2. I’m Hit #3
Thrilled to be home, she smiled. After collecting her passport, she continued on. Up ahead on the left, a group of limo drivers waited. To her surprise, one of them held a sign with her alias on it.
Minka Kotov
When Halston had taken the assignment, she’d helped create her CIA legend. When asked what she wanted her last name to be, she’d selected Kotov—cat in Russian.
She loved cats. As a child, her family had owned two at two different times, and she grew to respect them.
They were independent, sneaky, lovable. Some were destructive, using any and all furniture as their personal scratching posts.
Others were plain insane. But they were all loving in their own unique ways.
Their first cat slept on Halston’s pillow, snuggled around her head like a hat.
After that cat passed, the second would take up residence on her desk while she did her homework.
He’d climb across the keyboard, sit in the middle of it, and stare at her.
Halston walked over to the driver. “I’m Minka.”
“Zdravstvuyte, gospozha Kotov. My ostanovimsya u zony vydachi bagazha.” Hello, Ms. Kotov. We’ll stop at baggage claim.
“English?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Ambassador Bulgrov said I must speak English, for practice.”
He gave her a tight nod.
“This is my bag.”
His eyebrows jutted up. “Just this?”
“Yes.”
He took it from her, led her through the expansive airport. Outside, the cold air smacked her cheeks. She breathed deep.
I’m home.
Excitement sent adrenaline charging through her. She wanted to run through the parking lot screaming, “I’m home, I’m home!”
Instead, she followed him in silence to the sedan. He set her bag in the trunk, opened the back door. In she went. Grateful he didn’t make small talk, she soaked up the sights at they slogged through rush-hour traffic toward the nation’s capital.
An hour later, the driver stopped in front of the Russian Embassy in northwest DC.
After retrieving her bag, he drove away.
She paused to take in the massive compound.
An eight-story office building straight ahead, a second smaller one to her left.
On the right were a cluster of taller buildings, perhaps apartments.
Okay, Minka, we got this.
She flashed her Federation government ID at the security guard and into the main building she went. Since the woman at reception was on the phone, Halston hung back. She ended the call, motioned for her.
“Minka Kotov. I’m Ambassador Bulgrov’s—”
The woman offered a pleasant smile “How was flight?”
“Good, thank you.”
“I call Natasha.” She gestured to the waiting area. “Please be comfortable.”
Halston set her bag on the sofa, glanced around the large lobby.
To call the space ornate and ostentatious was an understatement.
The east wall was adorned with a large portrait of the Russian President and his cabinet.
On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the outgoing Ambassador.
Various paintings of the mother country filled any bare spots.
Gold vases and urns rich with Russian history adorned the tables.
Six steps led to the first floor, their walls decorated with more art.
A row of massive chandeliers lit up the double-wide hallway with offices on both sides as far as Halston could see.
A few minutes later, a short, thick woman in her late thirties charged into the lobby, her gaze narrowing in on Halston. Dressed in a brown suit with brown heels, she offered no smile.
Halston offered a tight smile. “Minka Kotov.”
“Dobro pozhalovat'.” Welcome. “Natasha, Social Director. We speak English… unless we bar hop and get shit-faced drunk. Then, Russian.” Her throaty laugh echoed in the spacious lobby. With a vice grip, the stocky woman pumped Halston’s hand hard, then fixed her fists on her hips.
“Embassy would come to stop without me.,” Natasha said. “No time for tour. I take you to office.”
Natasha marched up the six steps to the first floor and charged down the wide corridor. The pristine marble was covered by a floor piece that resembled a richly-designed tapestry. Elaborate wall sconces flanked each office doorway, the soft light a soothing sight.
Natasha slowed to text, muttering to herself in Russian. Following close behind, Halston peered into open doorways. Most employees were gone for the day, their offices dark. The social director came to an abrupt stop outside an office, stepped inside, and flipped on the light.
“Your office,” Natasha said before moving aside.
Halston glanced in. The room was filled with brown furniture that had seen its prime years ago. A desk and basic chair, two guest chairs, and a filing cabinet.
It was drab and it would stay that way. Halston wasn’t displaying photos, wasn’t buying any greenery either. She had a job to do—two really—and decorating her workspace wasn’t one of them.
“I take you to Mr. Ambassador office,” Natasha announced, her thick Russian accent like sandpaper against Halston’s ears.
Natasha’s brisk stride had Halston hurrying to catch up. Again, Natasha stopped outside an office. Halston pulled up alongside her.
This office was the opposite of hers. Spacious.
The walls were adorned with masterfully painted Russian art.
Beautiful bowls and vases filled empty spaces on the shelves.
The desk had gold inlay around the border, the new executive chair still wrapped in protective plastic.
Two massive guest chairs, a six-person conference table with upholstered chairs, the backs each depicting a different historic Russian scene.
The bookcase behind the desk housed dozens of old, Russian books.
“Good, yes?” Natasha tucked her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear.
“Very nice.”
Natasha marched out. Halston followed, feeling like a duckling.
Down the hall she went, beelining into an office at the other end. There, Natasha sat, got busy on her computer. Halston wasn’t sure if she should interrupt to ask if Natasha was finished or simply wait.
Since she had nothing better to do, she eyed the office. Same simple furniture, but Natasha had a framed photo on her desk of her and a man. Like her, he was short and thick. He had a shaved head, full beard and mustache. Looked to be in his forties.
“Husband?” Halston asked.
Natasha stopped typing, held up her right hand, displaying a diamond solitaire. “The wedding in February.” This time, her smile touched her eyes.
So, she is human after all.
“Pozdravlyayem.” Congratulations.
Natasha picked up her cell phone, made a call. “New hire is here. Can you check-in?” As she listened, her brows knitted together forming one long, dark unibrow.
That’s attractive.
As Halston bit back a smile, she turned away.
Even working with self-important Natasha couldn’t tamp down Halston’s joy. She was in DC.
I’m so happy to be back.
Natasha hung up, rolled her eyes, went back to her computer. “No apartment in compound. We have you on wait list.” She was too busy to look up. “I have new employee orientation—without the help of assistant, UGH. I don’t have time to find you—”
“I can find housing,” Halston offered. “And since the ambassador arrives in a few days, let me be of service to you. Can I get you coffee? What can I do for you?”
Natasha stilled, her hardened face frozen like a snapshot. Then, her brow softened, the frustration in her dark eyes melted away. “Spasibo.” Thank you. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”
“Minka, but I also answer to ‘hey you.’”
Natasha barked out a hearty laugh. “The new ambassador spoke good of you. Said you are trusted, loyal employee. That is good.” Her cell phone rang. She answered. “Privet.” Hello.
As she listened, the color drained from her cheeks, her eyes widened, then a cry exploded from the depths of her soul. “Vy uvereny?” Are you sure?
She hung up, swiped a tear, and cleared her throat. “My fiancé is dead.”
Whoa.
“I’m so sorry.”
Natasha’s eyes turned black, like the angel of death had descended upon her. “Murdered by Italian mafioso.”
What the hell?
“I must go.” Natasha shoved out of her chair. “Take yourself on tour. Lounge with break room down hall, cafeteria in lower floor. There’s apartment building block or two away. Many employees live there.”
After grabbing her worn leather handbag, Natasha ran out.
Halston didn’t care about the lounge or the cafeteria. It was quarter to seven. She was meeting her new handler in fifteen minutes.
She left the embassy. After walking a block, she extracted her burner and checked the whereabouts of Hotel Dillinger. It was located at Dupont Circle, so she called for an Uber. En route, she unearthed some of the dollars she’d hidden in the false bottom of her crossbody.
Inside the upscale hotel lobby, she admired the twenty-foot Christmas tree with thousands of soft white lights and oversized white and maroon ornaments.
Love that.
She made her way to the elevator bank and waited with several others until she spied an express elevator to the penthouse.
She pressed the up button, the doors slid open.
She stepped into the cab, entered 1224. The doors closed and she ascended to the top floor.
From there, she followed signs for Suite 1119.
For reasons she could not fathom, her heart was racing like a hummingbird’s.
Get it together, woman.
She’d lived in Russia for nine long months. Had anyone learned of her true identity and her actual career, she would have been imprisoned for life… and probably tortured to death. She’d carried on like a soldier. Brave and steady she went.
With butterflies zooming in her belly, she knocked twice, then heaved in a calming breath.
The door opened. A pretty brunette asked, “What brings you by?”
“I’m following the white rabbit.”