Maybe Better Off Dead than Red
Chapter 6
Yesterday ended on a sour note and today was shaping up to be the same tune. It was overcast and raining; a dismal, dreary and depressing day in the capital of the former Commie empire. I’d dropped off the diplomatic pouch for safekeeping with the U.S. embassy’s duty officer the night before since I wouldn’t need its contents in Moscow, but maybe elsewhere. Luckily, I found a McDonald’s and had dinner before returning to my ersatz dacha.
I quickly learned my Kruschevski was home to lower ranking SVR officers and their families. Fortunately, the building’s massive concrete walls kept the noise down to a minimum and I was able to get a few hours sleep. The exterior of the front door to my apartment was fitted with padding covered in red leather. It was an interesting approach to sound insulation, but it appeared to be effective.
The SVR’s Lubyanka headquarters was located some four, long blocks from my apartment and I walked the distance trying my best to shield myself from the light, intermittent rain. As I reached my destination, I took in the building’s massive size and yellow brick façade. It was an impressive structure that had been built for the All-Russia Insurance Company in the late 1800s. It had been home to the succession of Russian spy agencies since the Soviet revolution in 1917. The names had changed many times over the years, but the mission of each incarnation remained the same: protect the rodina at all costs from enemies both foreign and domestic.
I knew the underground portion of the building housed an infamous prison for special guests such as Noble Prize winner in literature Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Sidney Reilly, a British Secret Service agent dubbed the Ace of Spies and Raul Wallenberg who saved tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews during World War II from the Nazi death camps. Many less notable souls were imprisoned, tortured and later executed in its basements as well over many years. Brother, what an incredibly grim place, I thought as I entered the front door to present my credentials to the receptionist.
I was understandably nervous as I was sitting on a couch in the belly of the beast we’d been at cold war with for decades. But I didn’t mind the security screening I had to undergo before entering the lobby. The frisky frisking was the only sex I’d gotten in a long while. Thank God they didn’t demand to inspect my package since I wasn’t carrying one. That could have been terribly embarrassing since I probably couldn’t measure up to the SVR pricks inhabiting the building.
I then had an epiphany! I was awestruck like a deer caught in the headlights. I couldn’t believe my eyes when she walked up to me and introduced herself in flawless, unaccented English. Her name wasn’t Epiphany, but Major Ludmilla Petrova. Good Lord, I was immediately taken aback by her beauty and totally smitten at the outset. I think that meant erect in Russian and that’s how I stood in front of her. No matter, she was a gorgeous woman with auburn hair and bright, blue eyes. As she smiled to greet me, I didn’t see any metal teeth. However, my mettle was being tested by the encounter. I hoped I didn’t drool or babble in her presence.
“Welcome to Moscow Mr. Avery. I look forward to working with you on this most important project,” she said while looking directly into my eyes. “My name is Ludmilla Aleksandra Petrova and I’m a major in the Russian SVR and your new partner. I suspect you know that much about me already,” she laughing mentioned while sticking out her hand.
I did the same and her touch felt delightful. There was electricity between us, at least on my part, but I had to snap out of my glorious delirium before embarrassing myself and Uncle Sam in her presence.
“Mine’s Richard Avery, although my friends call me Dick. That pretty well sums me up too,” I inadvertently blurted out. My nervousness reared its ugly head at the most inopportune times.
She laughed, getting the unintended pun.
“Well, since we’re dropping pretenses and formalities, please call me Pet, it’s been my pet name since I was a kid,” she joked. I already enjoyed her quirky sense of humor since it jived with mine.
Yes, Pet, how apropos. No doubt I thought, as I discreetly glimpsed her body from head to toe. She was wearing a pair of tight leather slacks and a long sleeved peasant’s blouse and I liked what I saw. I estimated her height to be about five foot seven inches, but it was difficult to gauge given her high-heeled leather boots. Her body was sleek, taut and I doubted she’d tip the scale at more than 115 pounds, maybe less if expressed in kilos.
There was no way this woman ever pulled a plow or drove a tractor for a living. Her face was flawless and she wore little makeup since it wasn’t necessary: ditto for her lovely, delicate hands that bore no signs of calluses. Simply put, she was one gorgeous lady! Not that I really noticed, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding band on her fingers. Excuse me, but I thought my observation had a nice ring to it!
Well, so much for the old Cold War propaganda about dowdy, Slavic women never shaving their mustaches, legs and armpits. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Jeez, with Pet, I was now knock, knock knocking on heaven’s door! I couldn’t wait to open it and get down to business.
Sometimes those who serve and protect let their yearnings and ardors run loose and get the better of them.