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first official field agent, answerable only to Director Chutesov herself. It
was a life Petrovina Bulganin had been born to live and that, but for the
intervention of the Institute's director, she would never have discovered.
Now, months since that first assignment and already in her mind a seasoned
pro, Petrovina danced through the labyrinthine hallways of the Institute
building.
The scattered workers she passed were all women. There was not a single male
face among them.
She found her way downstairs to the special room in the private corridor.
There was no secretary. She knocked on the door. Petrovina heard the sound of
a bolt clicking back. She pushed the door open.
Director Chutesov sat behind her desk. There was a computer monitor sitting on
the corner near the shredder. Her vacant ice-blue eyes watched the pulses of
the screen without really seeing them. She said not a word as her finger
retreated from the switch that had unlocked the door.
After an awkward moment, Agent Bulganin cleared her throat. "I came as quickly
as I could." Director Chutesov didn't stir from her trance. She continued to
stare at the monitor. One hand rose above desk level, waving Petrovina to a
chair. Petrovina watched the director of the Institute, unsure if she should
speak again.
"This building is an odd thing, Petrovina," Director Chutesov said after
another long moment. "You thought so yourself many months ago. It is large,
isn't it? Too large, it seems, for the needs of the Institute."
Director Chutesov looked up from her monitor. There was a glint of deep
intelligence in her blue eyes.
"There are rumors that ghosts once lived here," she continued. "The people in
the area swear this building was haunted. Do you believe in ghosts, Agent
Bulganin?"
Petrovina admitted that she did not. "I believe in what I can see, Director,"
she said.
"As you are, I once was. And yet there are things that neither you nor I can
see. For instance, why would an individual empty a building of furniture-give
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every last scrap of it away-and then forget they had done so?"
It was an odd question. Director Chutesov seemed very serious asking it. As if
she desperately wanted an answer.
"Madness?" Petrovina suggested. "Drugs or alcohol?"
"I do not take drugs. I drink alcohol rarely, and then only lightly. And I am
not mad."
Petrovina blinked. She hadn't realized they were discussing Director Chutesov
herself.
"There are outdoor markets near here," Director Chutesov explained. "Perhaps
you've been to them. No? Well, I have. A few months ago I went one afternoon
looking for antiques." She dropped her voice knowingly. "Some of these sellers
are idiots. They would not know good furniture if it fell on their heads. The
parents or grandparents die, and the children immediately race off to sell
hundred-year-old antiques for kopecks at market. As I was looking for bargains
at a particular stall, I caught the eye of the seller. Before I knew what was
happening, he began to argue with me. He told me that I had given everything
to him fair and square and that I could not have it back."
Petrovina frowned. "Did you know this man?"
"No. He was a complete stranger to me."
"Then I do not understand."
"Nor did I. Nor do I still. But he was adamant that the items for sale at his
stand were from me. He claimed that I had allowed him and others like him into
this very building. They are the ones who emptied it of furnishings."
"He mistook you for someone else," Petrovina said. "That is, assuming you did
not give away Institute furniture." She laughed a tinkling little laugh.
Director Chutesov's face was deadly serious.
"I did not. Not that I can remember. But there were a few others at the market
who made the same claim. I could not believe that they were all insane. When I
pressed them, they were able to give a fairly detailed description of the
interior of this supposedly secret building."
Petrovina was intrigued. "Thieves," she said. "They somehow got in here and
stole whatever they were selling. What is it they had for sale, by the way?"
"Blankets, cots, storage bins. The Institute was apparently home to some
secret garrison. And, no, Petrovina, they were not simple thieves. If there
was a break-in, I would have known of it. Or should have. No, the likeliest,
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