Babayaga: A Novel by Toby Barlow

“Oh heavens, no, that would be some rude work. First of all, we need the girl alive to tell the policeman how you attacked her. Secondly, we like the girl. You’d actually like Celia too, she’s a zaftig one, quite roly-poly with a massive set of bosoms. They’re like a pair of great pointy Luftschiff Zeppelins. She claims they were the secret to her splendid success back when she danced in the Folies Bergère.”
    “So, then you’ve done this before?”
    “Boris has, Ned has, me, I’m only along for the ride.” Oliver leaned forward. “Look, I am so sorry about all this. It was a terrible mix-up. I suppose I had too many in me the other night, we had quite a time, didn’t we? And somehow I got the impression that you were with the agency. In fact I could swear you said you were. Anyway, I fear I’ve revealed some things I shouldn’t have, a bit more than was proper. Not very professional on my part, but there you have it. So, what to do? Originally, I had a much more innocent plan for the knife, but now I’m afraid I need a bit of leverage here. You understand, right? I’d be pretty sore if I were standing in your shoes, I know, but I can’t afford to have you running around like the proverbial loose cannon. Don’t worry, please, be a good fellow about it if you can. You have to understand, I’m merely trying to manage a rather sticky situation.”
    Will was quiet for a moment, puzzled by Oliver’s clumsy blend of justifications, rationalizations, and attempts at friendly sympathy. “I can’t let you copy that file,” Will finally said.
    Oliver shrugged. “Fine. I don’t want to be unreasonable. Give me some other shiny toy I can distract them with.”
    Will nodded. “I’ll try. Tell me what they’re interested in so I know what to look for.”
    Oliver shrugged. “Anything, really. Scraps on Algerians, hints on Russians, rumors of some potent or burgeoning movement, Fascist, Communist, doesn’t matter. Bits and bobs and curiosities, that’s all the agency wants. If it happens to be relevant to their work, they’ll pay me a little more for it.”
    “Well, you’re not going to find anything along those lines at the advertising agency.”
    “You’d be surprised. For instance, that Bayer file’s nice because they’ve been specifically asking us for anything related to the pharmaceutical world.”
    Will wondered if that was somehow related to Brandon’s request for the Bayer file. He had never provided Will with any explanation for the agency’s various interests and Will had never bothered to ask. “Any idea why?”
    “Ours is not to reason why, only do and die, yes?” He smiled. “I don’t think they honestly expect substantial information from us; it’s the evidence of our industry that counts. The key is to appear tireless and eager, to keep the action moving, keep the eye busy. We’re like those Puerto Ricans with the three-card monte games up in Spanish Harlem. It’s exhausting, really. Brandon’s people used to be much more generous. But now the money’s tight and they’ve got us sweating for every franc.”
    Will nodded. “The U.S. is spending more in Indochina now.”
    Oliver gave him a funny look. “Your friend Brandon tell you that?”
    “Not too hard to figure it out from the papers,” Will lied, not wanting to draw any more attention to his relationship to the agency. “With France pulling out, makes sense that we’re going to have to go in there to keep things stable.”
    Oliver smiled. “You know, they call Saigon ‘the Paris of the East.’ I’ve never been there, but I’m fairly certain I prefer the original.”
    Across the room, Ned switched off the desk lamp and tucked the camera into her coat. “I’m done.”
    Will pointed at the camera. “You’re not taking that, are you? I told you, it will be traced back to me.”
    “I need something, Will. I haven’t got enough to make payroll at the journal right now and I desperately need that embassy