An Improbable Spy by David Paul Collins

Author:David Paul Collins [Collins, David Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781532080302
Publisher: iUniverse
Published: 2019-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

Walls Too Short

Jack could not wait to see what Vladimir Sudakov looked like in person. His focus on Sudakov changed when he stepped out of the Sheraton elevator and saw a maid closing the door of room 317. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” he said.

“Ahlan bik,” she responded with a hint of a smile.

“Enta Sudanani?” he asked, guessing that she, like most hotel maids, was from the Sudan.

“Nam, Dinka,” she replied cheerfully. “Yes, I’m of the Dinka tribe. You speak my language?”

Not very well, he thought, or you wouldn’t have asked the question.

The Dinka maid was as hospitable as if she oversaw sales. “Would you like to see this room?” She opened the door and showed him the view, pointing out a sculpture garden. “Russians go there. Maybe Russian company. Maybe big sherekat.” She closed the floor-length drapes and spun around to look at Jack with a Sudanese smile that could capture an entire regiment.

“You speak my language very well,” he said.

Her Nubian facial features were like those of European women rather than the thick-lipped, broad-nosed look of the West Africans. Their radiance was celebrated in bars from the Red Sea to the Sahara. Her cheeks had facial scars, which identified her as belonging to one of the tribes living on the banks of the Blue Nile.

“Room free now, no booked, already cleaned.” She took the tip Jack offered, tucking the Egyptian pounds into her apron. The maid’s hand rested on the doorknob; her slim body edged to open it a little. Jack felt an invitation. She gestured for Jack to give the room a second look, then humbled her eyes toward the floor, her free hand turned to the side. The light tan skin on the inside of her hand contrasted with her ebony body.

Jack stared at her thin nostrils and fine lips and felt the elegant calmness that proclaims femininity and befuddles men, weak or strong. He felt silly, like a boy sneaking a peek at a copy of Playboy on a magazine rack in the drugstore. Jack straightened his shoulders, stiffened the rest of his body, and embraced his ability to pretend. She was not Farideh. He used his sleeve to blot the surge of sweat on his forehead cooked up in a hot hallway by a hot maid.

Giggling, she stepped into the hall, waved, and said, “Bye bye.”

Jack went to the window. He was to expect two men to enter the embassy garden. The younger and bigger man would be Sudakov; the other, his boss, Vice Consul Yevgeny Primakovski. Other pictures in the file he had reviewed at the embassy showed Sudakov’s boss. One was a head-and-shoulders shot, and one was of Primakovski at the Kremlin wall, standing behind Brezhnev.

According to the file, Sudakov had worked for the vice consul in Moscow on the Middle East desk. Both spoke fluent Arabic, both had graduated from Moscow Academy, and both worked on the USSR’s interests in the region. Vice Consul Primakovski’s cover was agronomy. He belonged to the upper ranks of the KGB.

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