Day One

1

How did it all start?

I said:

"Well, what have we got this time? And why such a short notice?"

Pavel handed me a picture from which a handsome man in his mid-forties, with greyish hair and very live eyes was looking at me, his lips were touched by a faint impish smile. A wink was ready to cover his left eyeball in the following moment, and somehow I felt it was meant for me. There were two women's faces in profile that aptly completed the composition of the picture from both sides of the man's head.

"Our man has suddenly changed his plans. He was to come here in two weeks, and we had plenty of time to plan everything. So now we almost have to play by ear, sorry for that."

"Who is the target?" I looked up at him.

"The ugly one", his finger smacked negligently on the half face of a plump woman (how did I know she was plump? A fat face could be combined with a slim body, but I felt that was not the case) which occupied the left lower corner of the picture. Her age was difficult to guess, it could be from thirty to fifty, her cheek that was the most visible part of her in the picture, had unhealthy red spots, then there was a part of the neck, and my supposition of plumpness of her figure was based mostly on the mass of her cheek and bulging nape. Her looks were not made more graceful neither by her narrow forehead nor by her short curly hair, somewhat reddish and absurdly coquettish over her small eye. Her tiny nose looked out of place, taken by mistake from some other pretty face.

I gasped.

"My deepest sympathy and condolences", said Pavel looking sideways and pretending to be sad. He envies me, he can't help it, and a case like this was a rare opportunity for him to gloat.

I looked at the other woman in the picture who was certainly more attractive. She was in her early forties, her visible eye was painted with good taste, her skin was almost wrinkle-free and was to be silky to the touch. I sighed. She had smooth brown hair, framing in long curve her cheek, a bit too bony for my taste, and part of her thin neck.

"Why not this one?" I couldn't help asking.

"Because she's not here. She's his wife. Had to stay at home, detained by urgent family matters. Usually she travels with him, but not this time. Their daughter seems to be in some trouble."

"And the fatty", "who's she?"

"His secretary."

"Oh, my God. Couldn't he find someone more pretty?"

"That's the point. He had been having a love affair with the previous one, his wife found them out, bullied him into firing her and found him this one."

"Couldn'he put his foot down?"

"In their family the money is hers, the rest – that is brains, education, social position - is his. The same old story."

"When did it happen?"

"About three months ago."

"So, it's as fresh as a yesterday's wound. Was his former secretary sighted here nearby?"

"Not yet, to my knowledge. But I don't rule out her showing up here. As well as his wife's."

"She might be disguised. Did his wife find them out using a private investigator?"

"I think so. "

"So he may be followed here by the same man."

"Maybe. We've got a better remedy against his lovesickness."

"Who?". I've got a sudden flash: "Lena?"

Pavel nodded: "She's the best."

I knew. I knew it firsthand.

In my mind's eye appears a slim figure, big grey misty eyes which can flash with passion or fury or be overwhelmed with deep sadness or tears, she loves flinging her long white hair romantically over her shoulders, her smile is charming and disarming. She looks fragile and defenseless, and I can imagine no man in the world who could resist the pull of her lonely wretched figure sitting on a bench in the city park, better if in twilight – her best starting position -, perhaps sobbing quietly, with her thin hands on her little shoulders, one must be a senseless animal non to stop before such a heart-renting picture.

Another flash brings to my mind her skinny figure dimly covered with a transparent knee-length nightgown, she bashfully covers her face – lovely red! - with her hair, then falls on her back with laughter, raising her hands in a burst of happiness...

She has considerably improved her English, getting rid of her exotic accent that made her still more charming and mysterious.

She's not a whore, we're colleagues, comrades-in-arms, so to say. Her fragile fists and tiny feet can produce destroying hits, she effectively helped me one night in a fight with four drunken lads who might have killed me but for her devastating blows that felled two of them senseless to the ground and put the other two to flight.

Were we in love? That's our job. We must train our love ability whenever an opportunity comes up. It sounds tremendously dry, and false, I know. I have to say so, because it's my job. But every our meeting with Lena, that we chose to be rare, almost occasional, was beyond our daily routine. Yet we remembered what we were and what we were doing. That was hard to forget. We managed to do so for the short time of the foreplay that we tried to make as long as possible, and the other ten or more minutes. Then we had to run from each other.

"What's the secretary's background?" I asked.

"We know little. I'll give you the file when we've got more information. Tomorrow morning, perhaps."

"When do we start?"

"Tomorrow evening."

"How much time do I have?"

"Three days."

I almost choked: "It's impossible, utterly impossible!"

"I know, you must try your best."

"What's the point? What's his line of business? What did he come here for?"

"There will be some secret meetings, to which they will not admit even you, there will be an interpreter from the embassy. Your task is to find out who they will meet with and what they will talk about there. You can do it placing a bug on our secretary or worming it out of her in bed or neaby. And, of course, get out all the information from her personal computer."

"What's her name? What's known about her?"

"Her name is Mary Kilgore. She's Scottish."

"That's something. I should read about her first name, history and meaning, all that stuff. Scottish, that can be a good starting point, nationalism, English oppression. Ok, I'll work on that."

Then something occurs to me, and I ask:

"Is Lena's task the same?"

Pavel gave me a piercing look and answered after a few seconds pause:

"Yes, but for her it's going to be harder. And I ask you, I beg you to avoid meeting her in your room, understood? Understood? You can jeopardize the whole operation."

I nodded. I'm used to lying. That's part of my job as well.