1. The Assignment #4
Who is this guy?
Despite her extensive search in the safe, she found no thumb drive, so she shut the heavy, metal door. She’d combed through every inch of that residence and found nothing.
Do it again.
She glanced at the time on her phone. It was almost four in the morning. She would scour the home again, but not before she took ten to clear her mind.
She opened the balcony doors in the primary bedroom, letting the cold air rush into her lungs.
Two white bistro chairs separated by a small, round table.
The space was large enough to accommodate more furniture, but the uncluttered look worked here.
Pausing for a few seconds, she stared out at the twinkling lights of the sleeping city.
Her thoughts floated to the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.
Don’t do it.
Down the stairs she trotted. Instead of veering into the kitchen, she made her way into the home office. Her second search yielded the same results as the first. Nothing.
Dammit.
Seconds later, she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a half glass of Santini Chianti. She hadn’t had any alcohol during her stay in Russia. Yes, Russians drank, but she’d abstained.
Up the stairs she went, through the primary bedroom, and back onto the balcony. After removing her ski mask, she tipped the wine glass, sipped the blood-colored drink. The blackberry, roasted nuts, and chocolate flavors ignited her taste buds.
That’s amazing. A perfect wine.
She sat there in silence, staring into the night, thinking. Had she missed anything? She visualized each room, but she’d been thorough in her search. The thumb drive simply wasn’t there.
With the empty wine glass in hand, she returned to the bedroom, closing and locking the balcony door. To be certain, she rechecked every inch of that room but found nothing.
It was six-thirty in the morning. She needed to get to the airport, so she headed toward the staircase.
The front door opened, then shut with a bang.
Oh, no.
“Signor Santini, è qui?” a woman called out. Mr. Santini, are you here?
“Mr. Santini, it’s me, Pina.”
Halston beelined into the bedroom, bolting into the closet. Off came her jacket. She tugged off her boots and pants, then yanked a lounging robe off the hanger and shrugged into it. Once she’d tightened the sash and wrapped the lapel closed, she hurried out, wine glass in hand.
“Ciao Pina, sono qui,” Halston called out. Hello, Pina, I’m here.
Painting on a friendly smile, she made her way downstairs, the bright lights of the foyer making her squint. Pina was a short, middle-aged woman wearing a housekeeper’s uniform.
“Il signor Santini è dovuto uscire di corsa,” Halston said. “Mi ha chiesto di aspettare, ma è passata più di un'ora.” Mr. Santini had to run out. He asked me to wait, but that was over an hour ago.
Pina gave her the once-over while Halston offered a pleasant smile.
“Il signor Santini non lascia donne qui,” said the housekeeper “?Cómo lo conoces?” Mr. Santini doesn't leave women here. How do you know him?
“Lo conozco del trabajo.” I know him from work.
Before Pina could reply, Halston continued. “Tengo que irme. Es hora de prepararme para ir a trabajar. Sai com'è il signor Santini…” I have to go. Time to get ready for work. You know how Mr. Santini is…
Halston set the wine glass on the counter. “Limpiaré esto antes de irme. Por favor, dile que siento no haber podido esperar más.” I'll clean this before I leave. Please tell him I'm sorry I couldn't wait any longer.
Halston trotted upstairs. In the bedroom closet, she dressed as quickly as she could, then returned to the kitchen. Pina was drying the wine glass with a dish towel.
“Arrivederci,” Halston said without waiting for a response. Goodbye.
She closed the front door behind her, hurried to the gate. It opened, she walked through, strode down the street, and hopped on the scooter.
What an epic fail.
Back at the hotel, she returned the scooter, went to her room and changed into jeans and a black sweater. The hotel clerk summoned a taxi and Halston was whisked to the airport.
Not only had she failed Bulgrov, she’d gotten caught by the housekeeper. She didn’t need to fess up about the wine, nor the housekeeper, but there was no way she could avoid telling him she’d found no thumb drive.
At nine-thirty that morning, she boarded the plane, eased into her first-class seat, and released a sigh. A lot had happened in a short amount of time.
Twenty minutes later, the jumbo jet taxied down the runway and lifted into the air.
Anticipation had her staring out the window, counting the hours until the plane touched down at Dulles.
She was eager to walk through the doors at Langley and thank her handler in person.
She couldn’t wait to walk on American soil, eat American food, maybe even sneak away from the embassy to meet a friend or two.
Was that really Caroline Austin in the framed photo on Mr. Santini’s shelf?
Even more than any of that… who is this Santini guy, and where in the hell was that damn thumb drive?