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Love and spy: An Ideal City for a Murder

A picture that accidentally fell out of a book excited a host of recollections in the narrator, a Russian-English interpreter and spy twenty years before, who had accompanied a small British delegation during its two days visit to Moscow in the early nineties of the past century. The delegation consisted of the top manager of a big British arms company – his name is Robert Hewlett - and his secretary Mary Kilgorn. The narrator – his name is Sergey - is about forty, very handsome (and he’s fully aware of this fact as it soon comes out, because he uses his good looks and charm as a means of worming secrets out of the women he comes into close contact with). The novel is set in the early nineties Moscow with its horrible realities of wild capitalism, raging criminality, total corruption and degradation of moral values.

DaoistVlxFB1 · Realistic
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29 Chs

Night One

1

At ten past eleven p.m. Ann's cell phone got back to the grid. Her voice was tired and hollow:

"Where are you?"

"Do you need me?" I tried to put in my tone as much of anxious tenderness as I could.

"Yes, I want to see you," she said simply. "Can you come?'

"Where are you?"

"In my hotel. You can come up directly to my room. It's 306."

"Ok, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Where is she?" asked Patricia sitting up in the bed. Her breast was little and turgid to match her juvenile face. She didn't care to cover it with the blanket as most women do (especially in old movies), she was obviously proud of it, as she was proud of her entire figure which slipped out of the bed and now stood naked in front of me. I couldn't help admiring her and she was pleased to see that expression of admiration in my eyes.

"She's here," I said. "Somewhere in the vicinity. On this floor."

"Oh," she said , stretching out languidly. "It's going to be a tall order for you, on such a short notice, isn't it?" she said with a mischievous smile heading to the bathroom swaying on her long shapely legs.

I kept silent but mentally I answered: "No, not yet". I always keep in mind a story about a married couple in visit to a cattle exhibition where at some point they were shown a bull. "It's an exceptional exemplar," explained the guide. "It's capable of coming ten times in a row." "You see, what's a real male capable of?", remarked the wife acidly to her husband. The guide understood his gaffe and took immediate measures, adding: "But you know, ma'm, every time it's offered a different cow."

"You'd better take a shower," said Patricia, standing in the door of the bathroom. "A woman can always smell another's woman traces on a man. You shouldn't underestimate this danger."

She was right.

Once in the bathroom, with astonishment and terror mixed to proud I felt that the vicinity of Patricia's perfect and pinky body brought about the usual reaction. She noticed it on her hip and said with some bewilderment:

"You're insatiable. But you must spare yourself for Ann."

She was right again.

Five minutes later I was feverishly getting dressed.

"Don't kiss me, you may take some of my smell, a hot female like Ann will scent it."

She took my hand and said:

"Good luck. She's a good lay, you can take Hewlett's word for that. But bear in mind your final goal."

I nodded and squeezed slightly her hand.

She was looking at me with a strange expression that didn't fit into the scheme of her grimaces.

"You're good," she said finally. "I wish we could meet again."

"There's nothing impossible in today's Russia," I said and made for the door.

"Wait," she said, "be careful. Her room is somewhere here. Look out."

I put my head out of the door and looked out. The corridor was desert and dimly illuminated.

I got out and went slowly examining the slates with numbers on the doors.