“Any calls from Moscow Center?”
She rolled her eyes. “You have my phone.”
He extracted it from the backpack. “Do you know what will happen if anything goes wrong tomorrow?”
“You’ll assume I’m to blame.”
“And what will be the result?”
She placed the tip of her forefinger to the back of her neck.
“That’s what the SVR would do to you, not us.” He held up the phone. “Does this thing ever stop pinging?”
“I’m very popular.”
He scrolled through the notifications. “Who are all these people?”
“Friends, students, lovers...” She shrugged. “The usual.”
“Any of them know you’re a Russian spy?” Receiving no answer, he said, “Apparently, there’s a light burning outside a house on Warren Street. Remind me what happens now.”
“Not again.”
“Yes, again.”
“Someone from therezidenturadrives past the house every night at eleven. If they see the light burning, they tell Moscow Center, and Moscow Center tells me.”
“How?”
She exhaled heavily in frustration. “E-mail. En clair. Very bland.”
“Tomorrow is a Thursday.”
“You don’t say.”
“An odd-numbered Thursday,” Mikhail pointed out.
“Very good.”
“Where will the drop take place?”
“Odd-numbered Thursdays are the Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue.” Her tone was that of a deficient student.
“Which Starbucks on Wisconsin? There are several.”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
“And we’re going to keep going over it until I’m convinced you’re not lying.”
“The Starbucks just north of Georgetown.”
“What’s the window for transmission?”
“Eight to eight fifteen.”
“I thought you said eight fifteen to eight thirty.”
“Ineversaid that.”
