Here is a new chapter, finally. It's long. This story is meant to be longer than any of the others, so that makes sense. We'll see how it goes. Hopefully I'm not putting too many unneeded things in it. Next chapter heralds the complications that will result from- well, we'll have to see...(by 'we' I mean you and I because I only have an idea in my head till it's written; sometimes the characters tell me more than my own mind, or so it seems).
see profile for more notes (if you dare) :)
Thunder rumbled as Saul drove carefully down the street. The windshield wipers switched back and forth, flicking the rain off before it spattered instantly back on. Tasha noticed that Saul kept looking in the rear view mirror, presumably checking to see if anyone was following them. But they arrived at the hotel without any trouble.
They stepped out at the hotel, a large brick building. They thanked Saul for driving them, and then ran through the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella Elena had given them. Then they stepped into the lobby, soaking wet.
"Goot ev-ening," said the man at the front desk, with a heavy accent. "Welcome to ze Hotel Zentral."
"Hi," said Jason. "I am Dorian Cash, and this is Nora Baker. We have reservations."
The man flipped through some papers below the desk. "Ah, yes. Ze reporters from America. Welcome to our country. I think you will enjoy it here."
"I think so too," said Jason. "I like what I've seen so far—though I haven't seen much of it."
"Ze rainy season, yes. With spring come ze storms."
"I can see that."
"Here are your keys." The man handed keys to Tasha and Jason. They both had '29' engraved on them.
"What's this?" said Jason. "Are we both in the same room? I thought—"
"It is a suite. You will enjoy it."
"Yes, but—"
"Our rooms are ze best. We give ze best to our American visitors." The man smiled, a rather devious smile in Tasha's opinion. Perhaps he had done this to them on purpose; even though they were 'communists', they were from America and thus de facto the enemy, no matter what they professed.
Not that I ever expected this job to be easy, she thought, but I'm getting a much clearer picture of how we're going to be treated. Best to ignore it, till we get our job done. Unless of course we're in direct danger.
"We booked two rooms," said Jason. "Twenty-one and Twenty-two. Here, it says somewhere in the—" he opened his briefcase to look for the documentation.
"Ah, but zere was a problem with zose rooms. We had a case of…flooding. Very common zis time of year, I assure you."
"Look—" said Jason. "I paid for two rooms—"
Tasha touched Jason's arm.
"It'll be fine," she told the man. "Very understandable that there is flooding this time of year."
Jason gave her a puzzled, somewhat annoyed look. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sure the room will be…good." The last word he said as if it were the opposite. Then he followed Tasha to the elevator.
It was a beautiful hotel, if nothing else. The floors were green marble, there were ornate marble pillars, and the elevator had golden doors.
On the second floor, they walked down the hallway to Room 29, but not before passing rooms 21 and 22. Voices came from 22; that one at least was occupied.
"They must not care much about the flooding," muttered Jason.
They pulled their luggage into the room. Tasha shrugged the camera case off onto the bed; her shoulder ached from carrying all day. She could have surrendered it to Jason when he'd offered to take it at the airport, but she felt it was her responsibility, since she was the official photographer on the trip.
She set down her carryon and her larger, wheeled suitcase, and put her purse on the vanity near the door.
Jason flopped his luggage unceremoniously next to the bed, and turned on the light. He stood there, looking out the window, arms crossed.
"It is a nice room," said Tasha, a little amused at his discomfiture. She might have been a little more annoyed at the situation herself if not for him; he didn't seem like the kind of person something so trivial should bother. Then again, they weren't exactly in the most normal of situations.
He turned to her after a moment. "You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."
"You don't have to be as chivalrous as all that. I'll take the floor. Or that chair, in the corner."
"That chair? It doesn't look very comfortable."
"Why don't we take turns. I'll sleep in the chair tonight, and you can tomorrow night."
He frowned. "I don't know…"
"If it would make you feel any better, I could sleep in the bed tonight. We'd trade tomorrow."
"Well…I suppose," he said, and sat down on the chair. He looked out the window again.
"I'm going to take a shower, then we should get to work reading the Vanguard."
He nodded. She went to take a shower; cold at first, it sputtered for a while before halfheartedly spewing out some lukewarm water. Maybe I'll have to revise my opinion about this hotel, she thought.
When she came out again, dressed in her soft pajama pants and shirt, he was flipping through the newspaper. She wasn't sure if he'd gotten anywhere or not.
"Would you like a shower?" she asked.
"Sure," he said, getting up. He smiled; his mood seemed to have lightened.
She took the papers, and traded places with him. "I'll just warn you," she said, "the shower's not very hot."
"Thanks," he said, and grabbed a towel from the ledge above the closet, then disappeared into the bathroom.
She took a look at the front page, trying to see if there was a clue as to what the code was. She was good at decryption, but by the time Jason emerged in a white T-shirt and gray sweat pants, hair tousled, a towel over his shoulder, she'd gotten no further.
And now, this distraction.
He sat down on the bed, dried his hair with the towel. She wondered what it would be like to be held in those strong arms, to touch that unruly chestnut hair, try to tame it—
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You weren't going to do this anymore. Besides, you're too old for such a silly schoolgirl crush—which is all that this is. Such a thing needs to be nipped in the bud. Focus. Focus on the codes. That's what matters. He is only a means to an end. As, of course, am I. We're not here for ourselves; we're here on behalf of our country.
She handed him a newspaper, and they both buried themselves in it for the next few hours. They ordered room service, which didn't come for another hour, and then it was barely warm.
"They aren't exactly going out of our way to make us feel welcome," said Tasha.
"I only hope they haven't poisoned it," said Jason, munching on a piece of the shish-kabob-like thing he'd ordered. It looked good; hers was just some kind of sandwich with meat and sour sauce in it, which had sounded more interesting on the menu.
"I'm about ready to call it a night," she said. "Maybe a fresh perspective in the morning—" She dared not say any more; they were just supposed to be reading the paper to 'compare notes', not to look for codes. Who knew who was listening in on them.
Jason nodded. "Dad always said that was one of the best ways to work through a problem: give it some room."
A pang shot through her heart; her father had not been around to give her advice for a long time. He'd died four years ago of a heart attack. But of course she couldn't tell Jason this either; they both had fictional families, whose fictional details they'd memorized. She suddenly wondered about what his family was like, his father, his mother. Maybe, someday, she would know.
But right now, she was tired. She said goodnight to Jason, and climbed under the covers, shutting out the thunder and the stress of the day, immersing herself in dreams.
In the morning, she was up before dawn, the problem of the unsolved encryption nagging at her. And within the first fifteen minutes of studying the paper, she figured it out. Now the spies and the rebels could communicate with each other, the secret police none the wiser.
She fully realized, then, where she was, and what was at stake. And she was ready to face the day. She could do this.
Jason was still sleeping in the chair by the window, head leaning back against the headrest. It didn't look very comfortable. She tapped his leg with the edge of the newspaper.
"Ow!" he said, jumping up.
"That didn't hurt," she said. "I'm done." She held up the newspaper. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"I had it under control. Besides, you looked so peaceful there; I didn't want to spoil it."
He leaned forward, hand clutching his shoulder. That chair probably hadn't given him a very restful night.
"Do you….want some help?" she said.
"What do you mean?"
She stepped behind him, pushing down into the muscles of his shoulder. At first he stiffened, then he leaned into her touch. He gasped when she pressed particularly sore spots, as she kneaded out the knots beneath his skin. He'll perform his duty better if he starts the day feeling good, she thought. Besides, I owe him for taking the chair.
"Do you expect me to return the favor?" he said, an undercurrent of trepidation in his voice.
"No, I'm fine. I slept in the bed, remember? Tomorrow—depends on how I wake up."
"Maybe I'll just let you sleep in the bed the whole time," he said.
"No, I think it's best we stick to the original agreement. If it doesn't work for us one night, we can make up for it the next."
"I really don't mind the chair. I'm used to sleeping different places."
"So am I. I think you just want to experience my massages every morning."
"They are good. I feel much better."
Maybe I'll give you one every morning regardless, she thought, but didn't say. Then she wondered, am I going so close to the fire to see if I get burned, or to test my resolve? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
They got dressed and headed out. They met Munroe at his office; Elena was there too, and greeted them cheerily.
Tasha wasn't sure she liked Elena or not. She was prim and proper and cheerful and nice, but there was something about her she couldn't put her finger on. A little too helpful, maybe. Though it was probably just the environment they were in that invited paranoia. A good thing, actually. Never let your guard down, especially when surrounded by enemies.
They drove downtown to the city square, and got out. In the sunlight, it looked much larger than it had last night. The rather prosaic but gargantuan statue in the center of the square glittered with trapped raindrops from the night before.
Their tour guide strode toward them from the base of the statue. "Good morning," she said. She was short, with curly blonde hair, and bursting with energy. She beamed at them as if they were the most wonderful beings she'd ever discovered. "I am Starla Macek. I will be showing you around the glorious capital of Rakima today. I hope you will enjoy your visit very much."
Elena walked beside Munroe, and Tasha beside Jason, as the tour guide explained the history of the capital, some of the buildings dating back to the fifteenth century. As they walked, Tasha found the opportunity to say a code word to Munroe, in order to tell him that they'd cracked the code. She also took some pictures and wrote some notes.
As they toured the Muldavian Museum of Art, the Museum of History, and the Technical Institute, Starla acted like hers was the greatest country on earth, with art and technology vastly superior to any other, including the US.
They both expressed agreement with her, but Jason went a little overboard in his admiration in Tasha's opinion. Of course, it probably seemed overboard because she knew it was just a façade; it was in "Dorian Cash's" character. "Nora Baker" was a little more reserved; Tasha wouldn't have felt comfortable acting the way Jason was. It didn't make sense for them both to have the similar characters, so it worked out. At times, she would interject a comment where she felt it was appropriate; normally it was when she genuinely felt something was interesting, such as some of the artwork and sculptures. Most of the best work seemed to be dated before communism came to the country; afterward it seemed to be a little too uniform in form and subject, but of course she didn't bring that to Starla's attention.
They ended the tour in the center square, and Starla explained the history of the statue; it was built just after the monarchy was overthrown.
"It symbolizes the victory over the tyranny of the king. Such poverty, such corruption we had back then." She shook her head. "Now thankfully we have our Great Leader Karl Von Warberg, who watches over us and makes sure that we are never without the things that we need." She gave a brilliant grin. Tasha wondered if she really believed everything she said, or if any of it was an act. She was probably for real, since she was the official tour guide. But if you repeated the same things long enough, you probably came to believe them, even if you had reservations in the beginning.
Next, Starla had them all pile into her car and took them to the "finest restaurant in Rakima." Munroe sat in front, and Elena sat in the middle in the back. During the drive, Elena talked to Jason, completely ignoring Tasha. Tasha felt affronted, but then saw how Elena was leaning toward Jason, her hand dangerously close to his shoulder.
Of course she is attracted to him, thought Tasha. And she's perfectly welcome to him; all the better, since we need to get all the information we can, and relationships might lead to that. Still, Tasha couldn't shake the unsettling feeling tugging her heart, and so she looked out the window to distract herself.
Maybe this country is the shining exception to the evils of communism, she thought, as she saw building after building, well-kept and well-built, clean streets, normal, happy-looking people. Until they took a "short cut" and Tasha glimpsed a slum, clotheslines strung over the streets, people in shabby, ragged clothes, with downcast faces. Of course, our best cities also have poverty-stricken areas, she thought, so I can hardly judge the entire country by one section of the city.
She smiled wryly at herself. I'm not being converted to communism by one half day's tour, am I? I'm not so naïve as to think there aren't good and bad sides to every regime—even Nazism had one or two good points. Of course, some have more good points than others, which is why I am on the side of capitalism and democracy.
When they stopped at the restaurant, Tasha climbed out, and Jason helped Elena out of the car. Tasha's throat tightened. That dainty little thing, acting like she's so helpless and delicate. If I pretended I was the damsel in distress, would he come to my rescue?
Of course he would. He's just being chivalrous—I don't have to read anything else into it. Besides, he endured a night in that torturous chair for me, and offered to for the rest of our time here. I can hardly complain.
And it's not like it would matter. Our relationship will never be anything but professional, no more, no less.
They sat down at a table on the balcony, and ordered. Starla recommended some things on the menu, and they started off with some famous Muldavian wine. Tasha sipped it; it was some of the best she'd ever tasted. Then they had a cheesecake-like appetizer, which was divine. Then, Tasha ordered some fish, which was also excellent, nice and tender with a dash of lime. She was telling them of some recipes she'd made at home, which of course did not compare to this, when a shadow fell across their table.
"Good morning, or should I say afternoon," said a firm familiar voice. Tasha turned to see a bearded man in a dark suit, dark eyes twinkling menacingly.
Zahl.