Heaven, INC: Chapter 60: THE SUMMER MASQUERADE

After all, what is a lie? Tis but the truth in a masquerade.
—ALEXANDER POPE

EASTBOUND I-8,
AT TEXAS STREET
2:02 PM PDT

THE MASQUERADE, Mona’s mind could not escape the shadows and mirrors of Lord Bletchly’s Summer Masquerade, the spectacle of it all, the decadent extravagance and over indulgent pageantry, like something from a fairy tale that turned sinister in the telling.

It began with Christian’s oddly cryptic and disturbing call yesterday morning, one in which, with the exception of enquiring as to Mona’s well-being, was simply one of giving her instructions to meet him last night at Lord Bletchly’s party. In the background, Mona had heard a woman announcing gate information in an American accent. What airport he was in, Christian did not say.

What he did say was that Mona should meet him at an address she wrote on a notepad and that she should plan on meeting at ten in the main ballroom. It being a masked ball, Christian explained what he would be wearing and that Mona should wear the Cross of the Romanakovas so to more quickly identify her. And, most of all, to bring her passport and money for a sudden international trip.

It was at that moment he said, “Sorry to cut it short, baby, but I gotta runnnn,”and just like that, he was gone and the call terminated, entire duration no more than 30 seconds. Mona had less than five minutes to ponder the call’s ramifications before another call came through identified as UNKNOWN on her phone— fortunately, it was the stealth-encrypted phone— because when Mona opened the line without a ‘Hello’, on the other end, there was only silence save the airport woman’s voice over the loudspeaker. Then a burst of German before the drone of dial tone. That was last night, at about four.

A quick call got her an appointment at the Cherry Bomb, and in short order, she got a mani-pedi, a beautiful cut and coif and a color job by Leslie that turned her brassy blonde bimbo into a sophisticated brunette, in the manner of Tolstoy, such that Mona could stand before the mirror, pleased to see the Swedish stripper replaced by a proper lady descended of Russian nobility . . .

Beside Mona, Sergei stirred from his driving.

“Bah. How can the world be so bad, they do not even have work for spies? This is an outrage, I tell you, for the government to make so many good people redundant. What kind of stupid kulaks are running this world, that we have no money? You know, Assassins’ bureau has had only six jobs this entire year.” Shaking his head, Sergei said, “ And that is an exaggeration, since the Belgian took three tries to kill, which means they have actually only contracted four jobs. I can tell you, in the old days, such idleness and incompetence were not tolerated.” Sergei shrugged, shaking his head. “This is what happens when you let the trans-national corporations hire your best killers.” Sergei looked over. “What? Why do you look at me that way? I am not saying that I necessarily approve of Department K, only that it speaks to the greater economic situation as a whole.”

Mona shook out a Belomor. “At least you have work. Not everybody does. Certainly not back home.”

Sergei made a hand gesture to swipe the comment away. “Bah, have I not paid my dues? Surely you do not think working for a cretin like Viktor Ledbedev is a treat. In this horrible country?”

Mona had to laugh. “Oh, please, Sergei. You have six girlfriends and a beautiful car. In Moscow , you were a bartender at a shitty bar.”

“I hardly think the Red Sonya is a shitty bar.”

“Every time I went in there, I was bombarded by fruit-flies. It was like the Luftwaffe in ‘41.”

“You know, Mona Alexovna Romanokova, you are a great exaggerator. Is what women do, exaggerate.” Sergei waved a hand, the dismissive gesture of a Russian male that always made Mona furious. “Besides, I was working part-time while looking for intelligence work.”

“And you found it. Yet you constantly complain that working for Viktor Ledbedev is beneath you. It is not like it is a difficult job.”

“Ha. You think infiltrating the vory v zakone, the premiere crime syndicate in the world, is easy. You just call up, they give you a job. Maybe send in a resume?”

Mona laughed. “Yes. Because that is exactly what happened, except Chelnikov made the call for you.” Mona shook her head. “Do you seriously think you could have gotten a job with vory v zakone on your own? Please.”

Sergei scowled. “You scoff? I am a highly trained covert operative.”

Lighting the Belomor, Mona said, “You are a pilot, a good one, pretending to be a mobster. Three weeks training at the institute and watching the same shitty Russian mafia movies that Anka watches. And they are dreadful.”

Sergei looked flabbergasted. “What do you mean, dreadful? They are not dreadful. Those movies represent a vibrant New Russian cinema.” He shrugged, taking in the city around them, the crush of cars. “Regardless, that role is behind me. Soon, this will all be over. I simply need to make one stop.”

Mona paused mid-draw on the Belomor. “What stop?”

Sergei signaled to take the Mission Gorge exit. “I must bid someone farewell.”

Mona glared at Sergei, and the stupid Cossack grinned back sheepishly. “Sylvia?”

“Candy. I saw Sylvia on the way to your place. One last swansong before flying” Reaching into his jacket, he handed Mona a pair of panties. “A token of her affections.”

Mona slapped the panties aside. “Get that filth away from me, you man whore.” She frowned. “They know about us. The longer we take to leave, the greater the chance we will be discovered.”

Sergei’s infuriatingly cocksure grin was the answer. “Not with the cloaking unit. Under the over pass back there? We changed from a blue Volvo to a blue mini-van when no one was looking. Is that not great? See, I can change us into any car we want, change color, engine sound—”

Not paying attention to the road, Sergei nearly hit a motorcycle attempting to change lanes.

“Stupid motorcycles,” he said.

Mona let the black tobacco smoke seep from her lungs. “We are not out of the country yet, Sergei Andreivich, nor have we delivered the contents of the bag and you are fucking around like it is a summer frolic [insert color: Russian summer event].”

Sergei looked over at the motorcycle rider, still screaming back at them and giving them the angry, frantic gesture Americans for some reason called ‘the bird’. While it in no way resembled a bird, it did make a point.

Sergei adopted a disgusted look. “Bah, Americans. They are the rudest people in the world. Worse than Germans. Even worse than the French.”

“No one is worse than the French. Besides, you nearly ran him over.”

“It was not even close,” Sergei said. “Besides, was by accident. I did not try to hit him, because if I had, he would now be dead. But you see? The hostility. The rage. These Americans, they are so emotional, like small children. I tell you, learning a little Russian patience and perspective would go a long way to curbing the violent nature of this country.”

Mona shook her head. “And yet, only moments ago, you were lamenting a dearth of good Russian killing operations. Such irony.”

Sergei tilted his head philosophically. “Well, you would be surprised how many people deserve to be killed. I saw a report once, was staggering.” Sergei grew wistful. “Now, with cutbacks, many of them will never be liquidated.”

Mona decided to tune Sergei out by turning her thoughts back to Lord Bletchly’s Summer Masquerade.

MONA HAD TAKEN a half-dozen cabs around town with nothing but cash and a passport, as per Christian’s instructions to spare no expense getting ‘dolled up’— Chris’ term, not Mona’s.

She said, ‘Should I not pack’, but Christian said no and little else. Clearly, he was afraid someone was listening in on the phone conversation and didn’t want to go into any but the briefest details. Following their brief conversation, Mona was left to wonder what Chris might have discovered on his South American expedition and when he’d got back to America . . .

After getting a pair of Jimmy Chus at her favorite Downtown boutique, and a cab to Hans’ shop, Christian’s favorite tailor, Mona emerged from the dressing room in the gown Christian had chosen, one beautifully rendered in sequins and silk and just after nine, clad thusly, Mona called a to whisk her off to the masquerade.

IT WAS SHORTLY BEFORE TEN when the cab passed through Del Sol Estates’ front gate, and the traffic was stupendous. Mona felt out of place in a hired cab stuck in a line of limousines, Bentley’s and Rolls-Royces, but what was one to do? At least the footman opening her door took Mona seriously. After checking her name off the list, Mona had slipped within to mingle with the glitterati where no one would know she came in a cab. The masks served their purpose of mysterious anonymity.

Mona had floated about the party, marveling at the luminaries, the people she’d occasionally seen on the televisions, captains of international business and political kingpins, a mansion of people drunk with power and money.

Drifting room to room, she searched for Christian, for a dashing young man in a red vest and a particular mask and though many was the man who made eye contact, none were Christian’s patient grey eyes . . .