Natalya was exhausted. She'd arrived at the Cultural Center at six o'clock that morning. It was now after noon, and she hadn't had a break during those six hours.
First had been checking that the movers were arriving that morning to begin setting up the tables in the main reception hall; then that the decorators would be arriving shortly after that to begin laying out the tablecloths and silverware, as well as the dozens of flowers, garlands, wreaths, and other decorations that she hoped would transform the Cultural Center into something out of a nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia painting.
She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to grab something to eat. While she was there she decided to check her phone messages at home. There was only one, but it surprised her.
Her father's cousin Olga had called and left a very brief message, telling her just to call her as soon as possible. To hear from Olga at all was strange-she and Natalya were not that close-but even stranger was when she'd left it: 7:00 A.M. Olga probably expected to catch her before she left for the RCC, but since she'd left so early to get ready for the reception, she hadn't been home.
She was about to call Olga back on her cell phone, when one of the assistants came to tell her there was a phone call for her at her desk. Ah, she thought as she made her way upstairs, this must be my father calling to explain Olga's odd behavior.
" Alloa, " she said, expecting to hear her father's baritone " privet " in response.
"Uh… I'm sorry, is this Ms. N. Orlova?"
The voice was clearly American, not Russian.
"Well, this is Natalya Orlova, yes. Who is this?"
"Ms. Orlova." There was a pause on the other end, and she realized the caller was trying to think what to say. "You don't know me. My name is Benjamin Wainwright. I'm a colleague of someone I believe contacted you, perhaps last week. His name was Dr. Jeremy Fletcher."
Natalya held her breath. For a moment, she literally couldn't speak.
"Miss Orlova?" the voice asked. "Are you there?"
"Yes," she managed. She couldn't think straight. "Uh, you said… you said he was a colleague?"
"Yes," the voice said. "I… it's difficult to explain over the telephone."
Natalya's first impulse was to hang up. But she couldn't quite bring herself to do that.
"Who did you say you were?" she asked, stalling for time to think.
"Benjamin Wainwright," said the voice. "I'm… well, I was at the same place where Dr. Fletcher was doing his research. The American Heritage Foundation. In Massachusetts."
Natalya thought back. There hadn't been any institutional letterhead on Fletcher's note, nor any bulk mail stamp on the envelope. She'd heard of the American Heritage Foundation; she knew obtaining any sort of relationship with the Foundation was considered a real coup by the people she'd studied with at Moscow State Institute. She also noticed that this Benjamin had said he "was" there.
"You're not in Massachusetts now, Mr. Wainwright?"
There was a pause. "No," he said. "I'm here. In D.C." Another pause. "I was wondering… I was hoping I might see you sometime today, Miss Orlova, and speak to you in person about Dr. Fletcher's research."
"That would be impossible, Mr. Wainwright. I am very busy. We have a reception for the Bolshoi Ballet company tonight, and I have not a minute to spare…"
"It's about a file on his computer, to be exact. A file named ' Stzenariy 55. ' Or, perhaps if you don't recognize that, you would know the name inside the file. Borba s tenyu?"
Natalya lowered the phone. Her instinct was to put it and this Wainwright as far away from her as possible.
But it was countered by an even more powerful instinct: the same one that drove her to sit in on Yuri's "interviews"; the same one that had kept her digging for years into her family's dark secrets. And that instinct wasn't about to send Mr. Wainwright away, regardless of the shivers she felt down her spine.
"Ms. Orlova?" Benjamin asked. "Perhaps I'm not pronouncing it correctly. I'm afraid I don't know Russian, and-"
"Mr. Wainwright," she stopped him. She looked about her. Everyone was focused on their tasks for the reception, but still, to have him come today would simply be impossible. If she took time away from the preparations it would be noticed, and she didn't want to attract any undue attention. But she also knew she had to see this Wainwright, as soon as possible. There was only one solution.
"Mr. Wainwright," she said. "How would you like to attend a reception tonight?"