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Note to Readers
The Russian ambassador, Nikolai Kozlov, stormed out of the room, his face a mottled red, his black eyes blazing.
Perched on the edge of her seat, Emily Chastain looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and glanced across the conference table at Viktor Sokolov, the Russian ambassador’s executive assistant. She reminded herself that she’d only been the interpreter. The ambassador wasn’t mad at her but at the information she’d translated.
Jay Phillips, the private investigator, shoved his notes into a folder and started to slip them into the briefcase he’d carried into the conference room at the Russian embassy.
Sokolov held up his hand. “Nyet,” he said in a commanding voice. In Russian he continued. “You will leave your papers and data with me.”
Emily translated. “He wants you to leave the documents.”
Phillips shrugged and laid the folder on the table. “The papers aren’t going to change anything. I signed a nondisclosure, and it pays for me to keep what I know to myself. I don’t share the information I compile with anyone other than my client. Otherwise, I would have no business.”
Emily gave Sokolov a shorter version of what Phillips had said.
Nevertheless the assistant’s heavy black brows veed over his nose and he gathered the stack of papers and photographs into a pile in front of him.
Phillips closed his briefcase and pushed to his feet. “Now that the meeting is over, I have an appointment across town in less than an hour.”
“If you no longer require my services, I should be going, too,” Emily said in Russian.
Sokolov’s intense stare turned on Emily. “You will keep the information you have translated private?”
Emily nodded. “I am very discreet. And I signed a nondisclosure agreement when I took this assignment. If we are done here,” she said, “I need to use the ladies’ room and then I need to leave before the traffic gets too hard to make it back to my apartment before rush-hour traffic gets bad.” She spoke the words in Russian. She started to pick up the notebook in front of her.
A hand came down on the notebook and the ambassador’s assistant said, “The notes stay.” He, too, spoke in Russian. The hard look on his face brooked no argument.
Phillips stiffened, his eyes widened, but he didn’t move from his position by the table.
Her heart beating fast, Emily secured her purse strap on her shoulder and stood. Still shaking from the force of anger the ambassador had displayed, Emily’s knees wobbled as she was escorted to the door, alone, without the investigator.
The Russian ambassador had stormed out of the room yelling so loud and fast, Emily couldn’t keep up with his Russian. In his wake, the remaining occupants of the small conference room had sat in stunned silence for moments afterward.
Emily couldn’t shake a bad feeling about this particular translation gig. The urge to exit the Russian embassy overwhelmed her. As she crossed the threshold of the room she made a quick glance over her shoulder at the investigator. He attempted to leave but the guard behind him pressed a hand to his shoulder and forced him to sit. The American investigator shot a worried glance at Emily. Again, in Russian, she said, “Perhaps Mr. Phillips would like to share a cab with me?”
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