Heaven, INC: Chapter 33: WHAT'S AN OUT OF WORK SPY SUPPOSED TO DO?

And the spies came out of the water,
But you're feeling so bad 'coz you know.
And the spies hide out in every corner.
But you can't touch them no,'coz they're all spies.
—Spies,
COLDPLAY

116½ CEDAR STREET,
GOLDEN HILL
11:32 A.M. PDT

FROM THE KITCHEN, Sergei was saying, “ . . . and it is the same thing on CloakandDagger: there are only a handful of contracts in the entire industry, and the only positions open are for Senior Food-Tasters.”

Mona searched the bedcovers again, hoping there, somewhere among the folds, she would find the cross. This was the third such attempt, along with searching under the bed and behind, under and within the night stand, and hope was beginning to fade. Crossing to the dresser, she said, “You did apply for the position, yes?”

“Well, I attached a resume for a driving job for a South American assassination. But the food-taster, I think I shall pass. With my new workout, tasting a lot of food would be counterproductive. You understand.”

Mona understood that FoodTasters, though among the highest paid, were still considered no-talent, chimney-sweeps of the modern, post-conflict intelligence world. Plus, the fact you could die eating poisoned pie rather than hot lead lessened the glamour and prestige. Still, a job was a job.

Sergei continued from the kitchen: “Vienna, Berlin, Tokyo, London, even the Americans say there are no openings. The only people still hiring are the South Americans, and even those bloodthirsty savages are cutting back on their killing. What kind of world is this when even an international spy cannot find proper employment? It is the end, I tell you. Hmmm. Russian cigarettes, caviar, salted pickles. Who bought these?”

“I suppose Anka bought them. They are in her refrigerator.” Mona swept her gaze across the bedroom again, hoping she would suddenly see it, that she was simply overlooking it, that it was right there in plain sight and realizing the cross was not here.

You fat Greek son-of-a-whore, you stole it . . . You stole the Cross of the Romanakovas . . . Oh, you will pay for this . . . I swear, if you have stolen it, you shall pay.

From the kitchen, Sergei exclaimed, “Look at this. Black Sea caviar, two-thousand dollars an ounce. I tell you, Anka would not spend that much money on caviar— she is the cheapest person I know.”

Hands on hips, glaring at the room, Mona said, “Her son is still back in Belarus, and you know how hard it is to get the money back there. Every helping hand wants a piece of his share— None of that is important; what is important is the Cross.”

Sergei’s head popped around the corner, as he said around a bite of pickle, “We have in our possession the most important secret since the hydrogen bomb— fuck the Cross.”

Mona fixed Sergei’s pickle-eating face with a glare. “Fuck the Cross? The Cross of the Romanokova has been in my family for over 300 years. Fuck you, Sergei Andreivich Zukov. I will not leave the heritage of my ancestors in some shitty American cottage like a piece of worthless rubbish.” She checked the rumpled sheets and again came up empty. “Besides, you should not be eating Anka’s pickles. You are leaving evidence.”

“Pa. Is the Americans.” Sergei stood by uselessly munching his pickle. “Besides, I am hungry.” Then said, “You did say no one knows we are here.”

“Do not worry. No one knows even that there is a Russian living here— Anka pays the owner cash and tells him she is Swedish. Being American, he cannot tell a Swede from a Siberian.” Lighting a Belomor, Mona inhaled deeply before checking under the pillows.

“You are a trained scientist descended of Russian nobility, yet you worry about Czarist crosses and smoke workers’ cigarettes? I confess that you are a complete mystery to me.”

Mona savored the way the smoke of the black tobacco burned her throat. “The Cross of the Romanokova is the last tie I have to my family’s tradition and it is a talisman of good fortune.” Regarding the Belomor, she said, “And I smoke these because it reminds me of what my family was forced to become when the Bolsheviks came. Besides,” Mona said, drawing another puff, “for some reason the worst habits prove most difficult to break.”