructed the list and her notes to maintain her secrecy with Alexandronin. “It is a very thorough research on your part.”
“I wanted to be able to present the bona fides of these e-mails if they resulted in something important,” Laserka explained. “I know how you prefer to have solid intelligence from reliable sources. Your thoroughness is legendary, sir.”
Batroykin showed a flash of ego gratification at her statement. “You are an excellent agent, my dear. I’m certain that I can make your inappropriate Internet usage into some vital information that I required. After all, what is your job?”
“Intelligence agent, sir,” Laserka answered, putting a small tinge of bubbliness into her voice.
Batroykin nodded, the magnanimous king of this particular cubicle farm, passing his approval down to a loyal serf. “Precisely, my dear.”
He got up, waddling around the desk to rest his plump hands on her shoulders. Laserka tried not to laugh at the similarity of this situation to western “sexual harassment training” videos. He gave her shoulders a squeeze that was likely meant to be soothing and seductive, but it was more like a mentally challenged farm boy trying to cuddle a kitten and crushing it inadvertently to death. She winced and restrained the urge to rake his face with her fingernails. For all his apparent softness, the squat gnome of a man had a grip like a vise.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Kaya?” he suggested softly. “Perhaps go shopping for something nice to wear this weekend.”
“Why? What’s happening then?” Laserka asked, genuinely curious.
“I have to attend a formal gala for a ranking party member,” Batroykin replied. “It’s mostly an official invitation. I’d prefer to have a winsome, but skilled operative with me than my wife. In case the Chechens decide to cause unnecessary drama at the event.”
Laserka resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She and other female agents had been on these “escort missions” before, and they always ended up with skimpy dresses and unwanted gropes under their skirts. “I’m honored, sir. But my paycheck has already been spent.”
Batroykin returned to his seat behind the desk, pulling out a small plastic card. “Since this is an official sortie, you can use an agency purchase card.”
Laserka raised an eyebrow, taking the plastic.
“Dismissed, Kaya,” Batroykin said. “Oh, and my preference is for red, backless dresses. And make it a good one. These are important people, and they’ll know cheap off-the-rack crap at first blush.”
“Thank you, sir,” Laserka replied, wondering how she could get out of attending the function.
T RYING TO FIND A TRENDY and affordable backless dress in Moscow was hardly something that Kaya Laserka was familiar with. She would have had better luck locating a five kilogram package of Afghan Black Tar heroin or a cache of smuggled Heckler & Koch submachine guns. She sent out a few calls to friends on her cell phone, but the circles she ran in on the few brief moments she spent off the job were equally clueless about where to find something scarlet, slinky and fashionable. Finally, her friend Bertie gave her a suggestion that bordered on life saving.
“Why not give one of your informants a call? They should know where to find at least knockoffs of big-name dresses,” Bertie said. “Your boss wants skin and curves, not a label. He wouldn’t know Dior if the designer himself bit him and sang a chorus of ‘I’m a fancy dress I am!’”
“My hero,” Laserka said.
So here Laserka was, standing outside a warehouse that was a covert marketplace for smuggled goods from outside of Russia. Though capitalism and western retail had invaded Moscow with a vengeance, despite the political backslide of the current administration, the black market was still prosperous, usually having better prices than the state-and foreign-owned department stores, as well as a better selection. Laserka had changed out of her office wear, which would have labeled her as a government official of some sort. Instead, she wore a black turtleneck, a hooded sweatshirt with an unauthorized rhinoceros logo on one lapel, and a pair of knockoff jeans that hugged her long, athletic legs. She kept her pistol on hand, in a small black leather purse just large enough to hold the compact weapon and two spare magazines.
There were a couple of burly men at the side door to the warehouse, their build and alertness pegging them as former Russian army, probably hired as much for their size as for their military training to serve this particular clandestine market. Laserka walked up to the pair as they glowered at her. “Is the store open?”
One man’s eyes narrowed as if rusted gears struggled to motivate in his primitive skull. “Are you police?”
It was a standard challenge. If a buyer entered, denying his or her law-enforcement status, any evidence gathered on such an excursion was considered inadmissible to the well-bribed Russian judiciary. If Laserka did admit she was a cop, any purchase she made would be used against her by proprietors if she had to testify against them.
Since Laserka’s department dealt mainly with narcotics and military-grade weaponry, not jeans or watches, she grinned. “Off duty. I need a dress.”
The two hulking goons looked at each other, then chuckled. “Come on in, Off-duty.”
“Make sure you give us a good look when you try your dress on,” the other said with a leer.
Laserka winked and squeezed past the two hired muscle and entered the warehouse.
Inside, all she found were empty tables. Confusion seized Laserka for a moment. Certainly the proprietors toured a series of abandoned buildings to keep ahead of the Moscow police, but her informant, Vladimir, had said that the bazaar would be at this location today. It took only a few heartbeats to scan the empty warehouse for signs of life, and she whirled toward the doorway she’d just entered. She saw one of the six foot ex-Army hulks blocking the doorway, a wicked spring-blade knife locked in his hand.
Laserka leaped over an empty table, knowing she couldn’t get to her concealed Makarov in time. The sound of the knife spring echoed in the old warehouse as a four inch spear-point blade rocketed out of the handle. The razor-sharp tip plucked at the hood of her sweatshirt as she dropped
