Six
I looked at her again. She was certainly no more than twenty-five. She was wearing a trench coat, but it failed to conceal her curves. There was an accent to her Russian, so she was probably from another Communist country. The chief question was whether or not she was a trap. There was only one way to find out.
“Sit down,” I said with what I hoped was a proper leer if anyone was watching. I beckoned to the waiter and ordered two double vodkas.
“I was about to have something to eat?” I said. “Would you join me?”
“I would enjoy that,” she said.
The waiter brought the drinks and went away. “I am Peter Miloff,” I said.
“Marya Rijekta,” she responded. She lifted her glass to me. “It is not too safe to talk here,” she added softly. “Later, we can take a walk and talk to each other.”
“
