21
Henderson
I turn into an alley, shivering at the biting gust of wind. It’s unseasonably cold in Budapest this week, reminding me of my brief stint in Vladivostok in the early nineties.
Fuck, I miss those simpler days.
She’s waiting for me by the back door, as agreed, her small, boyish figure bundled up in a thick jacket and her short, platinum-blond hair standing up in spikes around her elfin face.
If I didn’t know what she really was, it would be easy to believe her cover as a waitress at a trendy bar.
“Mink?” I say as I approach, and she nods.
“Here.” I hand her a thick envelope. “US passport and half of the agreed-upon payment.”
She takes the envelope and stuffs it into her coat. When she takes her hand out, she’s holding a folder. “These are the men you want,” she says, hand
