As humanity faces extinction, the cockroaches of the world look forward to a long hot night of partying. Unless special agent Valentina can stop them.
Somewhere in Siberia
In a cafeteria smelling of boiled cabbage and despair, a group of men discuss the fate of the world. Three ruddy-cheeked Russians, two too-tanned Europeans and an American billionaire, flanked by hangers-on, explore the upside of a soon-to-be warmed Earth. Over coffee and vodka.
“You say catastrophe, I say opportunity,” says Oleg, the leader. His eyes slide sideways, constantly scanning for duplicity and usually finding it.
“Many countries will be in dire straits after global warming,” he says, “but Siberia will be the Garden of Eden. It will fall to Russia to feed the world. Or, at least, those who can afford our produce.”
The men give a villainous cackle, straight from Marvel.
“On global warming, I say… the sooner the better.” Oleg beams.
As I bring them drinks, I flash to a future with these men sunbathing in G-strings on the Black Sea while models rub oil into their flat butts. I try not to gag.
“Your coffee,” I say, in perfect Russian. Or as close as I get after a language degree, years in Moscow and months of accent correction.
I place a mug in front of each man – except Oleg – taking care to smile at the youngest guy at the table – Boris, Oleg’s son. Dark-haired, eyes chlorine-blue. Handsome for a psychopathic son of a megalomaniac. But short-tempered, says a purple mark on his girlfriend’s cheek. As he returns my smile, the scantily-clad Svetlana – nicknamed Sweetie – glowers at me.
“Valentina!” I’m trained to respond instantly to my cover name. Oleg pouts. “No coffee for me?”
“I have something special for you, sir.”
Eyes follow me into the kitchen where, as I work, I listen to their conversation through the bug I’ve planted in the plastic flowers.
They talk property holdings. Each has bought tracts of Siberian wasteland dirt-cheap. Experts say in an over-cooked world, they will be prime waterfront and farm lands.
“Why come here to this dump, Father?” Boris scowls. “We could have gone to Cafe Pushkin and celebrated with champagne and caviar.”
“Your grandfather was a regular here,” says Oleg. “He worked nearby.” As a gulag guard, terrorising political enemies. “It’s good to remember your roots.
“Plus,” Oleg leans forward, “there’s less chance of anyone listening in.”
He reaches under the table and retrieves a black briefcase. Scratchy sounds tell me he’s fumbling the locks. Inside, I know, are six vials of golden liquid.
“So this liqud will…?” The American’s breath hitches.
Oleg nods. “Released in certain rivers around the globe, it will expand an ozone hole and hasten global warming. Each of you must do your part to bring our shared dream to life.”
“Where’s my coffee?” Oleg calls.
As I enter, I see Sweetie has a Terminator eye-lock on me.
Almost time.
With great ceremony, I place a gold cafetiere before Oleg.
“Twenty-four carat,” I say. “From the people, to thank you, Comrade Lobachevsky, for your loyalty.”
Oleg touches his heart and bows – a charming tyrant. While his companions admire the pot, I waft my perfume – Chanel No.5 – towards Boris, touch his arm and speak in the husky voice he favours. “Your father is lovely.”
Boris takes in my super-short, super-tight uniform, the top buttons undone hinting at what lies beneath. The Agency has learned his predilections by surveilling past girlfriends. His icy gaze warms as it meets mine.
I’m aware of the briefcase by his leg. I have to switch it. But I’ll need a diversion.
And if I’m caught…?
Waves of hate are emanating from Svetlana.
It’s time.
“May I plunge you now?” I ask Oleg, seductively.
“Yes, please.”
I press on the lid, condensing the loose coffee grains into sludge at the bottom. Then fill his cup.
“She’s a…spy.” Svetlana is pointing at me.
“What?”
“Why do you say that, Sweetie?” asks Oleg.
“She was following me,” she says. “In Moscow.”
“Moscow?” I shake my head. “I’ve never been there, though I would–”
“LIAR! She’s a spy, I know because…”
Svetlana’s green eyes are circles of horror as she searches for a detail to condemn me. But comes up with nothing. Oleg scoffs and raises his mug to drink.
“No, don’t!” Sweetie slaps it to the ground. “She put something in it. A radioactive isotope that will attach to your blood, so she can follow you, through a frequency given off as the alpha particle decays.”
Everyone is astonished, Svetlana most of all.
“How do you know about isotopes?” Boris asks. “You’re a model?”
Oleg’s expression is as cold as a Siberian winter. He snaps his fingers and two minions pull out a mini-laboratory to test the coffee in the pot. No-one moves or speaks as they clatter tubes and shake liquids. My lips are corpse dry but I resist the urge to moisten them.
“Just coffee,” one man pronounces.
Oleg nods and turns to Sweetie.”How do you know about isotopes?”
“I don’t know.”
One cold Russian night (aren’t they all?), the Agency slipped something into her drink and we took her, for a few hours, repeating the isotope line until she knew it by heart. Then gave her a cue to speak – My words -“May I plunge you?”
Guilt thickens my throat as they drag Sweetie, shrieking, across the room and fling her outside. While everyone watches the show, I squat and switch the briefcase with one I stashed under the table earlier. The liquid inside looks the same but it’s only apple juice.
“Valentina!” Boris touches my arm. I gasp.
“I’m so sorry about that. Stupid cow,.” he says. I allow my tears to flow – it’s easy just now – so he can be the Hero he likes to be. “Please, sit with us.”
I take Svetlana’s chair. As Boris runs his hand delicately along my jawline, I almost lose my breakfast.
I pour vodka from a bottle on the table into each glass. The tracking isotopes are in the alcohol, not the coffee. Wherever they go from here, we’ll follow.
“Drink up.”