Svetlana was a hard-jawed woman with dark red hair. Fifteen minutes earlier she had called to arrange this meeting at Shari’s Restaurant on the south end of Salem. She’d told him where she was seated and what she was wearing. If she had on reading glasses when he arrived, he was to abort, make sure he was not followed, then head for the alternate meeting spot at a bookstore downtown. “Are you under observation?” he had asked. “This I don’t know,” had been Svetlana’s reply. “But I suspect so.” Although Dmitri found her without glasses on, he could tell something was wrong. The eyeliner ringing her eyes only amplified their anxiety. This was not his concern, unless it affected her ability to carry out her duties. “You are tense.” “They’re close by. I can feel this.” He nudged her water glass toward her. “Take a drink. Clear your mind.” “You think I’m making this up?” “I think you’re under stress. This is normal, considering the circumstances.”
