She started in the car, then rushed him through the lobby of the hotel like they were lovers reunited after a long separation. She had the buckle of his belt open before they got out of the elevator. Within minutes of getting him into the hotel room she was screwing his brains out.

She ran the gamut, made sure she made excellent tape for whoever was recording them, and when he was spent, grabbed a pack of Russian cigarettes from the bedside table and lit one.

Her body was slick with sweat.

He hadn’t had a workout like that in a while. He wasn’t a man of particularly ravenous appetites, and she’d coaxed three climaxes from him in less than an hour.

She was a worker, he’d grant her that much.

It was a shame he had to kill her.

“You can’t smoke in here,” he said as she lit a cigarette.

She shrugged. “What do I care? My credit card’s already been declined.”

He smiled. “You’re not afraid of what they’ll say?”

“Believe me, I have bigger worries than the maître’d.”

She got up and stood in front of the window. The sky silhouetted her body perfectly. Outside it had started to snow. The flakes floated by like ash. Her purse was on the sill in front of the window and his mind went to the Browning. For the briefest of seconds, he wondered if she was going to reach for it.

She turned and looked out the window.

“Have you ever been to Russia?” she said.

He got up and crossed the room. She didn’t turn and he pressed his body against her back.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Never,” he said. They stared out the window together and he wondered about her. “Do you get homesick?” he said.

She freed herself from him and went into the bathroom without answering. He waited until the door was locked then rooted through her purse until he found her Browning semi-automatic pistol. He was surprised by it, by the age of it. It was from the Second World War. He withdrew the magazine, then removed the chambered bullet. He replaced the magazine with the one he’d brought, loaded with blanks.

When Tatyana returned he was lying on the bed, his flaccid member on his lap in front of him like a worm. It wasn’t flattering but it served to distract her. She glanced at it and then away.

She’d fixed up her makeup.

“I have to be somewhere,” she said.

Goldin had to give her credit. She was a smooth operator. It had been less than an hour and she was already done with him and moving on to the next item on her agenda. She had what she needed and saw no reason to keep up pretenses.