“Tango or foxtrot?”
Her ochre hair gleamed in the dim light of the cheap lamp. Outside, the merciless November wind owned the empty Montreal streets, whirling fresh snow across the cobblestones and slapping handfuls of sludge onto the windshields of the late cars.
“Tango,” Juliet answered, and Victor smiled.
“Bravo.”
The hotel was boarded up for winter, and echoes filled the empty corridors. The man she now knew as Victor had put her in the old-fashioned room with a four-poster bed and a radiator that emanated blessed warmth. Juliet had no idea what Victor’s real name was, but her trained ear caught a faint trace of a Russian accent in his voice.
In the dull reception area, next to a wooden statue of a Zulu warrior, hung some kind of old pennant with Cyrillic letters. Juliet remembered the alphabet from her university years.
“You might want to put it away,” she said, lighting her cigarette. “Visitors might know what the Alpha is.”
Victor shrugged.
“There are no visitors here—ever—and I like to think about my past. I burned my uniform after the war, but this little thing is harmless. I embroidered it myself in occupational therapy.”
He was missing three fingers on his right hand.
The sounds of tango, emanating from an ancient turntable, filled the hall, and Juliet let the music overtake her body, washing away kilos of tiredness accumulated on flights from India to Lima and from Lima to Quebec. Names and faces swirled in her head. Mike in India, Sierra in Peru, someone else on a layover between Asia and South America. New passports and new names.
Tomorrow the Delta team would strike again. Juliet looked at his dry, dark face, made of corners and creases. Victor slid a glass of whisky across the shaky table.
“Drink, and maybe your X-ray eyes will lose their sharpness,” he smiled.
“That’s why Delta employs me,” she said, taking the drink. The whisky caressed her mouth and Juliet inhaled the salty seaside air of her childhood.
“True,” Victor admitted, showing her the phone. “This is Charlie, and he’ll pick you up after tomorrow’s event.”
It was always an event or a job. They avoided the real word—just like the real names.
“You go Yankee-side and get lost in the woods,” Victor continued. “Wait until Papa finishes playing golf and returns to D.C. Romeo will drive you from the cabin to the capital, and the rest will end up in the history books.”
“One day somebody’ll get an Oscar for a film about us,” Juliet said, draining the last dregs of whisky and extending her hand. “Shall we dance?”
He was supple and lithe, like a wild beast—but Juliet could tame any weapon known to man. She led, and Victor followed, until the last sound of the tango dissolved in the plaintive howl of the wind.
Her ochre hair gleamed in the dim light of the cheap lamp. Outside, the merciless November wind owned the empty Montreal streets, whirling fresh snow across the cobblestones and slapping handfuls of sludge onto the windshields of the late cars.
“Tango,” Juliet answered, and Victor smiled.
“Bravo.”
The hotel was boarded up for winter, and echoes filled the empty corridors. The man she now knew as Victor had put her in the old-fashioned room with a four-poster bed and a radiator that emanated blessed warmth. Juliet had no idea what Victor’s real name was, but her trained ear caught a faint trace of a Russian accent in his voice.
In the dull reception area, next to a wooden statue of a Zulu warrior, hung some kind of old pennant with Cyrillic letters. Juliet remembered the alphabet from her university years.
“You might want to put it away,” she said, lighting her cigarette. “Visitors might know what the Alpha is.”
Victor shrugged.
“There are no visitors here—ever—and I like to think about my past. I burned my uniform after the war, but this little thing is harmless. I embroidered it myself in occupational therapy.”
He was missing three fingers on his right hand.
The sounds of tango, emanating from an ancient turntable, filled the hall, and Juliet let the music overtake her body, washing away kilos of tiredness accumulated on flights from India to Lima and from Lima to Quebec. Names and faces swirled in her head. Mike in India, Sierra in Peru, someone else on a layover between Asia and South America. New passports and new names.
Tomorrow the Delta team would strike again. Juliet looked at his dry, dark face, made of corners and creases. Victor slid a glass of whisky across the shaky table.
“Drink, and maybe your X-ray eyes will lose their sharpness,” he smiled.
“That’s why Delta employs me,” she said, taking the drink. The whisky caressed her mouth and Juliet inhaled the salty seaside air of her childhood.
“True,” Victor admitted, showing her the phone. “This is Charlie, and he’ll pick you up after tomorrow’s event.”
It was always an event or a job. They avoided the real word—just like the real names.
“You go Yankee-side and get lost in the woods,” Victor continued. “Wait until Papa finishes playing golf and returns to D.C. Romeo will drive you from the cabin to the capital, and the rest will end up in the history books.”
“One day somebody’ll get an Oscar for a film about us,” Juliet said, draining the last dregs of whisky and extending her hand. “Shall we dance?”
He was supple and lithe, like a wild beast—but Juliet could tame any weapon known to man. She led, and Victor followed, until the last sound of the tango dissolved in the plaintive howl of the wind.
