Apartment 44 was a small café. There were several round-shaped, wooden tables in the center. Matching wooden chairs with circular seats complemented the tables. Straight ahead was a dark mahogany bar. Bottles of alcohol lined a shelf behind it. A full-width mirror behind the shelf gave the illusion there were twice as many bottles. A few patrons sat at the tables. The bartender nodded at Hardy. He nodded back before choosing a table off to the side next to a large brick wall. On one side of the table were two chairs. The other side had booth seating.
Hardy sat on the booth side, his back to the wall. He placed his sat phone on the table and removed a folded newspaper from his back pocket. He placed the newspaper on the table, making sure the section heading was visible and hanging off the edge of the table. His sat phone read 7:48. He glanced around the café, noting where the exits were located.
A few minutes later, a young woman in her twenties showed up at his table, placed a menu in front of him and said something in Russian. He presumed she wanted to take his order. He tapped his finger on the rim of an empty water glass and smiled. The woman had a blank stare on her face for a split-second before she smiled back and nodded her head. She left, returned with a pitcher of water and filled the water glass. Hardy checked his sat phone again—7:55.
During the next five minutes, more patrons entered the café. Each time the door opened, Hardy observed the new arrivals. None matched the description of his contact, the FSB agent.
At eight o’clock, a woman in her mid-to-late twenties with long, blonde hair made an entrance. She stood inside the door and surveyed the people. She displayed a slender figure, five-feet, seven-inches tall, and was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans. A white short-sleeve camisole shell was tucked inside the jeans. When her eyes settled on Hardy, she paused. Dropping her cell phone into the right pocket of her black fitted knee-length blazer, she strutted toward him. Her long legs carried her across the hardwood floor with minimal steps, the hem of her blazer flaring. With each footfall, the two-inch chunky heels of her black pumps echoed in the confined space of the café. The patrons noticed her impressive entrance. They stopped their conversations and held their glasses in midair to glimpse the newcomer.
The woman stopped at Hardy’s table. She put her right hand on the back of the nearest chair and eyed the newspaper. The section heading, ‘sports,’ was hanging off the edge of the table. “My money is on the Yankees this year.”
Now that she was standing in front of him, Hardy saw her beauty. Her skin was white, almost like cream. Her blue eyes were set above a narrow nose and below impeccably manicured eyebrows. When she spoke, her full lips parted and revealed a set of white teeth, brilliant in color and perfectly aligned. Her photo in the dossier did not do her justice. “They’ll never make it past Boston.”
“Boston’s bullpen is terrible.”
Hardy stood and extended his hand. “I’m Aaron Hardy.”
She shook his hand. “Natasha Volkov—it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” She slid the chair out from under the table and sat.
“Likewise, Ms. Volkov.” He took his seat.
“Please call me Natasha. I find Ms. Volkov a bit too…old…for my tastes.” She smiled and half-chuckled. “Perhaps if we meet again in forty years, you can call me, Ms. Volkov.”
Hardy laughed as the young woman, who had brought him his water, spoke to Natasha. Natasha replied, and the woman left and came back with a pitcher of water and filled Natasha’s water glass.
After the woman had left, Natasha directed her attention toward Hardy. He’s handsome. She eyed his facial features. He had light brown hair, cut short. His jaw was square. His chin came to a slight point and had a tiny dimple in the center. She was drawn to his deep blue eyes. They made her feel as if he was peering into her inner being. His physique was muscular. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his brown t-shirt to the point where she was expecting the fabric to split at the seam.
She had always been intrigued by American men. They seemed to be freer and more relaxed than their Russian counterparts were, but every bit as tough. Inwardly, she laughed. Maybe she had seen too many American movies when she was younger. “My superiors tell me we’re to work together.”
Hardy detected a sarcastic tone in her voice, but dismissed it.
She opened the menu and pretended to be deciding on what to order. “So, let’s work together. You can start by telling me what you know about Anton Rudin.”
Hardy did not appreciate this woman’s attitude; however, in this scenario, he was the visiting team and he wanted to get off to a good start. He opened the folded newspaper, took out a few documents and a map of a specific location in Russia. He placed everything in front of him. “A couple of weeks ago, the FBI uncovered and stopped a plot to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge during rush hour traffic. During the investigation, they captured the man who was going to set off the explosion. He had entered the United States from Russia, one week earlier.”
Natasha closed the menu and set it aside.
Hardy took a drink of water. “Fast forwarding a little…during the interrogation, the FBI discovered the identity of the man who was to make the bomb that was going to be used on the bridge.”
Natasha crossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. “Anton Rudin?”
Hardy nodded. “The man in custody divulged the location of where he had met Rudin when he was in Russia.” Hardy twisted the map and pointed to a location and the address of the house where the man had met Rudin. “My people believe this is the best place to begin our search for Rudin.” Hardy slid the other documents across the table.
Natasha peered at the map and recognized the address. Without realizing what she was doing, she reached under the table and rubbed the top of her left thigh. She stared at the map in silence. Images of Sergei flashed across her mind. Even though it was not on the map, she envisioned the house, the explosion, the debris. The entire incident came rushing back to her.
Hardy thought she was inspecting the map, but when several awkward moments had passed, he knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” She did not respond. Reaching out, he touched the map. “Natasha?” She flinched. “Are you okay?”
She blinked several times and took a drink of water. “I’m fine.” Her eyes went back to the map. “No, there’s nothing there. My people have already—” she paused before flatly stating, “There’s nothing there.”
“I’d still like to see the house. Maybe, something was overlooked. It can’t hurt to have another pair of eyes—”
Natasha cut him off in mid-sentence. “Trust me.” Her voice grew louder with each successive word. “There’s nothing there.”
Hardy had touched a nerve. He wanted to push her on the issue. The FBI had been certain there was a better than good chance Rudin used the house as a home base. After staring at her for several moments, he decided not to push it. He remained quiet, letting her read the rest of the documents.
Natasha held a sheet of paper in the air, while she read the next. She consumed everything Hardy and the Americans had on Anton Rudin. She frowned and her eyebrows curled downward. The Americans had no new information. She tightened her grip on the papers, crinkling them. Her government had insisted she work with Hardy in the spirit of cooperation to find Rudin. Why? It was obvious the Americans had nothing of value to offer. She put the papers in order and passed them back across the table.
Hardy wasted no time in quizzing her. “Now, it’s your turn. What information do you have?” He took the papers and set them on the folded newspaper.
Natasha studied Hardy for several seconds. After taking a drink of water, she glanced over her shoulder. “Look, my government has ordered me to work with you. Why, I don’t know. Your country has nothing new to offer in this matter; however,” she tugged on the lapels of her jacket to straighten it, “in the spirit of cooperation, I will play nice.” She smiled at Hardy, but did a poor job disguising her feelings. “I’m this close,” she lifted her hand, her thumb and forefinger close together, “to finding Rudin. I’m waiting for a call from one of my contacts. He thinks he knows where Rudin is hiding.” Natasha stood, the backs of her knees pushing the chair away from the table. “Where are you staying?”
“The Marriott,” replied Hardy. She’s going to blow me off.
“Good. Go back to your hotel and rest. When I find out more, I’ll call you.” She spun around, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Hardy,” and marched toward the door.
Hardy watched her leave, his hand shaking from the death grip on the water glass. She had dismissed him with a virtual ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ attitude. She had not given him any information. This meeting had been a disaster. So much for cooperation. Still fuming, he considered his options; go after her and insist on being involved in the conversation with her contact, follow her or visit the site on the map himself. He was contemplating a fourth option when he noticed something odd on the other side of the café.