The Russian's Greed

the sound of her voice, dropping his cigarette as hedid. He threw his hand over his heart. “Don’t do that! You scaredthe hell out of me.”
Anya took three morestrides, closing the distance between them. “I’m sorry. I did notmean to frighten you, but I would like to have a cigarette.” Withher Russian accent impossible to hide, she tried to overcome it witha flirtatious smile . . . just as she’d been taught.
And it worked. Davidproduced a pack from his pocket and shook up a single cigarettethrough the small hole in the top.
Anya pulled the longwhite cigarette from the pack and placed it between her lips. Sheleaned in and spoke without parting her lips. “Could I have alight?”
David cupped his handaround the lighter as he moved the flame toward Anya, and she raisedher hands to further shelter the flame from the night wind. In theinstant when the fire touched its target, Anya clasped the man’swrists, spun him around, and shoved him face-first into the base ofan antenna bolted to the roof. Blood flew from his nose and foreheadon contact, so Anya roughly threw the now unconscious man to theground. She carefully rolled the front of his shirt into a tight wadand pulled it across his bloody face, trying to keep the scrubs freeof blood. Next came the pants and shoes. They were easier since therewas no need for caution to avoid blood. Anya draped her gown acrossthe unconscious man and stepped into his scrubs. The shoes were asize too big, but they were better than no shoes at all.
She felt for a pulse inDavid’s neck and found an athletic thump. He was alive, but shedidn’t envy the headache he’d have when he woke up. Back throughthe door and down the stairs she went, ignoring the floor on whichshe’d been confined for days. She reached the ground floor inrecord time, and seconds later, she walked through an exit door andonto a concrete walkway leading from the hospital.
Escaping the hospitalhad been simple, but getting off the Navy base would prove to be ahorse of a very different color. A grove of trees stood to the rightof the sidewalk, while an open grassy area laid to the left. Crossingthe open field, even under darkness, made for too many opportunitiesfor someone to see her and start asking questions she couldn’tanswer.
The only logical routewas through the trees, so she bent down and retied the oversizedshoes, drawing them a little tighter on her feet. The desire to runwas almost too powerful to overcome, but she willed herself to walkat a leisurely pace as if she belonged on that stretch of sidewalk atthat hour. David’s ID badge hanging from the pocket of the scrubswouldn’t withstand scrutiny. She looked nothing like the LPN, butfrom a distance, it was close enough to fool onlookers.
Four strides into thetrees, a confident, strong voice came from beside a mighty oak. “Whydo you smell like smoke, and where are you going, Anya?”
She froze and turned tothe voice. Special Agent Ray White of the U.S. Department of Justicestood in the shadows, nonchalantly leaning against the solid oak.
She sighed, obviouslydisappointed with herself and surprised by Ray White’s appearance.“You can’t make me stay. You promised if I did one mission foryou, I would be free.”
Ray picked at his teethwith a twig he’d been whittling with his pocketknife. “That’snot exactly what I promised, but it’s close. The mission involvesmore than just one man in just one city. Phase two is waiting for youas soon as you feel up to it, and from my observations tonight,you’re definitely ready for something to do. What do you say we hopin my Suburban and find an all-night diner where we can have a pieceof pie and talk about what happens next?”
She eyed him with bothcontempt and admiration. His choice of words had been meticulous, andshe’d fallen into a seemingly open-ended agreement with the manwho’d likely send her to her death on the streets of yet anothercity and at the hands of the Russkaya mafiya.

2
SKOL'ZHENIYE
(SLIPPING)
The 1950s-stylechrome and Formica tables and vinyl-covered seats gave Capital Dinerthe look and feel of a bygone era. A Wurlitzer sat silent against anotherwise empty wall, and the yellowing of the ceiling tiles told thestory of fifty years of fried food, cigarette smoke, and neglect.
Supervisory SpecialAgent Ray White slid a plastic-covered menu across the table to Anya.“Every time I come here, I always expect The Fonz to show up, punchthat jukebox to life, and say, ‘Aaaay!’”
The Russian frowned inutter confusion. “What does this mean?”
“Don’t tell meyou’ve never seen Happy Days.”
Her frown continued.“My days are sad since I met you.”
He shook his head. “No,it’s an old TV show, and The Fonz was this guy . . . Oh, nevermind. I can’t explain it.”
“I do not watchtelevision.”
A waitress whose apronlooked worse than the ceiling tile ambled to their table. “What’llit be?”
Ray looked up at thewoman and wondered if she ate exclusively at the diner, and he triedto imagine her cholesterol numbers. “What kind of pie do you havetonight?”
The waitress turned togaze into the cooler. “It looks like we’ve got apple, lemonmeringue, and one piece of cherry left.”
Ray turned to Anya.“What’s your favorite kind of pie?”
She laid her hand onhis arm and twisted until she could see the face of his watch.“Coulibiac with sturgeon and salmon is best pie in all of world,but no one should eat pie at one o’clock in morning.”
The waitress beat Rayto the punch. “We don’t have anything like that, but I thinkwe’ve got some fish sticks in the freezer.”
Ray ignored her andscrewed up his face. “Fish pie? Really? That’s disgusting.” Hedidn’t wait for Anya to put up any further protest, and he turnedto the bulbous waitress. “We’ll have two pieces of apple pie,coffee for me, and I’m sure she wants hot tea.”
Anya shook her head.“No, not tea. I will have only water.”
The waitress scribbledon her green-and-white order pad. “Suit yourself. Ice cream on thepie?”
“Yes, definitely icecream,” Ray said. “Thank you.”
As the woman shuffledaway, Anya said, “Why do you think I will not kill you and