Crooked by Austin Grossman Read Free Book Online Page A

and a small flashlight in my briefcase to document what hard evidence I could, and tomorrow I’d claim to have received an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen. The next time I was here I’d have federal agents with me.
    I turned the key and, relieved, slipped out of the hall and into the darkened office, but I knew immediately something was wrong. I smelled fresh paint and dust; my footsteps pinged too loud and sharp. What was this? When I raised the flashlight, the beam lit bare walls. I stared. I turned all the way around in place, as if the desk and chair and shelving were going to leap out from wherever they’d hidden. I put one hand on the cool white wall. This was badly wrong, but how? Was it the wrong office? The wrong building?
    I heard footsteps coming steadily and purposefully down the hallway, and I froze. Then I snapped the flashlight off and stood waiting in the darkness. A key turned in the lock. It had to be Hiss. He’d known all along; he’d watched me come and he’d trapped me. I glanced at the window and thought of climbing out in a lunatic escape attempt, but there wasn’t time even for that. Would he laugh? Arrest me? What was he planning? With a titanic effort I composed myself and turned toward the door.
    It opened and two men stood there, silhouetted, and looked in at me with frank and unhurried curiosity. One was short and one tall, like a pair of comedians. The big man was a head taller and carried a steel briefcase. The smaller of them had a pistol raised.
    “Please take two steps backward,” the small man said in a light European accent I couldn’t place. East German? I took two long steps back and the windowsill nudged me just above the knees. The gunman stepped inside, the large man following. He closed the door. I held up my hands in a placating gesture. I tried and failed to stutter out my last words.
    “Is not to worry,” the second man said. Russian. He switched on the overhead light. Under the bright bulb, he was a heap of a man with a nose that had been broken a few times; he wore a suit of gray wool, wrinkled and elephantine. He took off his hat and set the briefcase down as if commencing a day at the office. I could see dusty outlines on the wall where the furniture had been yesterday.
    The other man was younger than I’d first thought, in his midtwenties at most. Hair combed straight back but balding already, and he looked like he hadn’t been getting much sleep. Something about the bad fit of his suit made me tag him as a student.
    “What’s your name?” the small man said, studying me.
    “Richard Nixon,” I told him. I’d never been held at gunpoint before, and it was surprisingly awkward. I felt like a host receiving unexpected guests. I had no eye for firearms but the pistol was a small semiautomatic, not at all showy. The room was small and I was sure he would hit me if he fired.
    “Hello, Richard. I’m Gregor, and this is Arkady.” He glanced up at the big man, who nodded. I made a guess that Gregor was in command here.
    “Are you the police?” I asked.
    “We’re not the police,” he said. I waited for him to go on. I tried sitting down on the windowsill, but it was too narrow. I stumbled and straightened up again. They watched the performance.
    “And what brings Richard Nixon to this part of town at such a late hour?” Gregor asked. He leaned against the empty wall.
    “I’m investigating,” I said, “a crime.”
    “A crime!” Gregor said, brow knit with mock concern. “And what kind of crime is that?”
    “It’s a very important case. A Soviet spy.” I glanced up at the Russian, but he said nothing, just looked over at his partner.
    “A Commie spy, is that it? Very exciting,” Gregor said.
    “Are you…Communists?” I asked.
    “No,” Gregor said.
    “I am, actually,” Arkady said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. Greggy is socialist pussy. But we work on him.”
    “What did you find, Mr. Nixon?” said Gregor. “In your