Trapped! by James Ponti

Author:James Ponti [Ponti, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Aladdin
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

18.

Diplomatic Immunity

DEAL BEAT COLUMBIA HEIGHTS 4–2, and afterward Margaret and I went to the Capital City Cycle Shop to pick up my newly repaired bike. Before heading home, we decided to ride over to the Friendship Station Post Office and Gorky’s. We also discussed Nicolae Nevrescu’s surprise appearance at the game. (Although I left out the part about him intimidating Andrei Morozov.)

“You’re not making this up?” she asked. “Nic the Knife paid for the bleachers? The scoreboard? Everything?”

“There was even a big announcement before kickoff,” I told her. “Principal Albright presented him with a jersey. People clapped. It was a thing.”

“How’d I miss that?” she asked, perplexed.

“You were already in game mode,” I said. “You looked like a cheetah about to take down a gazelle.”

“That does sound like me. Any idea why he suddenly become a fan of middle school soccer?”

“He said something about getting a tax write-off for his construction company. It’s probably like those scholarships he gives out.”

“I guess so. But I still think it’s strange.”

I was worried she’d keep asking questions, but luckily, we reached the post office, and she dropped the conversation to focus on the case. We took photos of the front of the building as well as the area around PO Box 1737. We tried to walk around the back to see where they loaded the mail onto trucks, but that area was fenced off, and there was a security guard who seemed unhappy that we were poking around.

“I think it’s time we left,” I said when I saw him looking at us and calling someone on a walkie-talkie.

Our stop at Gorky’s was more productive.

“Check it out,” Margaret said as we locked our bikes to the rack behind the store. “Diplomatic plates.”

Sure enough, two of the cars in the small parking lot had diplomatic license plates like the one we’d seen on Morozov’s SUV.

“They probably work at the Russian embassy,” I said. “It’s less than a mile from here.”

The inside of the store had two distinct sections. One half looked like a small Moscow market with shelves full of Russian groceries, and the other was a deli with five tables, all of which were in use. Virtually no one was speaking English.

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Margaret whispered after we passed two men in an animated discussion.

“Not a word,” I said. “I only know how to say a few phrases, and I can’t keep up with anyone speaking that fast.”

We pretended to browse through a display of colorfully wrapped chocolates while I tried to take some pictures for the caseboard. Unfortunately, this attracted the attention of the store clerk, who walked over to us. She had a sour expression on her face.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked in a thick accent.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re . . . umm . . . we’re . . .”

“Looking for Natalia,” said Margaret, coming to the rescue.

The woman seemed both surprised and suspicious. “I am Natalia. What do you want with me?”

“Lucia Miller sent us,” Margaret answered.

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