Greg Ahlgren - Prologue

Natasha didn’t say anything. She didn’t doubt that he could.

“Normally I would. There’s no shortage of agents willing to cooperate, here and in Boston.” He touched his cheek again. “But there’s somebody above me who wants you there. You’re lucky, Comrade Nikitin, if this were completely my project you’d be on the next train to Nevada. But someone else in the Agency hierarchy must get into your pants.”

Natasha blinked and looked up at him, a look of surprise etched across her features.

“Enjoy Dorchester,” Igor said, digging a key out of his pocket and throwing it on the floor.

For a split second Natasha reconsidered. She saw the wood-paneled rooms and cafés, the bicycle and river, the stroll over the Charles Bridge to MIT and the walks along Commonwealth Avenue. Then she thought of Igor showing up for weekends, and expecting her services, since something told her he’d find reasons to visit Boston frequently.

“Why thank you, Comrade,” she said, stooping to pick up the key without taking her eyes off him. “I think Dorchester should be fine.”

Natasha and Nigel pulled up in front of deVere’s residence a little after 7:30 p.m. Nigel guided his BMW hybrid convertible in behind a cream colored vintage Ford Pinto parked directly in front of the house. Natasha raised herself up from the deep leather seat to read the sticker on the Pinto’s rear bumper. “The United States will rise again,” the slogan read. At the left end of the bumper sticker was a caricature of the Statue of Liberty and on the right, a waving Stars and Stripes.

“Where does one get such bumper stickers?” Natasha asked in wonderment.

“Oh, those.” Nigel cleared his throat in an embarrassed manner. “A lot of the fire-eaters are putting them on their cars this year. You can get them at the Harvard COOP but you have to ask. They keep them under the counter.”

“Is that Professor Ginter’s car?” Natasha asked.

“No, that one belongs to Judith Wolfe in the Astronomy Department. She and Ginter are old car hounds. I was told she restored it herself.”

“How old is it?” Natasha asked, exiting her door and slinging her bag over her right shoulder.

“I think it’s a 1975 but I’m not sure,” Nigel answered as he came around the BMW and slipped his arm around Natasha’s waist. He appeared annoyed at the question.

The sky was still bright though the sun was low in the sky. The air outside the city was noticeably cooler. Natasha resisted the urge to recoil from Nigel’s arm and instead looked up and smiled shyly. As they proceeded up the walkway he smiled back.

The two-story house was painted bright yellow with five windows across the top and two windows flanking each side of a red center doorway. A mammoth brick chimney painted white protruded from the peak of the roof. Natasha assumed it was a reproduction colonial dating from the 1980s until she saw the granite foundation behind the shrubbery. Inside, the lower than usual living room ceiling confirmed her suspicion.

If her host were disappointed at her attendance he hid it well. “Miss Nikitin!” he beamed upon spotting her. “Nice of you to come.”

He turned and introduced Natasha to his wife and daughter. Natasha estimated Grace to be about 16 years old. Valerie deVere, a tall, thin blonde, looked Natasha up and down before coolly offering her hand. It was a look Natasha recognized.

Natasha shook the woman’s hand and smiled. No, bitch. I’m not sleeping with your husband.

Nigel ushered her through the house and out the rear kitchen screen door to the back yard. Natasha would have preferred to see the rest of the house—especially deVere’s study—but Nigel’s encircled arm was insistent.

“Yes, I do believe that I’ve met Dr. Arnold,” Natasha said in response to the introduction. Arnold was a squat, balding man with a large head, a former professor who had drifted into some administrative position at the University and who no longer dealt with students. The students were likely pleased. And, according to his file, Arnold was pro-Soviet. Natasha sighed and wondered why it seemed to be the ugly ones who were pro-Soviet.

Professor Phyllis Fletcher stood with drink in hand, chatting with a lanky grad assistant Natasha didn’t recognize. She made a point to pass close to them on the way to the picnic table and heard the grad assistant mutter something about “sine wave reductions.” Natasha kept moving.

At the picnic table Lewis Ginter stood with one foot on the bench, facing off with Judith Wolfe.

“I’ve never seen that,” Wolfe was protesting. “Are you sure?”

Ginter took a sip from his beer and shook his head. “You’ve got a goddamn PhD. Didn’t they teach you anything at Columbia?”

Natasha turned her back to them and deliberately filled a plastic cup with ice.

“I just haven’t seen it,” Wolfe slurred.

“Well, then watch. I’m telling you, every single time. Two strikes, doesn’t matter how many balls. With two strikes he always chases the outside curve ball. With one strike or none he knows enough to lay off but with two strikes he’s got this goddamn protect-the-plate-at-any-cost mentality, and he always, always chases it.”

Natasha finished fixing her drink and moved off, leaving Wolfe shaking her head.

“Nice grounds, huh?” Nigel had reappeared at her side.

“It’s beautiful,“ Natasha said, and meant it. The yard sloped slightly downhill to the woods 100 feet away. Two paths, approximately 50 feet apart, led into the trees.

“Those woods are so beautiful,” Natasha gushed. “And the house. It must have been expensive.”

“You know, a full professor at MIT makes good money.” Nigel moved closer. “I expect to be a full professor soon.” He indicated the back yard. “Something like this will certainly be possible.”

Natasha ignored the bait. “Whose woods are those?” she asked. “Does he own them?”

“No, we don’t.”

Natasha turned back quickly. She hadn’t heard her host approach.

“Oh, Professor,” she stammered. “I was just admiring your yard.”

“It only extends to the wood line. That’s a nature preserve back there.” DeVere pointed straight ahead.

“And the paths?” Natasha asked. “Do those two paths lead through the preserve?”

“The one on the left leads down to an old stone icehouse near the pond. The icehouse is still there. Rumor has it that Thoreau stayed down there in a cabin at the end of the path.”

“That’s Walden Pond back there?” Natasha asked incredulously.

DeVere chuckled. “No, it’s not. It’s Warner’s Pond. But the story is that while waiting to move into his cabin on Walden Pond he stayed there for a few weeks. Or something like that. We call it our own Walden Pond. It was probably just a realtor’s marketing lie.”

“I see,” Natasha answered. “And over there, where does that other path lead?”

“Nowhere in particular,” deVere answered hurriedly. “It just loops around and joins the other path on the far side of the icehouse.”

“Giving the tourist riff?” Lewis Ginter joined the trio.

“Good evening Nigel, Miss Nikitin,” he added. “Surprised to see you here,” he said coolly, addressing the intern.

“Oh, Professor Ginter,” Natasha blushed. “I get out once in a while. Nigel was kind enough to invite me.”

Ginter smiled blandly at the junior professor. “I’ll bet he was.”

“Well,” deVere interrupted. “Please make yourselves at home. There’s plenty to drink and I’m told the burgers will be ready soon. Not that we need hot food this evening.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Natasha said as Ginter and deVere moved off. She turned to her companion. “Nigel, would you please get me another drink?”