He wiped at his brow and settled nervously into the first empty chair, plastic and dirty, hoping to look like just another tourist. The cafe, he noted, was Papaspyrou, in front of the American Express office. Perfect. Above all else, he wanted to pass for an American. But he was still trying to get it right. How did they look?
"Elleniko kafe, my friend? Greek coffee?"
He jumped at the sound of the voice over his shoulder, seizing the side of the table.
The voice was speaking English, he finally realized. Maybe he did look American!
It was an accident, he kept telling himself. The truck couldn't have—Relax. Novosty made the arrangement with the American, didn't he? You saw him hand over the letter. Now the trail will just vanish. KGB will never be able to stop it.
He turned, casually flashed an empty smile for the small,
gray-haired waiter standing behind him, tray in hand, white towel over the sleeve of his tailored but frayed brown suit.
"Sure, thanks."
You're better every day, he told himself. You're even starting to get the accent right now. Keep working on it. The twang. And learn to saunter. The shoulders. Americans walk looser, swing their arms, seem not to have a care in the world. Learn to slouch. Act like you own the world, even if you no longer do.
He'd been secretly practicing for weeks, getting ready to disappear after his part was over. Of course, he'd originally planned to go back home afterward. But that was before he had a taste of this. The good life, the freedom. For that matter, maybe he'd go to America. Why not? He'd heard how it worked. Defection, so the stories went, could be very rewarding. They'd open the golden gates for him at Langley.