The Shadow War by Glen Scott Allen

Author:Glen Scott Allen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 28

Natalya was exhausted. She’d arrived at the Cultural Center at six o’clock that morning. It was now after noon, and she hadn’t had a break during those six hours.

First had been checking that the movers were arriving that morning to begin setting up the tables in the main reception hall; then that the decorators would be arriving shortly after that to begin laying out the tablecloths and silverware, as well as the dozens of flowers, garlands, wreaths, and other decorations that she hoped would transform the Cultural Center into something out of a nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia painting.

She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to grab something to eat. While she was there she decided to check her phone messages at home. There was only one, but it surprised her.

Her father’s cousin Olga had called and left a very brief message, telling her just to call her as soon as possible. To hear from Olga at all was strange—she and Natalya were not that close—but even stranger was when she’d left it: 7:00 A.M. Olga probably expected to catch her before she left for the RCC, but since she’d left so early to get ready for the reception, she hadn’t been home.

She was about to call Olga back on her cell phone, when one of the assistants came to tell her there was a phone call for her at her desk. Ah, she thought as she made her way upstairs, this must be my father calling to explain Olga’s odd behavior.

“Alloa,” she said, expecting to hear her father’s baritone “privet” in response.

“Uh … I’m sorry, is this Ms. N. Orlova?”

The voice was clearly American, not Russian.

“Well, this is Natalya Orlova, yes. Who is this?”

“Ms. Orlova.” There was a pause on the other end, and she realized the caller was trying to think what to say. “You don’t know me. My name is Benjamin Wainwright. I’m a colleague of someone I believe contacted you, perhaps last week. His name was Dr. Jeremy Fletcher.”

Natalya held her breath. For a moment, she literally couldn’t speak.

“Miss Orlova?” the voice asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she managed. She couldn’t think straight. “Uh, you said … you said he was a colleague?”

“Yes,” the voice said. “I … it’s difficult to explain over the telephone.”

Natalya’s first impulse was to hang up. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that.

“Who did you say you were?” she asked, stalling for time to think.

“Benjamin Wainwright,” said the voice. “I’m … well, I was at the same place where Dr. Fletcher was doing his research. The American Heritage Foundation. In Massachusetts.”

Natalya thought back. There hadn’t been any institutional letterhead on Fletcher’s note, nor any bulk mail stamp on the envelope. She’d heard of the American Heritage Foundation; she knew obtaining any sort of relationship with the Foundation was considered a real coup by the people she’d studied with at Moscow State Institute. She also noticed that this Benjamin had said he “was” there.

“You’re not in Massachusetts now, Mr. Wainwright?”

There was a pause.

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