The Dead Drop (7 page)

He thinks I made that up,
Gilda thought, feeling disappointed.
He doesn’t believe I could solve a real mystery.

“Just let me know if you ever need my help with any of your work,” said Gilda, doing her best to control her impulse to tell Matthew what she thought of his impromptu “test for interns.”

“I could use some fresh coffee over here for starters.”

“You’re such a jerk sometimes, Matthew.” Janet’s harsh words were contradicted by the tidy smile on her face.

“Isn’t getting coffee something our interns are supposed to do?”

“It’s no problem.” Gilda jumped up and picked up a pink mug labeled SPY GIRL that sat on her desk. “I was just about to pour myself a cup, too.”

“It’s weird how high school kids all drink coffee these days,” said Janet. “I never liked it back when I was a kid.”

“I’ve been drinking coffee since I was in preschool,” Gilda fibbed.

“Doesn’t that stunt your growth?”

“It oils your brain.” Gilda bounced past Matt and whisked his coffee mug from his desk. In the break area, she poured two cups of coffee and added a generous portion of nondairy creamer to both. She noticed that some office employee had affixed a mailing label with the words
Fake Lard
to the coffee creamer.

As she stirred the cloudy brown liquid with a plastic stick, Gilda wondered how she could make Matthew Morrow see that she was qualified to participate in more exciting activities than stirring coffee.
Maybe I should just go ahead and ask him,
she thought.

Gilda marched back to Matthew’s desk with new determination. She found Matthew standing up and gathering his belongings.

“Here’s your coffee.”

“Oh—thanks.” He put it down without even tasting it. “I just remembered I’d better get going to my meeting in Georgetown.”

“Is it with that KGB guy?”

“Very good guess. You’re right.”

“Could you use some help from an intern?”

“I think I’ve got it covered.”

“It’s just—I would
love
to see what goes on at that meeting,” said Gilda. “It must be so fascinating.”

“It’s not like we’re going to go stake out his house.”

“Still—it’s not every day you meet a Russian spy.”

“He’s not a Russian spy anymore; he’s been on our side for some time now.”

“I know. I’d just love to meet him and learn how you find all these cool things for the museum.”

Matthew thought for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then—why not. Let’s go.”

“Oh, yay! Let me grab my bag.” As Gilda hurried to her desk to grab her handbag, she noticed a faint grimace crossing Janet’s face, as if she had just bitten into something bitter. “April isn’t going to like it,” Janet muttered.

 

Sitting next to Matthew Morrow in a taxi heading toward Georgetown, Gilda couldn’t help imagining that she and Matthew were partners like the FBI agents Mulder and Scully on one of her favorite shows,
The X-Files.

“So what made you want to spend your summer at the Spy Museum?” Matthew asked.

“It sounded really cool,” said Gilda, immediately wishing she had come up with a more interesting response. “I mean, I thought it would be a really good opportunity to improve my tradecraft.”

“Your tradecraft?”

“You know. My spying skills.”

“Sounds like you’re really serious about becoming a spy.”

“Well, I kind of already
am
a spy.”

“Spies don’t usually announce themselves as spies.”

“I figured it’s okay if we’re both in the same field.”

“I’m not a spy; I’m a historian of spying.”

“Same diff.”

“It’s not the same at all.”

“I know; I was just kidding. So—what made you want to become a historian of spying?”

“Well, just think about all the untold details of history—all the events that happened because someone behind the scenes gave someone else secret information. Not to mention all the events that turned on the handling of inconclusive classified information, like the Iraq war.”

Matthew looked out the window at the embassy mansions along Massachusetts Avenue. “Besides, I like having fun at work. I used to be a teaching assistant at a university but this is way better.”

Gilda watched a sleek black car glide into the guarded entrance to the Russian Embassy.

“People who live in this neighborhood say they still get bad TV reception because of all the surveillance activity that still goes on around the Russian Embassy,” Matthew explained, following her gaze. “Not to mention the tunnel leading from the basement of a house in this neighborhood; the U.S. secretly built it when we were trying to listen in on the Russians’ conversations.”

Gilda was curious about the Russian Embassy, and she was also curious about Matthew. She knew he wasn’t married, and she had overheard Marla and April in the ladies’ room having a whispered conversation about a mutual friend who “broke his heart,” even though “he won’t admit he can’t get over it.” At the same time, Gilda found herself wondering whether Matthew and her roommate Caitlin might make a good couple. She imagined herself introducing the two of them. They would both be impressed with her for knowing such smart, successful young urbanites, and grateful to her for bringing them together. The three of them would become best friends. With this matchmaking scheme in mind, Gilda decided to learn more about Matthew’s hobbies. “So Matthew—what do you do when you’re not quizzing interns at the Spy Museum?”

“Not much,” said Matthew. “I work on some writing projects and I run at least ten miles a day. I’m probably addicted to the endorphins.”

“So what are you running from?” Gilda made a mental note to look up the meaning of “endorphins.”

“I’m not running
from
anything. I just love that feeling of getting up really early and running—knowing I’m out there on the move while everyone else is still asleep in their beds. It kind of makes me feel like I have an edge on the day. It helps me think.”

“What do you think about?”

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

“I’m just gathering information, like any good spy.”

The taxi crept more slowly as it descended a hill, past a graveyard perched on a hillside, then past little shops and restaurants.

“We’re close to Georgetown now,” said Matthew.

They climbed out of the air-conditioned cab and walked down R Street past rows of stately Victorian houses with arched entryways, towers, bay windows, and perfectly pruned gardens. The atmosphere was oppressively hot and there was a reserved stillness all around that made Gilda feel as if she were trespassing on private property—as if she had walked into a formal tea party without being invited. The houses and tall trees surrounding them reminded Gilda of elegant, judgmental ladies who
knew
things: they had seen and many heard secrets.
Oh, the stories we would tell if only we could talk,
they seemed to whisper.

“So what’s the deal with this guy?” Gilda asked.

“Like I told you, he used to be a Soviet spy back in the Cold War days. His name is Boris Volkov, and he was based in the Russian Embassy here in D.C. during the eighties. He switched sides and defected to the U.S. after he realized that the Soviet Union was collapsing. He’s actually helped us out with a bunch of exhibits and even donated some important artifacts to the museum. He likes to keep a pretty low profile, though; we don’t see that much of him.”

“Interesting. Very interesting,” said Gilda. She felt a distinct tickle in her left ear.

“You’ve got that ‘pretending to be a sleuth’ look.”

“And you’ve got that ‘pretending to be a historian look’.”

Matthew stopped in front of a stately yellow house. “I think this is the place.”

“So anyway,” said Gilda, “our friend Boris suddenly has some spy artifacts to show us.”

“That’s right. He said he has something his wife recently found when she was cleaning the attic.”

They walked up the path and approached an entranceway decorated with panels of stained glass surrounding a door. Matthew rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Gilda found herself gazing into the wide, eager smile of a stocky, balding man with a round, almost babyish face.

“Matthew! Good to see you!” Boris patted Matthew on the shoulder with a large hand that somehow reminded Gilda of a bear paw as he shook Matthew’s hand firmly.

Then Boris turned his attention to Gilda. “And who might this lovely young lady be?”

“This is Gilda Joyce—one of our new interns. She’s from Michigan.”

Boris gripped Gilda’s hand, and she felt a surprising strength and roughness in his touch that belied his pudgy exterior. “Such a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in!” Gilda noticed that Boris’s gaze darted over her shoulder for a split second, as if he were in the habit of checking to see who might be walking down the street.
As if he’s afraid of being followed,
Gilda thought. His open friendliness was tempered by a subtly guarded alertness.
I bet once you’re a spy, it’s hard to ever stop thinking and acting like a spy,
Gilda thought.

Boris led them into an eclectic sitting room that suggested many years of entertaining guests who ate hors d’oeuvres and drank wine long into the night. Gilda and Matthew sank into a comfortable couch and Gilda looked around, surveying the contrasting patterns, and shades of gold and deep red that surrounded her. Her eye fell on the orange-red flow of a painting that hung over the fireplace—an image of a couple seated next to each other at a dimly lit café. A candle flickered on a table set with wineglasses, and the man leaned toward the woman to whisper some furtive secret. Two long evening shadows loomed ominously behind the couple.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Boris clasped his hands together and leaned toward them. Gilda noticed a wide wedding band on one finger. It looked tight, as if his finger had grown fat after he had put it on. “Some lemonade? Perhaps a vodka tonic for Matthew?” Boris grinned at Matthew and put his arm around his shoulder jovially. “This man, he does not drink my vodka.”

“Not at eleven in the morning, I don’t.”

Who knew KGB officers were such a barrel of laughs?
Gilda thought.

Boris turned to Gilda. “I want you to know that every day, this man is waking up at sunrise with the crows to prance through the streets. Every day, he is running around the city like a squirrel.”

Matthew grinned sheepishly, but he clearly didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking.

Boris placed his hands on Matthew’s shoulders and regarded him with ironic intensity. “This is no way to get a woman, Matthew.”

“How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“I am professional,” said Boris, patting Matthew’s arm. “I know these things.”

“Look, aren’t we here to take a look at your artifacts? There’s a lot going on in the office today and we need to get back soon.”

“I see you are in great hurry.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Gilda, who found Boris instantly likable. “I have all day.”

Matthew shot her an annoyed glance.

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Boris. “I go to unlock the safe.”

“So no girlfriend, huh?” Gilda whispered when she thought Boris was out of earshot.

“That’s a story I’d rather not get into right now,” said Matthew.

A moment later Boris returned, inexplicably dressed in a beige trench coat. For some reason, he had also tied a colorful silk scarf around his neck.

Was he batty, or were the scarf and trench coat themselves artifacts—things that had been owned by spies?

Matthew beamed with excitement. “Is that what I’m hoping it is?”

“That all depends on what you are hoping, Matthew,” said Boris, almost flirtatiously.

“I’ve never seen one of these made in the form of jewelry before!”

“It is quite something, isn’t it? I think it suits me.”

Gilda realized they were focusing on something pinned to Boris’s scarf—a brooch made of dark red glass, set in the shape of a five-pointed star.

“Does it work the way I think it does?”

“I’ve already taken five pictures of you.”

“What is it?” Gilda asked. “Is there a hidden camera in that brooch?”

“Look closely, Gilda.”

Gilda stared at the dark center of the brooch.

“I just took a picture of you.” Boris removed the brooch, and Gilda saw that the piece of jewelry actually concealed the lens of a tiny camera that Boris had kept hidden behind his trench coat and scarf.

“You see,” said Boris, “this cable connects the camera to a little switch the spy keeps in her pocket to open the camera lens. While you make pleasant conversation over a glass of wine or shop at the market, nobody knows that you’re secretly taking pictures of their whereabouts or maybe even secret documents.”

“It’s a Minox camera,” said Matthew, gazing at the contraption lovingly. “The gold standard of Cold War spying. Gilda, you probably remember seeing the ‘buttonhole camera’ in the museum—the same basic principle, but instead of jewelry, a button on an overcoat would open up to reveal a camera lens, and the person wearing it would squeeze a shutter cable in the coat’s pocket to snap a secret picture.”

“The problem with these old Minox cameras,” said Boris, “was that you have to wear an overcoat. No place to hide them if you are wearing bikini, right, Matthew?”

“Now they can hide a video camera in a pair of sunglasses or a ballpoint pen,” said Matthew, ignoring Boris’s talk of spying while dressed in a bikini. “They can make it so small, we’d miss it if it were stuck right on the wall next to us.”

“We are always being watched,” said Boris with an air of resignation.

“So,” said Gilda, “I assume this brooch was worn by a female spy, right?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t think it does much for my complexion,” Boris joked. “It was in fact used by the KGB in Moscow during the nineteen-eighties.”