Speaking in Tongues

Michael stared helplessly at the newspaper. Behind him, a pair of women conversed in low, hushed tones. They were speaking Russian.

“Tonight, then,” the first said. “It will be simple - just infiltrate the party. I will take down the guards. The vault is in his office on the third floor.”

“Third floor - facing the garden or the street?”

“The street - it will make for an easy escape. Here, take this make-up compact. Beneath the powder compartments are some electronic skeleton keys, one for his office door, one for the safe.”

There was a rustling of fabric as the women exchanged items.

“Thank you. And the dead drop?”

“At the Champs Elysées fifteen minutes after infiltration.”

“I’ll be there.”

Greg trotted back from the ice cream stand, studying his newly-acquired treat. “Can you even read French?” he asked, gesturing to Michael’s newspaper.

“Not at all,” Michael said. He’d told Greg, once, long ago, that his mother had been French, but if Greg couldn’t remember, it was his own downfall.

Greg leaned in and lowered his voice. “Those chicks behind you are hot. Gonna try to talk to one of them?”

“They’re tourists like we are, man,” Michael said.

“How do you know?”

“They’re speaking in Russian.”

“Oh. Do you understand Russian?” Greg licked at his ice cream.

Michael shot him a look.

Greg raised one hand in a defensive gesture. “Hey, we’re on vacation. I thought it’d be safe to ask.”

“Whatever. I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Why?”

“I have some stuff I want to do,” Michael said. “Touristy stuff. Meet you at Notre Dame tonight for the evening mass?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m gonna go on that Hemingway tour, if you’re in,” Greg said. His expression said he didn’t care whether or not Michael came.

Good.

Michael slid the newspaper into a nearby recycling bin. “All right. Catch you later.” He turned and headed for the hotel. He had a date tonight - at the Champs Elysées.

(329 words)