scribbled message in back.
Ivan read it. “‘What a wild idea this one is, my precious Anna! I truly do love these stories. We should take pen to paper ourselves one day!’” Ivan looked up. “Who’s Anna?”
But Jack just pushed the Koontz book toward him. “Same spot.”
After a furtive glance at his friend, Ivan read the note in The House of Thunder . “‘This one truly was thrilling. Oh, that it might be so! I should send the…’” his eyes bolted up.
“What?” Jack asked, leaning against the table.
“‘I should send the Kremlin this one, my love!’” he finished. “Jack, what the hell is this?”
“There’s one more book.” He handed over Seventeen Moments of Spring.
“A classic,” Ivan stated, taking the work in his hands.
Jack took a gulp from his coffee. “What is it?” His hands were still shaking.
“It’s a story set in 1945 about a Soviet spy operating in Nazi Germany. It’s considered by a lot of people to be the greatest Soviet spy novel ever written.”
“Open it.”
Ivan did as instructed, and had no trouble locating the glossy black and white picture. “You know him?”
“No.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Found it in my house.” Jack impatiently signaled for his friend to get on with the interpreting.
“Okay,” he remarked unsurely, squinting down at the note. “‘My dear Anna, I love you more than anything else. I hope you know that. Remember me always and know that you will always be in my heart. I wish our lot in life had been a better one, but at least I was able to share a time with you.’”
Taking another sip, Jack turned his eyes to the parking lot. The rain was lashing the windows, drowning the light music coming down from the speakers above them.
“The note in the back of this one,” Ivan said, pointing to the novel, “just says ‘hope you like this as much as I did.’”
“And these.” Jack rested the stack of letters on the table.
“Oh, come on, Jack. You want me to read all these to you?”
“Just tell me what they are.”
Ivan lifted his own coffee concoction to his lips before working pages from a random envelope. A few minutes passed in silence before he selected two more to read from.
All of a sudden, Ivan looked uncomfortable, squirming awkwardly in his chair.
“What?” Jack demanded.
“They’re letters from a guy named Vadim to this Anna girl.”
“What do they say? Why would Stacey keep them hidden in her closet?”
“She had them hidden in her closet?”
“Yeah.”
“I have no idea. Maybe she’s holding them for a friend of hers.”
“I don’t know any Anna. Are there any dates?”
“2005 through 2006.”
“The year before I met Stacey.”
He looked down at the letter still in his hands and was about to say something, but apparently changed his mind. “Jack,” he said instead, “why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”
So he did. Everything from the cruise to Viktoriya’s landlord.
Ivan looked incredulous. “You were just shot at outside your own house?” He was scanning the parking lot now, too.
“It’s funny, you know what my first thought was with these books?” Jack asked.
“What?”
He began laughing. “That it was some Catcher in the Rye thing.”
“You mean from Conspiracy Theory ? The CIA programming Jerry to always need a copy?”
Jack nodded. “Look what you’ve done to me. You got me thinking my wife is a Russian spy programmed to buy Soviet-themed novels.”
But Ivan wasn’t laughing. After a deep breath and a moment to reevaluate the content of the letters in light of his friend’s story, he said, “The letters allude to something that the Vadim guy is involved in. Something he promises to find a way out of so that they can be together again.”
Jack’s smile faded. “Vadim and Anna.”
“They seem to be married. Now he never comes right out and says what it is he’s involved with, but it’s clear that it’s the reason they’re not
Ivan read it. “‘What a wild idea this one is, my precious Anna! I truly do love these stories. We should take pen to paper ourselves one day!’” Ivan looked up. “Who’s Anna?”
But Jack just pushed the Koontz book toward him. “Same spot.”
After a furtive glance at his friend, Ivan read the note in The House of Thunder . “‘This one truly was thrilling. Oh, that it might be so! I should send the…’” his eyes bolted up.
“What?” Jack asked, leaning against the table.
“‘I should send the Kremlin this one, my love!’” he finished. “Jack, what the hell is this?”
“There’s one more book.” He handed over Seventeen Moments of Spring.
“A classic,” Ivan stated, taking the work in his hands.
Jack took a gulp from his coffee. “What is it?” His hands were still shaking.
“It’s a story set in 1945 about a Soviet spy operating in Nazi Germany. It’s considered by a lot of people to be the greatest Soviet spy novel ever written.”
“Open it.”
Ivan did as instructed, and had no trouble locating the glossy black and white picture. “You know him?”
“No.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Found it in my house.” Jack impatiently signaled for his friend to get on with the interpreting.
“Okay,” he remarked unsurely, squinting down at the note. “‘My dear Anna, I love you more than anything else. I hope you know that. Remember me always and know that you will always be in my heart. I wish our lot in life had been a better one, but at least I was able to share a time with you.’”
Taking another sip, Jack turned his eyes to the parking lot. The rain was lashing the windows, drowning the light music coming down from the speakers above them.
“The note in the back of this one,” Ivan said, pointing to the novel, “just says ‘hope you like this as much as I did.’”
“And these.” Jack rested the stack of letters on the table.
“Oh, come on, Jack. You want me to read all these to you?”
“Just tell me what they are.”
Ivan lifted his own coffee concoction to his lips before working pages from a random envelope. A few minutes passed in silence before he selected two more to read from.
All of a sudden, Ivan looked uncomfortable, squirming awkwardly in his chair.
“What?” Jack demanded.
“They’re letters from a guy named Vadim to this Anna girl.”
“What do they say? Why would Stacey keep them hidden in her closet?”
“She had them hidden in her closet?”
“Yeah.”
“I have no idea. Maybe she’s holding them for a friend of hers.”
“I don’t know any Anna. Are there any dates?”
“2005 through 2006.”
“The year before I met Stacey.”
He looked down at the letter still in his hands and was about to say something, but apparently changed his mind. “Jack,” he said instead, “why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”
So he did. Everything from the cruise to Viktoriya’s landlord.
Ivan looked incredulous. “You were just shot at outside your own house?” He was scanning the parking lot now, too.
“It’s funny, you know what my first thought was with these books?” Jack asked.
“What?”
He began laughing. “That it was some Catcher in the Rye thing.”
“You mean from Conspiracy Theory ? The CIA programming Jerry to always need a copy?”
Jack nodded. “Look what you’ve done to me. You got me thinking my wife is a Russian spy programmed to buy Soviet-themed novels.”
But Ivan wasn’t laughing. After a deep breath and a moment to reevaluate the content of the letters in light of his friend’s story, he said, “The letters allude to something that the Vadim guy is involved in. Something he promises to find a way out of so that they can be together again.”
Jack’s smile faded. “Vadim and Anna.”
“They seem to be married. Now he never comes right out and says what it is he’s involved with, but it’s clear that it’s the reason they’re not