The early dawn light fell over Anya’s room, creating a pink glow. The dimly lit screen of her phone read 5:45AM. Anya twisted in bed, taking her silk sheets with her, and for a moment she was in a state of bliss. In the bed next to her was Charlie, lying on her stomach, back rising up and down with the gentle rhythmic breaths only sleep could create. Anya had to resist reaching out and smoothing down Charlie’s hair with her fingers. After all, she didn’t want to wake her girlfriend. Anya had a phone call scheduled that she definitely didn’t want Charlie to hear.
It had been a few weeks since Anya had convinced Charlie to be her girlfriend, and last night they took a step Anya had never actually thought she would. She told herself she wouldn’t let it get too physical between her and Charlie, but she was weak, and in the yellow light of her lamps last night she simply couldn’t keep herself in check. And now she had to get on the phone and tell intelligence she still had nothing. God, what had she gotten herself into? She stared at Charlie for a few moments more before climbing out of bed, wrapping the blanket around her as she stepped into the kitchen of her apartment. Right on cue, her burner phone began to vibrate from the hidden compartment in her purse.
“Agent Petrov,” she answered in Russian. The response that met her pleasant greeting almost blew her backwards. Immediately her superior began aggressively verbally charging at her, demanding information. “I still have nothing. I...” but her excuses were met with more angry Russian, yelling so loud she practically had to pull the phone away from her ear. And then the words she had been dreading for so long came over the line.
“Pack your things, Petrov. We need you in Washington, and you are useless in New York. A car has been dispatched. Pack your belongings and evacuate your accommodations immediately.”
“Please,” Anya’s voice cracked on the harsh Russian word, a lump forming in the back of her throat. “Please, a few more weeks...” But she was met with silence on the other end of the line. Intelligence was gone. And in thirty minutes, she would be gone as well. With numb fingers, Anya began to slowly throw her clothes into her suitcase, carelessly tossing gowns of silk and her expensive wigs on the floor as tears streaked down her face. She turned to Charlie again. Part of her thought she should just leave, disappear, convince Charlie that maybe she never existed. But another part of her was incapable of doing that. She needed that voice and that face one last time. “Charlie?” Anya’s voice was soft, but wobbly, and she was fighting back choking sobs. “Charlie...”