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Flamingos and wine make everything fine poster
“I need more than just a pretty face.”
“You think I’m only scanning for the faces?” Peter looked in- sulted. “Look at her colors.” Meaning the blue-and-yellow sash over her shoulder. Leo’s own was in a box, on a high shelf in his closet.
“I don’t need a top graduate.”
“Oh, so a simpleminded one.” Peter leaned forward. “Then the possibilities widen. Over there, the redhead on the right. Better looking than the blonde, and even under that loose gown, you can still tell she has a substantial rack.” Leo had seen the redhead when they first entered, noting her for the same reasons as Peter, though he didn’t say this. Last Friday, as he’d prepared to leave work, he’d been cajoled by Peter into a “quick stop” at a fashionable hotel bar; there Leo had nursed the cheapest drink, a bottle of Georgian mineral water, while Peter trawled awk- wardly for haughty women. Leo had returned home after midnight, somehow still having gotten drunk, only to find his girlfriend, Vera Rustamova, waiting in the kitchen. Vera was a correspondent for Russia Central Media, or RCM, the state-owned news group. She had a newscaster’s voice, low and rounded, which she could adjust to the precise desired pitch of disapproval. “No, not her.”
“What, not beautiful enough? If you want something more, I don’t know if the computer science department is where we hunt.”
“I don’t need beautiful. Don’t want it, in fact.”
Peter thought about this. “So you want dumb and bad-looking, is that it? I don’t know what you’re working at, but the next time you take me on one of your scouting trips ”
Leo didn’t hear the rest. He’d asked Peter along only to be so- ciable, to share an excuse to leave the office—Leo had little pressure to recruit, as he’d had a good run this year, had already advanced multiple assets. One, a Bashkir, was still in training, while the other two, a pair of siblings, were active: the brother, a trained chef, now worked in London at a hotel frequented by Saudi royals, while the sister was engaged to a corporate lawyer in St. Louis. Leo had awoken this morning with a bad headache and had nearly elected not to come.
But now he was glad he’d made the effort. Back of the stage: fourth row, on the left. Limp auburn hair, pale skin, which, com- bined with small, sharp dark eyes, gave her a look of feral alertness. How long had it been? Nine years? Ten? And yet he knew her.
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