back while playing for the government’s CIA squad, but it was all the same team. Wasn’t it?
She put the loaded envelope into a jacket pocket and repacked the case. Somehow, it felt even heavier when she slid it back into the wall. A knock on the gate later, and she was done with the vault.
She crossed the street to a café and took a seat at the window. She put a paperback book on the table and turned the spine perpendicular to the table. Whoever was supposed to pick up the payment would see her “clear” signal, just as Shannon had instructed her.
A waiter came to take her order, and her German failed as did his English as she tried to order a latte.
“ Zwei mélange, bitte ,” a gruff voice said from behind the waiter. Bronislava lumbered up from behind him and took a seat across from Natalie. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
“Shannon said you’d meet me. Odd. We do enjoy our coffee klatch,” Bronislava said in Russian.
Natalie did her best to look confused by the large woman’s choice in language.
“Let’s drop the act, little one. When you made your toast at the hotel you spoke with a Vladivostok accent. That was no accident and I assume that’s where your teacher is from,” Bronislava continued in Russian. “So let’s talk like cultured people, yes?”
“As you like,” Natalie said in Russian. Shannon had said one of Bronislava’s representatives would handle the trade-off; she hadn’t said anything about meeting Bronislava herself, or making small talk.
The Russian woman leaned against the table and looked to her right.
Natalie took the envelope from her jacket and slid it under the table. It left her hand with a smooth tug. What had she just done?
The waiter returned with two glasses, coffee topped with steamed milk and shaved chocolate and croissants. He set the drinks in front of them and left; Natalie saw the corner of the payment envelope disappear under his vest. So the waiter worked for Bronislava.
“So nice to see a new face in this business. After a while everyone becomes known—it gets boring.” The Russian stirred her coffee and took a sip, looking Natalie over as if she were something that could be bought at a bargain.
“It’s exciting. Better than a brokerage in Manhattan. If you have your documents, then I can be on my way,” Natalie said. Sitting across from Bronislava made Natalie feel like she was a sailor in a life raft while a school of sharks circled.
“No, we wait. You are new. Shannon asked me to tutor you a bit,” Bronislava tore the tip from her croissant and dipped it in the coffee. “The…items…you gave me are registered with a trusted third party. The third party confirms what you paid, and we go forward.” Natalie didn’t want to know what would happen if the “third party” took issue with the payment.
“They don’t strike me as being very liquid,” Natalie said. She wanted to take a sip of her coffee, but her hands were shaking beneath the table.
“No, they’re not. The third party will exchange them for the liquid asset of one’s choice. I prefer American dollars, but that’s just me. You understand why we use the registered items?”
“Liquid assets,” Natalie said, afraid to say dollar bills, “in that volume would be hard to transport inconspicuously.” Bronislava nodded as Shannon continued. “Bank transfers leave a trace.”
“Shannon said you were smart,” Bronislava said.
“It is funny. I invest all my money in the American real estate market. So many bargains after the bubble popped. It is like you are a stimulus package all by yourself.” Bronislava chuckled at her own joke.
“Is everything acceptable?” the waiter asked, his English suddenly perfect.
Bronislava tapped the table twice, and the waiter set a leather bill folder on the table and left. Bronislava pushed the bill toward Natalie. Inside were a forty-euro bill and a micro SD card, the size of her thumbnail.
“Transponder identification. Ship
She put the loaded envelope into a jacket pocket and repacked the case. Somehow, it felt even heavier when she slid it back into the wall. A knock on the gate later, and she was done with the vault.
She crossed the street to a café and took a seat at the window. She put a paperback book on the table and turned the spine perpendicular to the table. Whoever was supposed to pick up the payment would see her “clear” signal, just as Shannon had instructed her.
A waiter came to take her order, and her German failed as did his English as she tried to order a latte.
“ Zwei mélange, bitte ,” a gruff voice said from behind the waiter. Bronislava lumbered up from behind him and took a seat across from Natalie. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
“Shannon said you’d meet me. Odd. We do enjoy our coffee klatch,” Bronislava said in Russian.
Natalie did her best to look confused by the large woman’s choice in language.
“Let’s drop the act, little one. When you made your toast at the hotel you spoke with a Vladivostok accent. That was no accident and I assume that’s where your teacher is from,” Bronislava continued in Russian. “So let’s talk like cultured people, yes?”
“As you like,” Natalie said in Russian. Shannon had said one of Bronislava’s representatives would handle the trade-off; she hadn’t said anything about meeting Bronislava herself, or making small talk.
The Russian woman leaned against the table and looked to her right.
Natalie took the envelope from her jacket and slid it under the table. It left her hand with a smooth tug. What had she just done?
The waiter returned with two glasses, coffee topped with steamed milk and shaved chocolate and croissants. He set the drinks in front of them and left; Natalie saw the corner of the payment envelope disappear under his vest. So the waiter worked for Bronislava.
“So nice to see a new face in this business. After a while everyone becomes known—it gets boring.” The Russian stirred her coffee and took a sip, looking Natalie over as if she were something that could be bought at a bargain.
“It’s exciting. Better than a brokerage in Manhattan. If you have your documents, then I can be on my way,” Natalie said. Sitting across from Bronislava made Natalie feel like she was a sailor in a life raft while a school of sharks circled.
“No, we wait. You are new. Shannon asked me to tutor you a bit,” Bronislava tore the tip from her croissant and dipped it in the coffee. “The…items…you gave me are registered with a trusted third party. The third party confirms what you paid, and we go forward.” Natalie didn’t want to know what would happen if the “third party” took issue with the payment.
“They don’t strike me as being very liquid,” Natalie said. She wanted to take a sip of her coffee, but her hands were shaking beneath the table.
“No, they’re not. The third party will exchange them for the liquid asset of one’s choice. I prefer American dollars, but that’s just me. You understand why we use the registered items?”
“Liquid assets,” Natalie said, afraid to say dollar bills, “in that volume would be hard to transport inconspicuously.” Bronislava nodded as Shannon continued. “Bank transfers leave a trace.”
“Shannon said you were smart,” Bronislava said.
“It is funny. I invest all my money in the American real estate market. So many bargains after the bubble popped. It is like you are a stimulus package all by yourself.” Bronislava chuckled at her own joke.
“Is everything acceptable?” the waiter asked, his English suddenly perfect.
Bronislava tapped the table twice, and the waiter set a leather bill folder on the table and left. Bronislava pushed the bill toward Natalie. Inside were a forty-euro bill and a micro SD card, the size of her thumbnail.
“Transponder identification. Ship
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