I see the neat row of receptionists along the back wall, just like my father said I would. They sit behind what I'm sure is bulletproof glass, typing away. The clicking of their keyboards echoes off the hard surfaces of the lobby.
The petite receptionist doesn't look up from her computer as I approach her desk. "Can I help you?"
"I need to deliver this to Paul Andropov." I read the words off the mental script in my mind, saying and doing exactly as my father instructed.
She looks up at me for the first time. Her expression doesn't change one bit as she takes stock of my bandages and bruises. I doubt I'm the first banged-up person she's had stumble into this lobby looking for Mr. Andropov.
I place the tote bag on the marble countertop. "It's important."
All at once, her face smooths ou
