assigned detached duty; Dominika assessed the hollow-cheeked Serb as cynical, dour, resourceful, a survivor. They got along, especially since Dominika treated her decently—she knew the burdens of being a Sparrow.
It had been a simple matter of trolling her in front of Jamshidi—a transparent little scenario was staged during which Udranka ostensibly had her purse snatched by a motorbike thief outside a Viennese bar with the Persian as a chance witness. The grateful acceptance of Jamshidi’s offer of a taxi ride home followed, as did Udranka’s demure invitation upstairs for coffee. Once inside her kaleidoscope apartment—silently covered by Line T’s lenses andmicrophones—Jamshidi pushed past her maidenly reluctance, triumphed in her eventual swooning surrender, and relished her shuddering climaxes—two faked, one real—during which the fine-line scar across her cheek darkened with the flush of orgasm. Jamshidi’s sewer-pipe mind turned to round two and variations best known to Tunisian towel boys. He expected struggles and howls of pain from this shy giraffe—which was the appeal, after all—but he could not have anticipated her response, nor did he register that she must have been trained to be able to make a man lose his mind like this, like Jamshidi did sometime during
No. 73, “Enter the Kremlin via Nikolskaya Gate.”
From that evening on, Jamshidi was reeled in as surely as a record-book Volga carp that is prehooked to President Putin’s fishing line.
“Come on,” said Udranka, motioning Dominika to a small table in the sun-splashed kitchen, canary-yellow tiles on the walls and a lime-green teapot on the stove.
“How do you not go blind in here?” said Dominika.
The girl shrugged. “Belgrade was always gray to me. Moscow is too,” she said. “A whorehouse should not be drab.” Her crimson halo expanded as she laughed, incandescent. Her front teeth flashed between full lips.
“How’s your
sych,
your horned owl?” Dominika said.
“Some progress,” said Udranka. “Maybe something important.” She got up from the table and opened an upper kitchen cabinet, easily reaching a squat bottle with a gold-colored cap. As she stretched, the kimono parted an inch, and Dominika caught a glimpse of her breasts, sleek against her body.
Mine are bigger,
thought Dominika, instantly feeling ridiculous.
“
Srpska Sljivovica,
plum brandy from Sumadija, in Serbia,” said Udranka, pouring two small glasses.
God,
thought Dominika,
it’s ten in the morning.
She clinked glasses and sipped, while Udranka threw her head back and refilled her glass.
“What?” asked Dominika. Her instincts twitched in this color-soaked little love nest. She looked into Udranka’s eyes, watching her swill brandy, watching her face.
“Mr.
Sych
came to me last night. He acted normally. He was not angry; he wanted to make love.” Dominika had warned Udranka that Jamshidi might accuse her of setting him up for the pitch in Paris. Not a problem, Udranka had said; Sparrows were trained in professing their innocence in many things.
“Did he say anything about being approached, about cameras in the apartment?” Dominika asked.
“Nothing. It seems he does not blame me. He was very excited, impatient. That ridiculous goatee twitched up and down when I did ‘hummingbird wings.’ ” She said it flatly, an emotionless technician discussing her trade.
“Number thirty-three,”
Dominika said, remembering, repeating the long-ago memorized, Soviet-clunky Sparrow rules of sexual techniques,
“overwhelm the nerve endings with unceasing stimulation.”
“That’s right, you remember,” said Udranka dully, as if she did not want to talk about it. “If you miss the old life, we could take him to bed together.”
Dominika laughed. The kitchen table was bathed in summer sunlight, the bottle of
Sljivovitsa
on golden fire.
Udranka started laughing too, then stopped, bit her lower lip, and looked at Dominika, who also stopped
It had been a simple matter of trolling her in front of Jamshidi—a transparent little scenario was staged during which Udranka ostensibly had her purse snatched by a motorbike thief outside a Viennese bar with the Persian as a chance witness. The grateful acceptance of Jamshidi’s offer of a taxi ride home followed, as did Udranka’s demure invitation upstairs for coffee. Once inside her kaleidoscope apartment—silently covered by Line T’s lenses andmicrophones—Jamshidi pushed past her maidenly reluctance, triumphed in her eventual swooning surrender, and relished her shuddering climaxes—two faked, one real—during which the fine-line scar across her cheek darkened with the flush of orgasm. Jamshidi’s sewer-pipe mind turned to round two and variations best known to Tunisian towel boys. He expected struggles and howls of pain from this shy giraffe—which was the appeal, after all—but he could not have anticipated her response, nor did he register that she must have been trained to be able to make a man lose his mind like this, like Jamshidi did sometime during
No. 73, “Enter the Kremlin via Nikolskaya Gate.”
From that evening on, Jamshidi was reeled in as surely as a record-book Volga carp that is prehooked to President Putin’s fishing line.
“Come on,” said Udranka, motioning Dominika to a small table in the sun-splashed kitchen, canary-yellow tiles on the walls and a lime-green teapot on the stove.
“How do you not go blind in here?” said Dominika.
The girl shrugged. “Belgrade was always gray to me. Moscow is too,” she said. “A whorehouse should not be drab.” Her crimson halo expanded as she laughed, incandescent. Her front teeth flashed between full lips.
“How’s your
sych,
your horned owl?” Dominika said.
“Some progress,” said Udranka. “Maybe something important.” She got up from the table and opened an upper kitchen cabinet, easily reaching a squat bottle with a gold-colored cap. As she stretched, the kimono parted an inch, and Dominika caught a glimpse of her breasts, sleek against her body.
Mine are bigger,
thought Dominika, instantly feeling ridiculous.
“
Srpska Sljivovica,
plum brandy from Sumadija, in Serbia,” said Udranka, pouring two small glasses.
God,
thought Dominika,
it’s ten in the morning.
She clinked glasses and sipped, while Udranka threw her head back and refilled her glass.
“What?” asked Dominika. Her instincts twitched in this color-soaked little love nest. She looked into Udranka’s eyes, watching her swill brandy, watching her face.
“Mr.
Sych
came to me last night. He acted normally. He was not angry; he wanted to make love.” Dominika had warned Udranka that Jamshidi might accuse her of setting him up for the pitch in Paris. Not a problem, Udranka had said; Sparrows were trained in professing their innocence in many things.
“Did he say anything about being approached, about cameras in the apartment?” Dominika asked.
“Nothing. It seems he does not blame me. He was very excited, impatient. That ridiculous goatee twitched up and down when I did ‘hummingbird wings.’ ” She said it flatly, an emotionless technician discussing her trade.
“Number thirty-three,”
Dominika said, remembering, repeating the long-ago memorized, Soviet-clunky Sparrow rules of sexual techniques,
“overwhelm the nerve endings with unceasing stimulation.”
“That’s right, you remember,” said Udranka dully, as if she did not want to talk about it. “If you miss the old life, we could take him to bed together.”
Dominika laughed. The kitchen table was bathed in summer sunlight, the bottle of
Sljivovitsa
on golden fire.
Udranka started laughing too, then stopped, bit her lower lip, and looked at Dominika, who also stopped
Similar Books
