Babayaga

throwing knives, loose prowling circus lions, or fleeing half-naked lovers racing across sunny, aristocratic courtyards. Perhaps that’s what they were all doing right now, out on their lunch breaks, desperately trying to extract themselves from their absurd situations in time to make it back to their desks before anyone noticed.
    Eventually, though, they did return and the afternoon went on, and though he waited for the phone to ring, Zoya never called. Finally, as the clock neared five, he filed the papers away in his desk and prepared to head out, wondering if she would still be there, waiting for him. She might have found an apron somewhere, poured wine, thrown together a cassoulet, and put it in the oven. No, he smiled, he could not imagine that. No cassoulet. But he felt his pulse pick up at the thought she might still be undressed, waiting for him there beneath the white duvet, her skin still warm and soft. He closed his eyes to savor the image. When he opened them again the first thing he saw was Brandon’s two men heading down the hall, aiming straight for his office. Will realized he would not be going home any time soon.
    “Hello, Mr. Van Wyck?”
    “Hi, boys, what can I do for you two?” Will said.
    “Brandon sent us over. You promised us those personnel files.”
    “Of course, I remember.” Will lit a cigarette. “Say, what were your names again?”
    “I’m Mike Mitchell and this is Caleb White.”
    “Right, well, Mike, look, I really haven’t had time to—”
    They both gave him a cold smile. “You did promise us the files,” White said.
    Something about their manner bothered Will. Both of them were a few years younger than him and they each seemed to share the same smug expectation that he would unquestionably acquiesce to their authority. Brandon, at least, had always been collegial and chummy, like they were fraternity brothers just goofing off. But these two took it seriously and played it straight in a way that made things both clear and ugly. They honestly irritated Will, and so, before he had thought through the possible repercussions, he said, “Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking it over and I’m not entirely comfortable handing those files over. After all, I don’t really know what you’re going to do with them.”
    He watched them take this news. They gave him a pair of official grins.
    “We’re only going to look them over, see what we can learn, and then give them back to you,” said Mitchell.
    “I understand that’s what you want to do. But it doesn’t seem right to me. So I’m not going to turn over those files.”
    He was surprised at his resolution. He wasn’t sure what had caused him to be so headstrong, but he could see that, without the friendly presence of Brandon overshadowing them, Mike Mitchell and Caleb White both looked like small and mean men. These were not the sort of fellows you wanted digging into anyone’s past.
    “You mind if we use your phone?” said Mitchell. “We need to call Brandon.”
    “Suit yourself,” said Will.
    “He’ll probably want to come here and talk to you.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “He’s not going to be happy. He’s got another project right now that needs his full attention. We’re supposed to take care of this for him.”
    “Well, do what you gotta do. But I’m not giving you those files.”
    Will realized that there was not much they could do. There was no one they could appeal to; no one else in the entire building knew about the agency’s relationship with the CIA. Will was their only guy, and if he refused to play along, the only thing they could possibly do was fire him, which they had actually already done a few days before when Brandon had come by for his visit.
    Mitchell dialed the phone while White worked on giving Will a hard, mean stare. Will could tell the guy wanted to look like a killer, but he didn’t. He looked like an overfed Boy Scout, fresh-faced and cocky in his sense of righteous justice. Will did not care, he was not afraid of these two, he was experiencing his own sense of certainty, one that was coming together to make perfect sense of the present moment.
    Will was reminded of the Hollywood writers he’d seen in the papers who had been called before various committees to rat out their fellow members in the Communist Party. A few of them had refused, even when they were threatened with jail. Will didn’t know if they were really Communists or not, but he knew it took