"Hungarian Dance No. 5"

Dawna Shepherd didn't bother sampling the inch of Bull's Blood gleaming crimson in her glass.  In D.C., fast-tracking in a Hoover Building cubicle, she drank wine maybe once a year, but what the hell, the brass had sent her back to Europe and the native red had good effects.  Still, she hadn't ordered it for the taste.  She hand-signaled the waiter to fill the goblets.  He grinned, silver and gold-studded teeth a nice complement to the jeweled buttons marching down his starched shirtfront to his black cummerbund.  In tune with Hungary's new market economy, he smoothly topped all three glasses and set the linen-draped bottle down with a smiling flourish.

Erzsebet Takacs, one of Dawna's National Police contacts had recommended the restaurant for its authentic cuisine, live folk-dancing show and "ludicrous displays of public drunkenness."  So it was a bonus that Budapest's Café Cristal also had a waiter as sharp as he dressed.  Ordering from this fellow would not be like starting her first lecture at the FBI's overseas training academy.  All the Central European cops said they understood English but as soon as they got Word One in Dawna's West Texas accent, their foreheads scrunched up, their eyes glazed over.  She'd been talking at half-speed ever since.  "Three goulash," she said to the waiter, slowly, but without holding up three fingers, just a test.

The waiter's grin grew wider and he nodded vigorously.

Very sharp.  Dawna flashed her own smile, then jerked her head in a way that meant vamoose.  Before her blonde frizz stopped vibrating, the waiter's black jacket had blended into a group of men busily taking command of the table for ten in the restaurant's center.  Dawna had chosen a smaller table at the edge of the room and a chair which put her back against the pine-paneled wall.  Reflex, of course.  She lifted her wineglass by the stem and looked over the candle flame to Graham Roberts and Ladyshimarray Harms, her guests at what they thought was a Welcome-to-Hungary dinner.   And what Dawna knew was Step One in getting the two outsiders to follow her lead.  Which was critical, she'd learned the hard way three months ago when she ran her first training session at the FBI's International Law Enforcement Academy.  She turned a high-wattage smile on her companions.  "I appreciate your helping me out tomorrow."

"My pleasure."  Ladyshimarray raised her glass.  Candlelight heightened the wine's ruby glow, gave a sheen like polish to Ladyshimarray's chestnut skin, highlighting the sculptured cheekbones below her startling eyes, their irises tinged with an amazing shade of purple.  She added, "Always wanted to hold up a bank."

Tomorrow, Dawna, Ladyshimarray and Graham would pull on black balaclavas, pick up shotguns and rob Citibank.  The mock heist was the kick-off forensic exercise in the academy's eight-week training course.  Routine stuff for Dawna, the lead instructor.  She'd played the same game at Quantico, knew what evidence she needed to lay down at the crime scene for her pupils to investigate.  And she'd already been through it once here in Budapest.

You can read the rest of this story in the November 2000 issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine