Natalia had grown to despise those who preyed on the weak. The innocent. Although to be fair it was harder and harder these days to find the innocent when so many had surrendered to self-absorption and greed. When there were so many bullies, child abusers, wife-beaters.
The machines probably thought it was improper that both a Russian agent and a now-supposed American asset had eaten Hungarian food at the same place. It could have been as simple as the machines just didn’t like palatschinke.
"Because it’s America, Tommy. Land of the fries, home of the craven. You’ll get to be you for the first time in your life and you’ll have mucho dinero in your pockets."
The little bike wound up, down, between trees. This certainly was unusual, but she wasn’t complaining despite the bouncing up and down over the now-nonexistent road.
She told him about living with cows in the Midwest, going off to college in the East, trying some hallucinogens, getting into Hinduism for a while and then getting a degree at the Yale School of Management. It just seemed more practical at the time.
Her schooling in Switzerland was academic enough. Not only could she walk balancing a book on her head, she read the books she balanced. That was a prerequisite.
Peter had known this Sergey for many years. They met first in Berlin, became reacquainted in Managua, ran into each other in Zurich and then under orders from Putin, Sergey had him escorted from his apartment under guard to the Moscow airport.
