Frontline (45 page)

“Something for you.” Philip hands him a small brown bag that looks like a shaving kit, held shut with a black zipper that runs along the top of it.

“What’s in it?”

“Open it and see.”

Randall unzips the top of the bag and peers inside. Three slots are sewn into the side of the bag big enough to hold multiple passports or small maps. Two Swiss Army knives, one thin and one thick, are clipped to the opposite side of the inner pocket next to a small metal flashlight. A vial of sleeping pills rolls around in the bottom.

“It’s an emergency bag. If you need to get out of somewhere quick and can only grab one thing, this should be it. It’s served me very well for many years. Now that I find myself behind a desk the majority of the time, I feel it’s time to pass it along to another agent in the field. Customize it as you see fit.”

“Philip, this is . . . I’m truly grateful.” Scenes from
the latest Bond film flash through Randall’s mind. “Do any of these do anything special?”

Philip nods. “The flashlight shoots grappling wire that can support your weight if you need to swing from rooftop to rooftop. One pocketknife houses a transmitter, the other a receiver that can broadcast a radio signal up to a thousand kilometers away. And if you burn the bag itself, it generates enough mustard gas to asphyxiate everyone in Waterloo Station at rush hour.”

“You’re serious!” Randall says.

Philip smirks. “No.”

“Okay, you’re taking the piss. But the sleeping pills? Why on earth?”

“Sometimes missions can last for days at a time. An agent has to be on his game every minute, and when it’s all over, it’s a difficult energy to come down from. Those pills help take the edge off. There are only a couple left, but they’re strong ones, those.”

“I’ll say. One gram per dose? That would tranquilize a horse!” Randall pulls the zipper shut. “Thank you again.”

“Good luck.” Philip places a beige fedora over his head and unclasps the snap holding his umbrella closed. “I look forward to reading your report.”

“I’ll do my best,” Randall says.

“Do that, old boy. And Randall, try to have at least a bit of fun. You’re only young once, I can attest. Time renders us useless. Remember that.”

* * *

The Brighton Guest House’s gray stucco exterior stands in stark contrast to the dark brown and red brick mixtures of the rest of the town homes up and down Brighton Street. A trimmed box hedge marks the front of the small property along the sidewalk. Peony stems, weighed down by large pink and purple blooms at their tips, sag over the hedge and partially obscure the hotel’s gleaming white front door.

Randall parks his motorbike in front of the hotel and dismounts, scaling the stairs in twos, and pushes into the hotel lobby. There is no concierge desk so he continues down the small hallway to the left of the stairs and finds himself in the hotel’s dining lounge.

A few framed photos of white flower arrangements decorate the walls, which are painted in neutral beige tones. Circular-backed wooden chairs with a navy blue fabric inlay sit up to tables set with cutlery, salt and pepper shakers, and tea cups turned upside down on their saucers.

Randall repeats the instructions he memorized from the directorate before his arrival.

Sit at the table in the rear of the lounge facing the kitchen exit. Order an Earl Gray Tea and a blueberry crumpet.

A waiter approaches the table shortly after Randall settles in. He wears a white chef coat, a lightly stained apron tied around his waist that covers his pants and almost touches his black penny loafers. A thinning head of brown hair, combed to the middle of his scalp, crowns his freckled face.

It’s early evening, barely half-five when his order arrives, but the crumpet is warm enough to appear fresh from the oven. Randall applies a generous pat of butter to the top of it and takes a bite.

“Crumpets,” a female voice says from the neighboring table. “They are the same as scones, no?”

The words, spoken with the flourishes of a Russian accent, are instantly familiar to Randall. An extra second to swallow the crumpet allows him to clearly remember his scripted response from the directorate.

“Similar, perhaps, but not the same. Scones are Scottish in origin, while it’s believed that crumpets originated in Wales.”

The woman, who spoke with her face concealed behind a laminated menu, sets it down on the table in front of her. Auburn hair, parted in the middle of her head, reaches her shoulders and curls inward at the bottom, circling up
toward her chin. Blue eyes enhanced with long lashes and primped brows squint at Randall, analyzing and judging him all at once. Her full red lips stand out brightly from her pale skin.

“Is that all?” She arches her left eyebrow.

“They also differ in chemistry. Crumpets are made from yeast-based dough. Scones use baking soda for their leavening.”

She smiles, her hardened façade vanishing with Randall’s correct answers. Randall stands, pulls the chair out on the opposite side of the table and offers it to her.

“Miss Babkin, I presume?”

“Please, Svetlana will do.” She holds her black skirt against her backside as she settles into the chair.

Randall returns to his chair on the opposite side of the table. With the exception of the waiter reading the sports section of the
London Times
behind the bar, and an elderly gentleman scribbling in a crossword puzzle book, Svetlana and Randall are the lounge’s only other occupants. If anyone were watching, they’d probably assume they’re witnessing nothing more than a blind date.

“Very pleased to meet you,” he says.

“Likewise.” Svetlana props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on the back of her entwined fingers. “You agents grow younger and handsomer each meeting.”

“You’ve met others here?”

She shakes her head. “Never same place twice. And never same agent. It is hard.” She sighs. “I cannot develop relationship with these men. They cannot commit.” She covers her mouth and giggles at her own joke.

Randall forces a chuckle and breaks a piece off his blueberry crumpet. “Would you like to try some?” He places it on the spare saucer beneath his teacup and slides it across the table.

“No,” she says, frowning. “Butter, sugar, they make me . . .” she inflates her cheeks and stretches her arms out at her sides, “ . . . big like balloon.”

“If you’ll excuse my forwardness, Miss Babkin, you’ve a great many crumpets to eat before looking anything like that.”

Svetlana exhales. “Sweet of you to say.” She takes the piece of crumpet and places it in her mouth, chewing slowly as if slightly suspicious, but soon nods her approval. “Reminds me of the yeast goods we have back home in St. Petersburg.”

“Are you here permanently?”

She shakes her head. “Only some months left on visa, then back home. But maybe if there is good luck, I find husband here and stay forever.” Her eyebrow arches again and she inflects the words at the end of the sentence, phrasing it more as a question than a statement.

A nervous chuckle rolls over Randall’s lips and he stuffs the last piece of crumpet in his mouth to silence himself.

“Listen, I don’t want to keep you, Miss Babkin,” he says between chews. “I’m certain you’ve better things to do than sit here all day talking to me. Perhaps we could get down to business?”

“Why such a hurry now, Randall? Did I scare you with bad word? Husband?” She over enunciates the word for added effect:
Huzzzz-band.

“Not at all,” Randall counters. “Even the sheep around these parts are beginning to look quite attractive to my lonely eyes.”

Svetlana stares at him, her mouth slightly open.

“You get it? Sheep shagging?”

She shakes her head, her nose crinkling in disgust.

Randall forces another chuckle and waves his hand as if clearing the air of his dirty comment. He should know better than to borrow Philip’s jokes. They’re as useful as defective sticks of dynamite.

“You’ve not heard that one, I suppose. Let me ask you this then: What got you into this line of work?”

Svetlana frowns, as though disappointed with the serious turn the conversation is taking.

“During war, I was not yet born, but my mother told me of horrors she and her family endured.” She lifts her pinky finger to her mouth and chews on the skin around the tip of her painted nail. “But she told me she had hope. She lived in far north and remembers many British boats coming from across sea, bringing planes and tanks to Russia. We would not have won war if not for your help.”

Randall leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. “But now you work for us against your country.”

Svetlana rotates her finger in her mouth and nibbles on the skin on the other side of her nail. “After war, bad times continued. Many people still suffered but under our government. They still do. We are cut off from rest of world. I love my country but I will never support our leaders. I will do what I can to bring them down.”

“You’re a very brave girl.”

“There is an even more important reason.” Svetlana props her elbows on the table again and rests her chin in her right palm, then leans forward over the table, a slight smirk on her lips. Her white blouse, unbuttoned to the middle of her chest, droops low enough that Randall gets a peek at her ample cleavage. He feels the tip of her toe rub against his shin beneath the table. “I like British men.”

Randall shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“So to business then, as you suggested?” Svetlana reaches into her purse, twists open a stick of rouge, and applies it to her lips. She purses them together, smearing the color evenly between the top and bottom, then runs her tongue over them slowly when finished, leaving her smile glistening.

“Yes, Miss Babkin,” Randall says. “To business.”

She stands and motions to the dining room exit. “Please accompany me.”

The room she leads him into is only big enough to fit a single bed, a small night table next to it beneath an open window, a dresser against the opposite wall and a porcelain pedestal sink built into the corner directly behind the door, so out of place in the absence of a toilet or shower, it would seem an afterthought.

“We will drink vodka?” Svetlana crouches and procures a bottle from the night table and two clear shot glasses.

Randall clicks his tongue and makes a stern
tsk tsk
. “Miss Babkin, I’m surprised at you.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “What for?”

“Here we are in Newcastle, a short skip south of Scotland, where you work and reside, and where the world’s most famous single malts are produced.” Randall pulls from his pocket a small bottle, its contents a dark, thin liquid. The seal around the cap cracks as he unscrews it. He tips the bottle over the first shot glass.

Svetlana sits on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, her eyes glued to the shiny black liquid gurgling from the tip of the bottle.

“England may produce its share of fine beers and ales, but when it comes to single malts of the finest quality . . .” Randall begins filling the second glass. “ . . . A sensuous spirit complex in its simplicity, finely finished in its rusticity, subtle in its provocation, but overwhelming in its refreshment . . .” He sets the bottle on the night table, hands Svetlana the first glass and takes the second, raising it in a toast. “ . . . We put our faith in the Scots.”

Svetlana clinks her glass to the side of Randall’s. “To sensuous spirits.”

The scotch ignites a trail of fire as it slides down their throats. Svetlana presses the back of her hand to her lips and takes a second deeper swallow to clear it. Tears well in her eyes.

“
Bozhemoy
!”

“I couldn’t have said it better.”

Svetlana slides her glass onto the night table, uncrosses her legs, and leans back on the mattress, propping herself up on her elbows. Her breasts press against her blouse. A red bra glows through the thin, white fabric.

Randall pours another shot and hands it to her.

“Come sit, Randall.” Svetlana pats the mattress.

“I dare not, Miss Babkin.”

“And why is that? Are you still afraid I want to make you my husband?” She tilts her head back, opens her mouth and pours the shot straight down her throat.

“It would be most unprofessional of me, madam. I fear I’m breaking protocol already by sharing a drink on duty.”

“Duty? Ha!” She points to the bottle of scotch and slams the shot glass onto the night table. Randall refills it.

“It is your
duty
to entertain me. Or else . . . perhaps . . . there may be no new information for me to offer.”

Svetlana grabs hold of Randall’s belt buckle with her right hand and pulls him closer. With her left hand, she downs the third shot of scotch.

“Careful, now.” Randall takes the glass from her and sets it back on the night table. “It’ll hit you all at once.”

“And while I wait . . .” Svetlana yanks Randall’s belt through the buckle and unclasps the prong.

Randall drops his scotch glass on the night table and grabs the waist of his pants with both hands before they slide to his knees.