The thirty-five-story condominium was just as Maggie expected: a lavish residence in the Upper West Side complete with a host of amenities, including its own swimming pool, basketball court, yoga studio, and sauna.
The glass tower lay on West 59th Street, in the heart of Lincoln Square, and Maggie unlocked the door to the apartment on the twenty-eighth floor.
Maggie let out a whistle as she took in her digs, dumping her suitcase in the corner along with her new backpack and the supplies she stopped to collect on the way there. Ashton had called earlier with orders for the doorman to hand over the spare key when she arrived, her best friend refusing to let her stay in a hotel while she was there.
“It’s not like I’m using the place,” he’d said on the phone that morning before she left.
Ashton had several homes scattered around the world, all of them owned but none through legitimate means. Maggie may carry out illegal acts for the government, but Ashton preferred to do his nefarious business on his own terms, having up and left the Unit years ago without ever looking back.
Her friend had done well for himself since then, most of his fortune coming from ripping off criminals without them even knowing it. Maggie wandered around the two-bedroom apartment, everything furnished like a showroom, from the four-poster bed in the master suite, to the plush suede couches in the living-room which led out into a wide corner terrace, offering views of the Hudson River.
Maggie stepped outside and let the cool breeze sweep over her face. It had been a long day, and tomorrow was fast approaching.
After a while, she returned inside and ran a hot bath, filling it high with bubbles. Steam rose from the water as she got in and lay down, letting the heat seep in and loosen her tense muscles.
She hugged her arms around her stomach and closed her eyes.
The peaceful silence broke when her phone buzzed against the tiled floor. Maggie groaned and reached over the edge of the bath to put the caller on loudspeaker.
“Hello?”
“Mags, how you doing?” Ashton’s Scottish brogue reverberated around the bathroom.
“Good,” Maggie lied. She sat up straight and hugged her knees, leaning towards the phone and wishing Ashton was with her.
“You settled in okay?”
“The apartment’s a little shabby, but I guess it will do,” she teased, making a better effort to hide her troubled mind with Ashton than she had with Bishop.
“Brilliant,” Ashton said. A woman’s voice spoke in the background, announcing several delays to upcoming flights.
Maggie frowned. “Where are you?”
“At a layover in Miami. I’m heading to Ecuador.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “What have you got on down there?”
“You know me,” Ashton said, like butter wouldn’t melt. “A wee bit of this, a wee bit of that.”
“Well, be careful. I’m tied up here, so I can’t come and save your arse like I did in New Orleans.” Ashton was no stranger to a sticky situation, but that particular trip had been a close one. Too close.
Ashton laughed, like the trip had consisted of gumbo, good jazz music, and one too many cocktails, instead of murder and mayhem. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“That’s not promising much,” said Maggie, unable to help the grin tugging at the corners of her lips, despite the growing worry which lay just underneath.
“Is something’s wrong?” Ashton asked.
Maggie sighed. “It’s just work. Nothing to worry about.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured, changing the subject. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“Of course,” Ashton said, as the woman made another announcement through the airport. “I better go, my flight is boarding.”
“Stay safe.”
“You, too,” Ashton replied, before hanging up.
Maggie shook her head. If there was trouble to be found in Ecuador, Ashton would find it.
Strictly speaking, Maggie shouldn’t have told Ashton she was in the city on assignment. Especially given the sensitive nature of the job. Old habits die hard though, and they had always kept in touch, checking in with each other even after Ashton left the Unit. Besides, the Unit weren’t aware they’d remained friends, the entire agency having been ordered not to associate with a ‘traitor.’ Not that Maggie listened. As long as they kept their friendship covert, everyone was happy.
Laying back into the water, she indulged in a further ten minutes of attempted relaxation before getting out the bath and drying off. It was time to get to work.
Wrapping the towel around her, Maggie sat in front of the dressing table in the master bedroom and propped the background document of her new alias by the mirror.
Yana Kostina.
As far as the look went, it wasn’t that difficult. Maggie could have stuck with her natural hair, given that the fake passport was several years old. People changed their hairstyle all the time. In the end, she decided to match the picture exactly. There could be no slip ups. Nothing to make the people inside the Russian Consulate pause or question her.
Tucking her real hair under a cap, Maggie put on the newly purchased wig she got from a little place in the East Village and pinned it in place. Teasing it out to give the hair more volume, she styled the platinum blond bob into a deliberate messy look to fit Yana’s free spirited personality.
Yana Kostina was born and raised in Cherepovets, the largest city in Vologda Oblast. Being the daughter of an architect and a notable oil painter, it was hardly a surprise that Yana grew to hold a deep appreciation and love for the arts. So much so, that it led her to study the subject at Saint Petersburg University where she earned a master’s degree in art criticism.
“I work at a gallery in Cherepovets,” Maggie said into the mirror. Yana returned home after she graduated and quickly became the associate art director for a thriving gallery known in the art world for its industrial inspired installations.
Yana’s eyes were darker than Maggie’s, a deeper, warmer shade than her ice blue irises. Nothing a set of contacts couldn’t fix. Unscrewing the cap, Maggie slid the contacts over her eyes and blinked them into place.
“I’ve always wanted to visit New York,” she said in Yana’s native tongue.
Maggie repeated the phrase a few times, getting the accent just right. She had learned Russian from a Muscovite, and while the language was uniform across the country, there were subtle differences in tone and inflection. Yana’s Northwestern roots should be apparent when she spoke, at least to fellow Russians at the consulate.
Playing a tourist was the ideal set up for what Maggie had planned. She wasn’t too concerned about infiltrating the Russian Consulate. Getting inside was one thing. It was getting back out that worried her.
Once they learned Emily Wallace had escaped their clutches, they would stop at nothing to contain the situation, even if it meant killing them on the streets.
Satisfied with Yana’s appearance, Maggie rummaged in her shopping bags and brought out her outfit for tomorrow. She made sure to buy flats for the mission. The only thing worse than breakout missions, were breakout missions in heels.
The boots she chose were black leather with steel toecaps. While not conventional footwear for a tourist, they fit with Yana’s quirky style and could also come in handy if she found herself in a fight. Maggie matched the boots with some tightfitting black jeans, red cardigan, and a tank top with a picture of a little cartoon cat on the front.
Trying everything on, Maggie took in her new persona through the full-length mirror by the bed. While not to Maggie’s taste, Yana was exactly what she needed to be: young, unassuming, and innocent.
She was ready for tomorrow.