Free Atropos by William L. Deandrea

yet. The only personal touches Trotter could see were the metal shutters on the insides of the windows, and the big gray desk with a word processor on it and papers scattered all over.
    “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “Are you still Trotter?”
    Trotter smiled in spite of himself. Bulanin had built a career on that charm. What the hell, he thought. “Call me Allan, Grigory Illyich.”
    “Can I get you something to drink, Allan?”
    “No, thanks. You seem to be settled in.”
    “The work helps.” Bulanin had built himself some kind of clear drink in a very large glass. He sat down, pulled at it as if it were lemonade, and looked at Trotter as if daring him to make something of it.
    This was new. Bulanin was an atypical Russian in many ways, and one of them was (or had been) that he had never been much of a drinker. He had had ambitions of someday ruling the Soviet Union. Maybe, Trotter thought, he no longer had any reason to keep his head clear.
    Trotter had encountered Bulanin a few years ago in London. The Russian was the top KGB man there at the time, and in an attempt to score a coup that would boost his career, had backed a terrorist’s plan to kidnap the Congressman’s British counterpart. That had ended badly for Bulanin—if he hadn’t defected, his own people would have killed him. Painfully, as an example to others.
    So Bulanin had come to the United States. He had been an invaluable source of information, so valuable that the Congressman had taken no chances on Bulanin’s former comrades finding him and taking him back home as a show monkey, or simply killing him. Bulanin had been interned in a compound in the Maryland mountains not far from Camp David. He’d all the comforts he could ask for, but he’d also had a cadre of grim Israelis for guards and a deadly electrified fence between him and any place the old man didn’t want him to go.
    Bulanin had taken it calmly for a while, but then he started going stir-crazy. He began agitating for his release.
    The way Trotter looked at it, they had already received full value from the man. Furthermore, during his confinement, he had learned nothing that could really hurt the Agency. And he did not dare go back to the Russians no matter how much he might have learned, because sooner or later, they would kill him. So when Trotter took over the Agency, the first thing he’d done was tell Bulanin he was free, as long as he let the Agency know where he was.
    He’d sent Joe Albright to him with the news. As Joe reported it, there had been ten seconds of unbridled elation, followed by a growing concern. Bulanin hadn’t gone so far as to change his mind about being set loose, but he asked a few questions about how he was going to keep the KGB from liquidating him.
    Trotter had passed word along that Bulanin was to make up a security plan for himself, and if it cost less than maintaining him for one year at the Maryland compound (which cost a fortune), the Agency would spring for it.
    Bulanin had done that, and here he was. He had a new name, his first. That was an oddity in Trotter’s world, where names were like placemats—only good as long as they have nothing dripped on them. He had chosen to live in a small city in the shadow of a huge city. He had taken an apartment and turned it into a fortress.
    He had even found a job for himself. He was a translator, Russian and French. The reports Trotter had checked before coming here said he was doing very well at it, almost doubling the subsidy the Agency paid him.
    And he had started to drink heavily. Well, Trotter thought, he’s still wound up a lot better than most people in this business do.
    Bulanin took another pull on his drink and smiled the charming smile again. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.
    Trotter took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Bulanin. “Do you recognize any of these names?”
    Bulanin looked it over quickly, then again more