by James Ponti
“You do? What is it?”
“I can’t tell you right now because they’re signaling me to come down to the sideline. I’ll be right back.”
I was completely baffled as he got up and walked down to where the game announcer was standing with a microphone. Moments later the principal came over and talked to them both.
“Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Alice Deal Middle School,” said the announcer. “Before we kick off the game, we’d like to acknowledge the generous support of the Nevrescu Construction company for donating the money and labor to upgrade our field and install our new bleachers and scoreboard. As a small token of our appreciation, Principal Albright is presenting a Deal Vikings jersey to the company’s CEO, Nicolae Nevrescu.”
The small crowd applauded as the principal handed Nic a maroon Deal jersey and he slipped it on over his shirt and tie. I looked onto the field to see if Margaret caught any of this, but she was already in full game mode. When she had that kind of focus, UFOs full of aliens could land on the sideline, and she wouldn’t notice.
Nic shook some hands and came back up the bleachers and sat next to me.
“Satisfied?” he asked with a smile.
“You donated all this to Deal?” I said, stunned.
“No,” he answered. “I donated all of this to each middle school in the district.”
“Why all of them?” I asked.
“Because it might have been suspicious if I only donated to one,” he said. “Besides, Margaret will play on all of those fields during the season, and she deserves the best.”
“Yes, she does,” I said. “Yes, she does.”
The ref blew his whistle, and the game was under way. It took Margaret only six and a half minutes to create her first scoring opportunity. It started when she stole the ball near midfield and tore off for a breakaway. Two defenders closed in on her, but she was simply too fast for them. The only Columbia Heights player who had a chance to stop her was the opposing keeper, who charged out from her goal. I expected Margaret to chip the ball over her head, but instead she ran right at her. Just as they were about to collide, Margaret drilled the ball. It came off her foot like a rocket. The keeper managed to deflect it straight up into the air as she dived to the ground.
Margaret was undeterred. She hurdled the keeper, took a step, and volleyed the ball into the back of the net. The fans went wild, none louder than Nic the Knife. It was (at least as far as I know) the first time I ever high-fived a mob boss.
“That alone was worth every penny,” he said, catching his breath. “Every single one.”
“It was unbelievable,” I added.
I looked down at the field as Margaret plucked the ball out of the net and jogged with it back toward the center spot. The entire way, her eyes were glued to the scoreboard waiting to see the zero turn to one.
“And you know what?” Nic said, leaning over toward me. “It will always be the first goal scored on this field. It will always be the first goal registered on that scoreboard.”
Now there were three of us who would remember.
“I should warn you about something,” I said after the game resumed. “She had a DNA test run to learn what she can about her background. She’s determined to find her parents, and you just got a glimpse of what Margaret’s like when she’s determined to do something.”
He kept his eyes focused on the game, but he listened intently as I continued.
“If any other blood relative uses Helix Twenty-Three, then she’ll receive an alert and will have the opportunity to contact that person by e-mail.”
“I don’t have many relatives in this country,” he said. “So that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What about her mother?”
For the first time he turned his attention from the game to me. “There’s not much I can do about that. I’ll tell her and let her decide what to do.”
“You still have contact with Margaret’s mother?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows as he answered. “You already know too much. Let’s leave some things a mystery.”
“Good idea.”
Margaret scored again right before halftime. It was on a long shot taken from outside the penalty box that caught the keeper out of position. By that point Nic just seemed like any other family member in the crowd. I almost forgot that he was a criminal until there were about twenty minutes left in the game. That’s when I saw the tall man with red hair take a place on the opposite sideline.
It was Andrei Morozov.
“Oh no,” I said. “This is not good.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Nevrescu.
“That man over there with the red hair,” I said. “He’s come looking for Margaret.”
Nic’s eyes narrowed as he stared at him. “Who is he?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Andrei Morozov. He’s a Russian spy.”
“Seriously?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Nic thought about this for a moment and nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Wait,” I said, surprised by his answer. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, you can’t do that. You can’t . . .”
“Don’t worry, Florian,” he said as he stood up. “I’m not going to hurt him. I’m just going to talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “He can be pretty scary.”
“That’s all right,” Nevrescu said with a grin. “So can I.”
Even from behind I could see a transformation in the way he carried himself. By the time he reached the bottom of the bleachers, he’d gone from birth father to godfather. Morozov didn’t see it coming because he was too busy looking for Margaret. Luckily, she was on the opposite end, which made her harder to find. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice Nevrescu until he was right on top of him.
At first the spy wasn’t interested in talking to him at all. But Nic was persistent. He handed him one of his business cards, and then after talking for a moment Morozov made a phone call.
The call lasted only about forty-five seconds, but when it was over, the Russian’s body language had changed dramatically. It looked like he was apologizing, and when he was done, Nic leaned closer and whispered something in his ear.
Morozov nodded and then scurried back toward the parking lot, Margaret now a distant worry. Nic walked back to the bleachers, and by the time he sat next to me, he was all smiles.
“Well?” I asked, unsure what had happened.
“Margaret will not have any problems with that man. Neither will you. You have my word.”
“What did you say to him?”
“You know too much,” he said. “Let’s leave some things a mystery.”
I kept looking toward the parking lot to see if Morozov was coming back, but he never did. Late in the second half Margaret scored again to close out the hat trick. A few minutes later Nic got up to leave.
“Aren’t you going to stay to the end?” I asked.
“No, I have some things to follow up on,” he said.
I worried that it might have something to do with Morozov. “You promise you’re not going to hurt him?”
“There is no need,” he said. “The danger is gone. But I’m disappointed in you, Florian.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“I thought we had an agreement about looking out for Margaret. She was in danger, but I didn’t know. The next time, you tell me right away.” He handed me his business card. “That has my direct phone number. Let me know if there is trouble, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“You are a good friend to her. Thank you.”
I watched him walk away and get into his car. He was pulling out of the parking lot just as the final whistle was blown. Fifteen seconds later a black sedan pulled out and started to follow him. I
t was no doubt one of the FBI agents who kept him under constant surveillance.
18.
Diplomatic Immunity
DEAL BEAT COLUMBIA HEIGHTS 4–2, and afterward Margaret and I went to the Capital City Cycle Shop to pick up my newly repaired bike. Before heading home, we decided to ride over to the Friendship Station Post Office and Gorky’s. We also discussed Nicolae Nevrescu’s surprise appearance at the game. (Although I left out the part about him intimidating Andrei Morozov.)
“You’re not making this up?” she asked. “Nic the Knife paid for the bleachers? The scoreboard? Everything?”
“There was even a big announcement before kickoff,” I told her. “Principal Albright presented him with a jersey. People clapped. It was a thing.”
“How’d I miss that?” she asked, perplexed.
“You were already in game mode,” I said. “You looked like a cheetah about to take down a gazelle.”
“That does sound like me. Any idea why he suddenly become a fan of middle school soccer?”
“He said something about getting a tax write-off for his construction company. It’s probably like those scholarships he gives out.”
“I guess so. But I still think it’s strange.”
I was worried she’d keep asking questions, but luckily, we reached the post office, and she dropped the conversation to focus on the case. We took photos of the front of the building as well as the area around PO Box 1737. We tried to walk around the back to see where they loaded the mail onto trucks, but that area was fenced off, and there was a security guard who seemed unhappy that we were poking around.
“I think it’s time we left,” I said when I saw him looking at us and calling someone on a walkie-talkie.
Our stop at Gorky’s was more productive.
“Check it out,” Margaret said as we locked our bikes to the rack behind the store. “Diplomatic plates.”
Sure enough, two of the cars in the small parking lot had diplomatic license plates like the one we’d seen on Morozov’s SUV.
“They probably work at the Russian embassy,” I said. “It’s less than a mile from here.”
The inside of the store had two distinct sections. One half looked like a small Moscow market with shelves full of Russian groceries, and the other was a deli with five tables, all of which were in use. Virtually no one was speaking English.
“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Margaret whispered after we passed two men in an animated discussion.
“Not a word,” I said. “I only know how to say a few phrases, and I can’t keep up with anyone speaking that fast.”
We pretended to browse through a display of colorfully wrapped chocolates while I tried to take some pictures for the caseboard. Unfortunately, this attracted the attention of the store clerk, who walked over to us. She had a sour expression on her face.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked in a thick accent.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re . . . umm . . . we’re . . .”
“Looking for Natalia,” said Margaret, coming to the rescue.
The woman seemed both surprised and suspicious. “I am Natalia. What do you want with me?”
“Lucia Miller sent us,” Margaret answered. “She said you could help with our school project. My name’s Margaret, and this is Florian.”
Suddenly her entire demeanor changed. “Any friend of Lucia’s is a friend of mine. What do you need?”
Over the next ten minutes Natalia was incredibly helpful as we talked about our fictional school project and the store. Five things we learned during our conversation:
1. Gorky’s was popular with the staff from the Russian embassy. Including the ambassador, who sometimes stopped by for lunch.
2. Lucia had been a regular since the store opened ten years earlier.
3. Gorky’s was part of a small chain of three stores. The first two were located in Baltimore, where there was a large Russian immigrant community.
4. When she still worked at the Library of Congress, Lucia helped Natalia’s son Josef get a job there as a security guard.
5. Natalia had a tuberculosis vaccine scar that looked exactly like Rose Brock’s.
Before we left, she gave us each a piece of imported Alyonka candy.
“We can’t just take this,” I said.
“It’s my pleasure,” she insisted. “Besides, after you taste it, I guarantee you’ll come back and buy plenty more.”
The candy had two wafers with a nougat filling and was dipped in chocolate. It was delicious.
“She’s right,” I said as we rode home down Wisconsin Avenue. “I already want to go back and buy more.”
“It’s incredible,” said Margaret. “Next time you screw up and need to apologize to me, I recommend starting with a box of these.”
“Good to know,” I said with a laugh.
We rode some more, and she said, “By the way, I’m proud of you.”
“Why?”
“Because for the first time since he chased us, I haven’t noticed you looking over your shoulder for Andrei Morozov.”
It’s not like I could tell her the real reason I was no longer concerned, so I tried to sound as if it were no big deal. “Like you said, the FBI’s following him so we shouldn’t be worried.”
“No we shouldn’t.”
We were about a block and a half from my house when I said, “But there is someone who’s following me. Or rather, is about to be following me.”
“Who?”
I started pedaling as fast as I could, and once I zipped past her, I called back, “You, because now that my bike’s fixed, I’m faster.”
“Do not even think you can beat me,” she said as she began her pursuit. “It will only lead to disappointment.”
Despite the fact that I had a head start and she’d just played an entire soccer match, she passed me as we turned the corner onto our street. I’d never beaten her, so I resorted to a desperate maneuver and called out, “Wait, wait, wait!”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, slowing down.
“Nothing,” I replied as I sprinted past. “Except that you’re a sucker.”
I beat her to my driveway by only about three feet, but that was more than enough for me. When I got off my bike, I did a ridiculous version of the victory dance she’d done after winning Toastbusters.
“You’re counting that as a win?” she said incredulously.
“You bet I am,” I responded.
“Even with the head start and the fake emergency?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, holding my hand to my ear. “I can’t hear you over the awesomeness of my triumph.”
I exaggerated the dance moves even more until I finally got her to laugh out loud. My good mood got even better when we walked through the front door and were greeted by the irresistible aroma of my mother’s pasta sauce.
“Hey, Florian,” Mom called out from the kitchen. “How was the game?”
“Amazing! Margaret scored a hat trick.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bates,” Margaret said. “It was good. We won four to two.”
“Congratulations.”
We reached the kitchen and were surprised to discover Marcus there chopping peppers and onions.
“Hey, Marcus,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you guys to get home, and your mom put me to work.”
“He agreed to help chop in exchange for rigatoni Bolognese,” said Mom.
“Easiest decision of my life,” he replied.
“Why were you waiting for us?” Margaret asked eagerly. “Has there been a development in the case?”
“We’re about to find out,” he answered. “I got tired of waiting, so I drove out to FBI Central Records in Winchester and got that.” He pointed over to the table, where there was a white evidence box. “I thought you guys might like to go over it in the Underground.”
“Really?” I said. “Here, and not in the Hoover Building? Is that ev
en allowed?”
“Until I figure out what’s going on with Dan Napoli, I’d rather keep you guys away from headquarters. Besides, since I drove out there to pick everything up, the file’s technically in transit right now. I think we’re fine.”
“How long do we have until dinner?” I asked my mother.
“At least forty-five minutes,” she said. “By the way, you’re welcome to join us, Margaret.”
“Let me call my parents and check,” she said happily.
While Margaret was on the phone, Marcus and I headed to the basement. When we had a moment alone, I told him about running into Nic the Knife. Marcus was the only other person who knew about Nic being Margaret’s birth father, and when I told him about his confrontation with Andrei Morozov, he was stunned.
“I don’t even know where to begin with that,” he said.
He was about to ask me a follow-up question when Margaret came bopping into the room and we had to shut down the conversation.
“Let’s get started,” he said.
First we asked him to walk us through the basics of what happened nine years ago. As he did, I wrote up a time line of events on a yellow legal pad.
“I spent a year researching my PhD in the Rare Book Reading Room,” he said. “That’s when I got to know everyone and became familiar with the Russian Imperial Collection.”
“And when did you get engaged to Lucia?” asked Margaret.
He gave her a skeptical look. “I don’t know that it’s relevant, but about a year later. It was after I’d gotten my degree and right before I started at the FBI.”
“You started in Art Crime?” I asked.
“Yes. And one Saturday afternoon I was in an antique bookstore in Georgetown—”
“Was this part of an investigation?” interrupted Margaret. “Or are antique bookstores your idea of a fun Saturday afternoon?”
“Purely fun.”
She looked like she was going to make a snarky remark, but she managed to keep it to herself.
“I was browsing when I saw a book that looked like it belonged in the Russian Imperial Collection. So much so that I checked for the mark.”
“Like the one in the book the other day in the SCIF,” I said.
“Exactly. When the Library of Congress brings in a one-of-a-kind item, it typically places a small mark on a particular page. For each book in the Russian Imperial Collection the letters RIC were written in pencil along the seam of the fifth page from the end. Someone had tried to erase it from this book, but I could still see the indentation on the page, so I knew. I asked the bookseller about the book, and he said that he’d recently gotten it from a collector. Back at the Bureau, I told my boss about it, and we set up a sting.”
