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Florence sipped her drink, sitting in a booth in the back corner of the bar. She wouldn’t usually go out drinking during a chess tournament, especially not one so important, but she felt like she had earned it. It was a stressful time. She just had to get out of that hotel room — Freddie was being unpleasant. And when he was unpleasant, she didn’t want to be around him. Especially not when things were as stressful as they were already. To everyone (to the world, or at least the people in the world who gave a shit), she was Florence Vassy, chess second. Florence Vassy, Freddie Trumper’s friend-employee-maybe-lover. That was all true, of course. Except the lover part. What was also true is that she was technically an American spy.
She didn’t really even consider herself “American,” not in the sense that Freddie was American. She’d been living in the country for most of her life, though, so she definitely qualified as something akin to an American. What differentiated her was not just that she was born in Hungary, though, what differentiated her was that she was never made an American citizen. She’d been living as a Hungarian in the United States under the Refugee Relief Act for the entire time she’d lived in America. The government had known, of course. She was one of many. It wasn’t important enough for them to deal with at the time. However, when it became a tool for the government to use against her, it was very relevant to them. It was simple: act as a spy for the American government while in Merano, and she wouldn’t get deported back to Hungary. Now she was the tool. She was meant to be finding out as much as she could about the Soviet chess delegation (and through that, about the Soviet government) while there. That had been proven to be exceedingly difficult so far. She hadn’t been able to get close enough to any of them without arousing suspicion, yet, and it wasn’t like she was an actually trained spy. She had been taught more self defense than actual spying. They’d given her information on the Soviets who’d be there, a knife strapped to her ankle and a pistol strapped to her side. So, she wasn’t a real spy — she was a pawn. Florence had shaken hands with Molokov exactly once, and that was it. Still, there was more time ahead of her to at least get something.
As Florence surveyed the room, someone walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. It was an androgynous blonde person in a nice suit. They felt familiar to her, like she’d been shown a picture of them before. When the person sat down, and Florence saw their side profile, that was when she realized. It was Sergievskaya. Svetlana, she meant. Anatoly’s wife. Her blonde hair was short, boyish even, and the suit was so nice that it had to have been tailored just for her. She had sharp, Slavic features, and a smattering of freckles across her face.
As Florence looked at her, she noticed she was being watched, and turned her head to look at her. Florence flushed, embarrassed having been caught staring, and Svetlana smiled. She picked her drink up and walked over to Florence’s booth. Something about her felt off to Florence, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Hello. Is this seat taken?” She gestured to the spot across from Florence.
She shook her head, and Svetlana sat down.
“I don’t think we’ve met. I am Svetlana Sergievskaya. You are Miss Vassy?”
“Florence, please.”
“Then you should call me Svetlana. How are you finding Merano? Is it interesting you?”
What sort of question was that? Was it “interesting” her? If Florence were a more paranoid person she would think that Svetlana was onto her.
“I haven’t had much time to see it yet. I’ve been busy. How about you?” A non-answer disguised as an answer.
“It’s pretty,” Svetlana replied. Under the table, her knee bumped into Florence’s leg. What?
“I don’t suppose it’s very similar to Russia. What with the concrete, and suchlike.” It’s not that Florence was baiting her. There was just something off about Svetlana that she didn’t like. There was also the fact that Svetlana was Russian, and while Florence wasn’t actively hostile to Russians like Freddie was, she was still American (raised there, at least). Just because she avoided politics didn’t mean that she liked the Soviets.
Her comment didn’t faze Svetlana at all. She took a sip of her drink. “Yes, it is different from the big cities. It must also be different from American cities, too, as far as I know. Is it different from Budapest? Or would you not remember?”
A blow for a blow. They were playing a game now. Florence found herself staring at Svetlana. She was pretty (or perhaps handsome was a better term). Her suit and Florence’s were similarly cut around the chest area. Florence’s was cut that way because of her holster. Surely not. Svetlana was just Sergievsky’s wife, not some sort of secret agent. Still, she didn’t want to risk anything.
“Mm. It’s been nice talking to you, Svetlana. But I’m afraid I have to go back to my room,” Florence said, rising.
Svetlana stood, too. “Let me walk you back.”
Was she a spy, too? Her demeanor certainly wasn’t one of a good Soviet woman, let alone a wife. Either way, she was hiding something. Florence could find it out.
“That’s very kind of you.” Florence reached into her jacket, under the guise of looking for lipstick, and made sure her wire was hooked in. If she was going to get information, she wanted to get it on tape.
As they walked, Svetlana hooked her arm in Florence’s. She was certainly flirting, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps she figured that Florence, short-haired and besuited, would be interested in some sort of extramarital fling with her. Florence didn’t know.
They made their way to Florence’s room, and as Florence unlocked the door, Svetlana stood close to her. This was her chance to get some information.
“Would you like to come in?”
Svetlana smiled. “I would love to.”
They sat down on her bed, looking at each other. For a moment, they just sat in silence, before Florence spoke.
“How is your husband?”
Svetlana made a bemused expression. “I don’t think I should be telling the second of the opposition that information.”
“Is he handling the stress well? You don’t need to ask to know that Freddie isn’t. What about the fact that his handler is always with him? That must be miserable.”
She just wanted to get something out of her. Something, so this evening wasn’t a total waste of time.
Instead of replying, Svetlana cupped Florence’s cheeks, and tilted her head. Waiting, Florence realized. Well, maybe this would work, too. She nodded, and Svetlana pulled her into a kiss.
It was a very good kiss. Florence found herself enjoying it more than she thought she would. Still, she wasn’t in Merano to hook up with women. She took the kiss as an excuse to see what Svetlana was hiding. Florence deepened the kiss, and under the cover of touching her for touching’s sake, found where she would put a wire in her own coat. There. She had been right.
Florence pulled away from the kiss, and simultaneously pulled the wire out of Svetlana’s jacket, snapping it in the process. Florence wasn’t going to get anything out of her, if her instincts were correct. When she snapped the wire, Svetlana’s face blanched, but the expression was immediately covered with a smooth mask of calm. Without missing a beat, she reached into Florence’s coat and pulled out her wire, too.
Svetlana smiled slightly. “You spy on us, we spy on you, yes?”
“I knew there was something off about you.”
“Why do you think I even approached you? You’re not as subtle as you think. You have, let me guess, a year of experience? Less?”
“Shut up,” Florence said, and kissed her.
Svetlana didn’t seem surprised in the slightest. Her hands went to Florence’s hair as she kissed her back. It was rough kissing, not sweet or tender in the slightest. It seemed like both of them were working out some aggression. Svetlana pulled away, and shucked off her jacket, revealing the holster strapped to her chest. She unstrapped that, too, and kissed Florence again. She tasted sweet, like sugar or honey. Well, it was only fair — Florence broke away from the kiss, took off her own jacket, and unstrapped her pistol. Svetlana laughed when she saw it, and Florence kissed her, pushing her down onto the bed. She began to unbutton Svetlana’s shirt, first taking her tie off, and Svetlana helped her. There was another weapon, of course. A knife, this time, sheathed and strapped under her bra. Svetlana unashamedly unclipped it, and then busied herself with Florence’s own shirt.
By the time both of them were undressed there was a small pile of assorted weapons on the floor next to their clothes. Svetlana saw her staring at the most recent weapon (a knife Svetlana had had strapped to her thigh), and grabbed her chin and turned her head back to look at her. There was no romance here, Florence thought as Svetlana kissed her roughly. All of her earlier sweetness was gone. Svetlana’s mouth may have tasted like honey, but that was the sweetest thing about her now.
Florence stayed in the bed, after, as Svetlana got dressed, putting all her weapons back on in a way that made it seem like she’d done it a hundred times. She probably had put those on a hundred times, honestly. Florence hadn’t expected her to want to stay, and Florence didn’t want her to stay. It wasn’t anything, really. Florence was going to tell her superiors about Svetlana being a spy, and Svetlana would assumedly tell hers about Florence. It was a net nothing. They didn’t glean anything they didn’t already know. As Svetlana was about to leave, having dressed very quickly, she came back to where Florence is and gave her one last kiss. She lingered for a moment, before walking out of the room and closing the door sharply behind her. What they had done didn’t mean anything. It was just letting off steam, really. Getting aggression out in a more acceptable way. Still, as Florence gathered her clothes from the floor, she thought that she had enjoyed it. She would have maybe liked to be with Svetlana more tangibly, if not for the fact that she was an enemy spy. She knew she’d have to see her again, simply by the fact that Svetlana was married to the challenger (from what she knew it was most likely a sham marriage). Florence didn’t know how she felt about that. Maybe she could avoid it, somehow.
She’s folding her clothes when it hits her. The only thing that had been on the floor when she picked her clothes up had been, well, her clothes.
Svetlana had taken her knife and pistol. Florence sighed, sitting down on the bed. Now they’d have no choice but to see each other again.