Spycubus Ch. 01

She knocked on the door and mustered up the sweetest voice she could with her heart pounding in her chest. "Room service!"

No response.

She heard footsteps coming from the stairwell behind her and knew she couldn't any longer.

She tried the first key in the lock. No good.

She could hear voices now. They were getting closer.

The second key didn't seem to fit at all so she moved on to the third key, her hands shaking. It fit into the lock and stuck for a moment before turning. She opened the door and quickly shut it behind her as she collapsed against the door.

* * *

The cab pulled up to a dark building on a deserted industrial street. Michael handed the driver 20 rubles, thanked him, and stepped out of the car and back into the cold rain.

The building looked like some kind of warehouse, but it had clearly been out of use for quite some time. The numbers '226' were printed in large block letters that had faded significantly over the years. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tattered envelope which in faded ink read, ul. Tserkovnaya k. 226.

He was in the right place.

There was a single door to what looked like some kind of administration office, but the blinds were drawn so he couldn't see inside. From the envelope he produced a small brass key. There were no other entrances that Michael could see, so the key must be for the door. He turned and looked back down the street from which he came, half expecting to see a GAZ Volga with KGB agents approaching in pursuit, but the street was quiet. He was alone.

The key fit easily into the door and the door swung open freely without any hint of the dilapidation of the outer facade. Inside, the room was no warmer than the street outside, but at least it was dry. The room was lit dimly from the street lamps whose soft orange glow peeked through gaps in the blinds. It was a small room with an unassuming desk in the center and a single door leading toward the back of the building. Scattered across the desk were several sheets of paper. Hoping there might be a letter for him with instructions, Michael approached the desk and lit a match from his coat pocket to take a better look.

The papers amounted to shipping receipts for wholesale wool socks dated from the year 1974 and a typewritten memo that the factory would be closed permanently as of October 30. There was no sign that anyone had been here since.

The thought of wool socks reminded Michael of how cold he was. His clothes were entirely soaked through and he was shivering from the cool air. He thought it unwise to try the lights in this front room, but if the building still had power he might find a place to get more comfortable somewhere in the back of the warehouse, and if he was lucky, find a dry pair of socks.

Lighting another match from the book he stepped through the door towards the back of the warehouse.

* * *

Dasha was frozen, her back pressed hard against the door behind her. She held her breath waiting to hear the voices and heavy footsteps burst through the doorway down the hall to the right, but they never came.

After what felt like an eternity she exhaled heavily and began to collect her thoughts. She could probably lay low here for the night, but eventually she would have to leave the hotel, and once she was out on the street it wasn't likely to get any easier for her. The longer she waited, the more difficult it would be to board a plane—if that option wasn't already out entirely. It would be easier to slip onto a train, but those stations would be under surveillance as well. How far was it to Minsk? 600, maybe 700 kilometers? She could drive—if she could find a car—but there would be god knows how many Soviet checkpoints between here and there. At the very least she'd run into them getting out of Moscow, and then again near Smolensk at the Bylorussian border, and again outside of Minsk, plus who knows how many more in between. She had a false propiska saying she was a student studying at Moscow State University, but that would likely face extra scrutiny if she was traveling by car through the night, and that's not even considering the fact that her vehicle would have to be commandeered through less than legal means. No, the train would be her best bet. But she'd have to find a way to the station.

You're getting ahead of yourself. You need to find a way out of this hotel first.

As her mind raced her eyes adjusted to the dark hotel room and fixed themselves on a leather suitcase ten feet from her. Apparently the room she happened upon wasn't vacant. The clock back in her room had read a quarter to ten o'clock when she first fled, it wasn't too late. It was possible that whoever was staying in this room had already gone to bed. Holding her breath, she listened for any signs of breathing coming from the bedroom. Through the walls she heard what sounded like a radio or television from the next room over, but from this suite only stillness.

Quietly she picked herself off the floor and crept through the entryway and into the small living space. There was a loveseat and coffee table set across from a small television, in the corner a small ironing board had been set up. On the table was a newspaper and a half-drunk cup of coffee. The single suitcase was stashed neatly out of the way next to the TV stand. From what Dasha could tell, the room belonged to a single business traveler. The door to the bedroom was open a crack and behind it she saw only darkness.

She stood in the center of the room and glanced back towards the door to the hallway. If the hotel guest wasn't asleep in bed, he could be coming back any minute. She took several steps back towards the doorway when she heard heavy footsteps approaching from the hallway beyond. They sounded like they were coming from the stairwell she'd just run out of. Dasha held her breath as she peered through the peephole. Out in the hall, a tall man in a Militsiya uniform lumbered by. She didn't let herself exhale until he was at least three doors further down.

Dasha resigned herself that she would have to stay put for the time being. If the hotel guest happened to return she could probably charm her way out of any trouble, or if she was lucky, he was already sound asleep. She thought it best to find out one way or the other for sure.

As she walked back towards the bedroom she noticed that the muted television sounds from the adjacent room had ceased leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Her footfalls against the soft carpet of the room sounded uncomfortably loud to Dasha as she approached the door. With one hand on the doorknob she listened again for any signs of life in the room but heard only the gentle patter of rain against the window. She pushed the door open, only a few centimeters at first, but when she could tell the bed was still made she opened the door and stepped into the room.

The room was empty. The man would be coming back any minute and she'd have to find a way to deal with him. Only half of the bed was slept in and from the suit hanging in the closet she confirmed her suspicions of the guest being a single businessman. Worst case scenario she figured she would seduce him and sleep with him, maybe he was comely, and maybe his memories would help take her mind off things and to ease her anxieties.

She dropped her bag to the floor and sat down on the bed. Turning on the bedside lamp she noticed a note scrawled on a pad of paper by the telephone.

Oblomov / 7pm

She frowned. The note confused her.. Why would this man have the name of the restaurant and reservation of her dinner with Vitaliy written down. Was it a coincidence or... It suddenly clicked as she heard a key enter the lock of the hotel room.

She turned off the bedside lamp and kicked her duffel bag underneath the bed. She dropped to the floor as she heard the door open in the other room and rolled under the bed, pulling her duffel securely to her chest. A moment later the man entered the bedroom and flicked the light back on. Only then did she realize she still held the note tightly in her hand.

The man walked to the bed and sat right where Dasha had been sitting seconds prior, his feet now mere centimeters from her head. She heard him remove the telephone from the receiver and begin dialing a number. Only four turns before she heard the muffled ringing on the other side of the line. He's dialing someone in the hotel, she thought to herself.

"We're all clear down here, it appears she made it out via the service exit in the back of the building." The man spoke amiably as if nothing was amiss.

"No one except a janitor, and she did a good number on him. He wants to press charges!" The man laughed before becoming more serious again. "Did you give her the package?...Good, very good... No we're not yet sure, but we have a full sweep out. There's no way she escapes the city unnoticed. Someone will find her."

He listened to the man on the other side of the line for awhile in silence, "Okay.. I'll see you in the morning, in the meantime I'm going to ring Yevgeny about one of those girls, I don't see why you get to have all the fun!" This time Dasha heard the muffled laughter of the other man. "Goodnight Vit!"

The Package. Vit? She wondered at first if it was a sick euphemism, but he had sounded too serious for that. Had she been set up this entire time? But that doesn't change what she saw in Vitaliy's mind. But what was the package? He hadn't given her anything and if he had, it was left behind with the rest of her things in the room.

As Dasha tried to make sense of what she overheard, the man had gotten up and crossed the room to make himself a drink. When he returned to the bed he picked up the phone and again Dasha heard him dial four numbers.

"Yes, Yevgeni? It's Maks, will you send that young blonde one up?...Yes, room 624. Thank you!"

How long had they been conspiring against her? How long had she been made for? Dasha's pride was hurt, because she had long felt she did extremely well blending in and playing her part as a young soviet diva. But even if they did know, maybe some of the conversations she overheard were staged, but they couldn't control what they divulged in their most intimate moments.

* * *

Michael stepped through the doorway and onto a catwalk which stepped down to the main factory floor. All of the machines had been cleared out leaving the large room uncomfortably vacant. The room was partially illuminated by light which flooded in from an office towards the back of the building. He was surprised by this, but glad to see that the building had power. He had no idea how long he might have to wait.

His footsteps on the concrete floor echoed loudly through the room. It was hard for him to imagine the bustle that must have once gone on in this space. It made him sad to think of all the workers who were suddenly sent home without work, few among the many needless casualties of the corrupt regime and brutal economic policies. The thoughts then turned to pride at his own American heritage.

As he reached the illuminated office he saw it was occupied. In his shock he dropped his briefcase which thudded loudy on the floor.

Inside the room was a small sofa and an old desk, atop which sat a young woman. She looked to be about Dasha's age, mid twenties, but she had long blonde hair which she was casually braiding in her fingers. She wore an evening gown that had been spoiled in the rain. Clearly she had been whisked away to this location in a rush, much like himself. When she turned at the sound he saw that she had beautiful blue eyes and full red lips.

She smiled at him, cocking her head to the side. "You must be Michael."

Michael didn't know what to say. He had no reason to expect company at this location, and this was the first time in a year and a half that anyone had called him his real name. Alarm bells went off in his head. Every instinct in his body told him to run.

"Relax. My name is Samantha." She held out her hand. "Or, Sanya, if you prefer." She spoke the line in a cheesy Russian accent, wrinkling her nose with a laugh. "God, it feels good to actually say my name again though. I never thought it could sound so unfamiliar. How long has it been for you?"

Michael slowly bent down to pick up his briefcase. Standing back up, he responded. "Just over eighteen months."

"Wow! And here I am complaining—I've only been here for seven and a half." She talked fast, with a New York accent that sounded like Brooklyn to Michael.

"Sorry if I'm a little spooked, I wasn't expecting company." He stepped into the room and hesitated before sitting down on the sofa.

"They certainly don't tell us enough do they? Best we just go with the flow I guess."

Michael smirked. "I don't know how you can be so blasé, I walk around everyday expecting to be shot in the back of the head."

Samantha let out a hearty laugh and recrossed her legs. "I can't live like that Mike—hey, do you mind if I smoke?" She started rummaging through her purse for a cigarette.

"You know, that's another one I haven't heard since I've been here."

"What?" She asked without looking up.

"Permission to smoke."

"God! I know. I've picked up the dreadful habit since being here. Do you want one?"

Michael considered for a moment, "Sure what the hell, might as well wait to start kicking the habit until I get back."

Samantha hopped off the desk, walked over and sat down next to him on the sofa. Michael found it difficult not to admire her beauty as she approached. She was thin like Dasha, maybe an inch taller, but had a more voluptuous figure. Her wet green dress clung to her chest leaving little underneath to the imagination.

As she sat down the old sofa sank under their combined weight and forced the two of them into the center together.

"Oh my. Sorry!" She said, blushing.

"Don't worry about it. I have a feeling that you and I are going to be very well acquainted when this is all through."

She turned to him, frowning. "What do you mean."

Michael lit his cigarette and took a long drag. "Evac isn't going to be first class flights with peanuts and wine."

She stared at him, mouth agape, waiting for him to continue.

"All I'm saying is that if they stowed the two of us in a crate together on a cargo plane, I wouldn't be all that surprised."

"Jesus." She shook her head.

The two of them sat and finished their cigarettes in silence before Samantha suddenly jumped up from the sofa. "Well if it's as you say, we might as well get acquainted then" She turned around and started unzipping her dress.

"Woah, what are you doing?"

She looked at him over her shoulder and grinned. "Relax playboy, I'm just changing out of this dress. It's all soaked through. Look away if it makes you feel uncomfortable—I don't care."

Michael watched as she struggled with her zipper and considered offering his help, but decided it best not to cross that line. He knew he should give the girl her privacy and look away but he couldn't. After she managed to get the dress unzipped she had to peel it off of her body, revealing her soft pale skin underneath. From behind he confirmed what he had already suspected; she wasn't wearing a bra.

He felt himself stiffen in his pants. It had also been a year and a half for him since he had been with a woman. But certainly he could wait a bit longer, right? He and Dasha would be reunited soon on American soil where they'd have plenty of paid leave to make up for lost time.

As his thoughts turned to Dasha he was reminded of how different her assignment had been from his. A truth that he often tried to forget. She was tasked to be an agent of espionage through intimate and casual relations. He had of course given her his blessing to do what needed to be done, but that didn't make him any happier about it. The two ultimately agreed to put their own relationship on hold during their assignment with a no-questions-asked policy for when they reunite. Michael had been on several dates with women as he went through the motions of courtship, but he always found an excuse to end things before they got too serious. It had been a lonely year and a half for him. Often late at night he found himself falling asleep wondering about who she was laying in bed with.

With her dress off she walked over to the desk and knelt down beside it to open her duffel bag. As she did she glanced back at Michael and caught him staring. "And here I thought you'd be a gentleman."

Michael was lost in thought, still thinking about Dasha. His eyes had only been following Samantha on autopilot. "I uhh..." He stammered, blushing.

Samantha lit up with a smile. "Relax Michael. I'm just kidding." She turned back to her bag and pulled out a couple pieces of clothing before standing up and turning back towards Michael. This time facing him for the first time, her bare chest completely exposed.

Michael tried to avert his eyes and crossed his legs, hoping it might hide the evidence of his arousal growing in his pants.

"How long has it been for you?"

"What do you mean? I've already told you, I've been here for—"

"No, not how long you've been here..." She walked up to him, gently grazing her fingers over his forearm. "How long since—"

"Oh." He exhaled deeply. "Well, like I said, I've been here for about eighteen months." He looked up at her, past her breasts and held her gaze.

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. "I see." Her fingertips trailed down his arm to his hand where she picked it up and placed it on her hip. "Do you know what my assignment was?" Her voice was a little deeper now and more sultry.

"I uhh—I really have no idea."

"I worked as a prostitute." She spoke matter of factly, as if there was nothing to it. "That was my cover anyways. I was placed in a whorehouse known to be visited by top-level KGB agents where I serviced them and collected intel."

"Sam I... " Michael looked away, shaking his head. "I don't want you to feel like you have to... I mean we're colleagues. That role for you is finished now."

Samantha let out another hearty laugh. "Don't feel sorry for me Michael. I knew exactly what I was getting into. And sure, plenty of the men were oafish pigs, but a lot of the sex was quite good." She grabbed his chin and turned his head to face her as she sat down in his lap, slowly grinding against him as she did.

"I have a girlfriend." He looked away from her face this time, but couldn't manage to move his eyes entirely from her body.

"Dasha?" She said her name as her hands ran down his chest. When they reached his belt she yanked his shirt out hard.

Michael snapped out of the trance and stared her in the eye once more. "How do you know that name?"

Her soft hand took his cheek gently. "Michael, they sent me in almost a year after you two. I was briefed on several of the agents here, and I know all about Dasha's assignment."

"Yeah but this isn't business." Michael tried to sit up so he could push her off him but her hands planted firmly on his chest and shoved him back into the saggy sofa.

"Listen. She may not have been placed in a whorehouse but I guarantee that sex is very much a part of her job description. And while she may not love it everytime, I know the circles she runs in and I can say with certainty that several of the men are quite handsome. And what's more is that I can say on good authority that Russian men know how to fuck."

Michael tried again to get up but found his efforts just as futile than before.

"Also, I'd like to add that I am a grown woman and if I want to have sex with you I make that decision on my own volition, not because I've turned into some mindless floozy. If you're not attracted to me that's fine, and I'll apologize for coming on to you, but don't you try to make this about me. And as for Dasha, my guess is that she'd feel better if she knew you were getting some too."