The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  Kasseri was reluctant. He had resisted this long. Before, there had been other times, many other times, when it had been suggested. Every time, Kasseri had resisted, had fought, and every time he had won. But he knew, just as Leonid did, that this time, it was different. Too much was at stake. He would not be able to resist. This time, he would have to use her. Kasseri drank his vodka and nodded acceptance of his friend's words.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you are right. This time, I have no choice.’

  The Russian secret intelligence service had always maintained a file on her, just as they did on many others. They had logged her progress with every passing year. When she began to act professionally, the entries became more detailed and more frequent. Experienced agents had the responsibility. She was developing into a potentially invaluable asset. They gave her every attention needed. She did not know they were there, or that they existed; and neither did anybody else. Why would they?

  Kasseri and Leonid had both read her file many times. They knew its contents well. It rested on the table between them. Untidy, red stamped markings, dog-eared pages, handwritten comments, photographs, transcripts of overheard conversations, details of sexual liaisons. It was all there. Even a catalogue of her career, all detailed with titles, dates, directors, cast and locations. The two men had watched her movies, of course. Kasseri had watched them more than once.

  ‘This man will know,’ Leonid said. ‘He works for McGrath, and we know already, McGrath is handling it for them.’

  Kasseri ran the tips of his fingers along the ridged scar across his face. Leonid watched the unconscious action silently while he swallowed his vodka.

  Leonid held up the black and white print.

  ‘He knows and she can find out from him and then tell us,’ he said.

  Kasseri continued, unaware, to feel his scar.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know.’

  He took the photograph from Leonid’s hand and studied it as if he was seeing it for the first time. He had looked at the photograph many times before and seen many others of this man as well. He knew his face, his cold, dark eyes and his expression of neither being alive nor dead but of only existing. Existing somewhere, where there were few others, only people like him and all of them wanting to discover a hidden truth, wanting to find the answer but never succeeding. He saw the crease of his brow and the shadows under his eyes. He was an outsider, a loner. A man for whom nothing came new; surprises were for children to experience or something for a fool. The man in the photograph was Rafferty.

  ‘Do you want me to do it?’ asked Leonid.

  Kasseri looked up and his hand moved away from his face.

  ‘No,’ he said, closing his eyes, ‘I will do it.’

  16 February 10, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  Kasseri prepared thoroughly; he understood, from years of experience, the importance of tradecraft and the consequences that indolence can bring.

  It was just before two and the housekeeper was out for the afternoon. An agent had watched the woman leave and she remained under surveillance.

  After morning rehearsal, the chauffeur-driven car, provided by the movie studio, returned Marilyn to her home at the usual time. She let herself in, knowing her housekeeper would be out, and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Rehearsing lines made her thirsty and only her own tea seemed to satisfy her dry mouth.

  She took a sip from the cup. She heard someone behind her.

  A deep male voice in Russian said, ‘Hello, Little One.’

  She wasn’t sure which shocked her more: someone in the house or the sound of spoken Russian. Her tea crashed on the counter and she spun to see a man standing in the doorway. He held his eyes fixed on her face. She felt concern but not panic. She didn’t speak.

  He remained at the door.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, still speaking Russian.

  Marilyn’s heart pounded in her chest and in her ears. She didn’t recognise him. He had spoken Russian again, and she had understood him again. She shook her head, still unable to speak.

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said.

  His deep Russian voice filled the room. Suddenly, her memory worked. She remembered; she knew who he was and her fright went away.

  In Russian, she replied, ‘I’m not frightened. I know who you are. You are the soldier.’

  Kasseri smiled reassuringly and nodded.

  ‘I did not know if you would remember,’ he said, changing to English. ‘It has been thirty years. You remember some Russian still?’

  His voice was soft and kind.

  ‘Only a little now,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it has faded and you were so very young,’ he said. There was a silence while they stared at each other, remembering.

  ‘It is strange seeing you again and hearing spoken Russian,’ Marilyn said. ‘You bring it all back.’

  Kasseri slowly shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry to surprise you like this, in your home. I have wanted to see you, to talk to you, so many times over the years,’ he said.

  Marilyn found the use of her legs again after the shock and walked slowly towards him.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ she said.

  Kasseri smiled and Marilyn led him through to the sitting room. They sat on a deep, cream sofa behind a low wooden table. The early afternoon sunlight made bright patterns across the carpet. It gave the room a solemn atmosphere like an empty theatre stage.

  Kasseri released the button holding together his lightweight suit jacket and relaxed.

  Marilyn uncrossed, and then re-crossed her legs while turning towards him. Her patterned frock was across her thighs. She too relaxed. Somehow, the thirty years didn’t matter. She felt herself on horseback, pressed against his body. She could hear the animal breathing and the words of encouragement he gave.

  ‘I can’t quite believe you are here,’ she told him, ‘after so long. I have thought about you and wondered what might have happened to you. I worried about you during the war, knowing you were a soldier. I hoped you weren’t killed and I always hoped one day I would see you again.’

  Kasseri smiled.

  ‘The Germans could not kill me, although they tried often.’

  Marilyn laughed and felt her dry throat.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked. ‘I have tea.’

  Kasseri took an unlabeled, hand-sized bottle from his jacket pocket, filled with a clear liquid.

  ‘Real Russian vodka,’ he said, ‘brought here from Moscow. Would you like to try some?’

  Marilyn felt an excitement for something made in the country of her birth and something for which that country was so famous.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  From his other pocket, Kasseri pulled two small glasses. He filled them both and handed one to Marilyn.

  ‘Za fstryé-tchoo (to our meeting),’ he said and emptied his glass in one.

  Marilyn copied him.

  ‘Za fstryé-tchoo,’ she said, throwing back the fiery liquor. It burned on the way down and she involuntarily coughed, and then smiled.

  ‘You are still a Russian,’ Kasseri congratulated her.

  ‘Yes, I must be,’ she agreed happily. ‘How did you find me?

  ‘It was not difficult; you are very famous.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come before now?’ she asked. Her eyes were big. ‘I have so many questions,’ she said, not waiting for an answer.

  The vodka was warm in her stomach. She remembered her father and the night, in their farmhouse, when the soldier had shot and killed him. Hollowness had been growing with each passing year since that day. It was an emptiness born of loss. An emptiness Marilyn had continually attempted to fill, unsuccessfully, with older men. Men she had taken as lovers; men she so desperately wanted to protect her and to love her. None of them, though, in her mind was a substitute for what she could never replace. None of them could worship her devils away. Then she thought, not consciously perhaps, that this man from her past,
from that terrible night, maybe he could be the one.

  ‘Can I have another vodka?’ she asked.

  Kasseri refilled the two glasses and they swallowed them down.

  ‘I have seen all your movies,’ he told her. His fingers went to his scar and he ran them along the ridge.

  ‘Don’t mention them, please; they’re awful,’ she replied, watching his fingers. ‘I don’t know why people like them.’

  Kasseri knew why. It was because of Marilyn’s innocent sexuality. He remembered a description he had once read in a review of one of the earlier ones. To be like her is what women want and to have her love is what men want. Her charisma radiated from the screen, capturing the audience with a hypnotist’s manipulation. He could feel it now. She possessed an almost paranormal force, attracting like gravity, pulling relentlessly all beings that came physically close. She could capture thoughts and emotions, turning them to affection and holding them with an unbreakable strength.

  The vodka had now moved from Marilyn’s stomach, travelling both north and south. Her mind felt disconnected from her body as if she had stepped through a doorway, into a different room, without willful intent. Much of her life felt that way. All her questions seemed to fade and die, forgotten like unloved gifts. She stood up slowly. His eyes followed her. She stopped in front of him and looked down. His body and face were younger than his years, healthy and strong. His countenance gave an impartial return, only bowed cruel by the scar.

  She took a step closer and the sunlight fell across her arm and hair, reflecting a warm lustre, giving her fairness like a wild flower in a summer meadow. She looked and saw the soldier, from long ago, gazing with great kindness that softened his bloodstained brow. She acted without contrivance, natural and honest. Her dress came easily from her shoulders and shimmied across her hips, and dropped to the floor in a crumpled circle. Her skin, smooth as a new bar of soap, was translucent in the sunlight. She pulled away her underwear and stood, oscillating gently, while he accepted her need for him to behold her nakedness. Kasseri regarded her body with the intense rush she intended it to produce. He realised her body was without a single flat or straight line. Every inch of her figure rounded, sloped, arched or curved and when she moved, her form moulded itself without a struggle into sculpted arcs as if touched by an artist.

  Kasseri had not expected this development. He knew from her file, Marilyn was promiscuous, even so, he anticipated honest persuasion or, if necessary, coercion through one or more of a dozen methods. He did not think she would suddenly stand up and undress in the living room. With Marilyn, his expected route to securing her willing cooperation was, he hoped, going to be her deep felt love for Mother Russia, hence the vodka. After all, it was born into her, despite the influence of a lifetime in America. This development did not alter his plan significantly. He would see how it played out.

  Marilyn went to him, one knee on the sofa between his thighs, a hand to his chest, the other up to his face. Her breasts, with brown swollen nipples the colour of hazelnut shells, swung towards him. She smelt of alcohol and a musk scent that Kasseri thought similar to the white flowers of a small tree he had once smelt near Odessa after it had rained.

  Her smile combined pleasure and anticipation with lust and excitement, and a sadness which Kasseri noticed most of all. She was the lost orphan girl, never able to find comfort or safety after a childhood ordeal. He remembered one of the psychological reports in her file, it read: she may be subconsciously searching for a replacement for the father she watched killed. Perhaps she was doing this now, perversely, with one of the men responsible. That fact did not seem to matter to her. She possessed her own monsters and the behaviour produced by them nobody could easily rationalise.

  Marilyn kissed him with warm lips and ran her fingertips along his scar. She pushed off his jacket and tugged at his tie. Once naked, she made him sit forward, positioning herself on his lap with her back to him, from where she used her arms to move her body. She fitted him to her and her buttocks pressed down, pink and round. It came into Kasseri’s thoughts that this was the position they had ridden in together on his horse, all those years before.

  Afterwards, she lay curled up, cuddled into him under his arm. She was silent, listening to his breathing and feeling the warmth of his skin. The contented mood, that always came after she had loved, flooded her sentiment. She murmured softly and burrowed closer, seemingly never wanting to be apart again.

  Kasseri sensed her mood and pulled her tighter. They had been silent for some minutes. He spoke quietly, gently, with his mouth near her head. She felt his warm breath on her hair.

  ‘I need your help,’ he said.

  She moved as if to see his face but stopped before the turn was complete. Nobody ever asked her for help. Everyone assumed she needed help. She enjoyed the thought of him showing her this respect. She liked the new sensation it brought.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It is help for Mother Russia,’ he said.

  ‘...Mother Russia?’

  ‘Yes, in my job, I am expected to protect the friends of our country. One of these friends is threatened.’

  ‘Which one?’ she asked.

  Kasseri sighed to emphasise the heavy burden of responsibility.

  ‘Cuba,’ he replied. ‘The Americans intend to invade.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘They want it back from Castro. They intend to overthrow him,’ he explained.

  Marilyn was confused.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘I need to know when the Americans will invade and where on Cuba they will land,’ he said.

  Marilyn laughed despondently.

  ‘I don’t know that,’ she said.

  Kasseri allowed a pause before he spoke.

  ‘No, but a friend does.’

  ‘A friend, who?’ she said.

  ‘His name is Rafferty.’

  At the mention of his name, Marilyn’s body tightened. This time, she completed the turn and looked questioningly into Kasseri’s eyes.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  Kasseri smiled reassuringly.

  ‘He has been your lover for fifteen years,’ he said. Marilyn continued to question with her eyes.

  ‘We have been watching out for you, all these years. We want to keep you safe; we care for you,’ he said.

  Marilyn’s body softened and she dropped her head onto his chest. They were quiet while her ear felt the constant beat of his heart.

  He waited for her to break the silence.

  ‘How does he know?’ she asked.

  Kasseri breathed in deeply and her head moved up and down on his ribcage.

  ‘He works for a man in the American government who is the organiser,’ he said. ‘We know Rafferty can tell you.’

  ‘But he won’t,’ she said. ‘He would never tell me. He tells me nothing like that.’

  ‘You must get him to tell you. Can you at least try? I’m certain you can do it. He must never know about me, though. You understand that, don’t you, yes?’

  Marilyn was thinking.

  ‘Yes, I understand that,’ she said.

  ‘When will you next see him?’ Kasseri asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I can contact him; soon,’ she said. ‘Shall I let you know?’

  ‘No. I will contact you again, soon,’ he told her.

  Marilyn had sat up away from him. Now, she stood up and put her clothes back on.

  After Kasseri had left, Marilyn remade her tea and sat at the kitchen table sipping slowly. She felt the steam on her face and closed her eyes in contemplation.

  Her thoughts were confused. She wanted to help him but trying to find out from Rafferty was pointless. Kasseri had obviously never met him. She wondered if there was another way. She thought hard. Who was the government man, organising it, the one spoken of by Kasseri? She didn’t know.

  Later that day, Marilyn watched the news broadcast and saw a report on the White House and Cuba
. It gave her an idea.

  17 February 11, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  Marilyn dialled the number and waited while it rang.

  Peter Beaumont was an Englishman who had come to Hollywood as a young actor. He had been a matinee idol with smouldering good looks that cut a dashing figure, or so Variety magazine had said. In his younger days, his acting performances had been excellent but his love for the movie star lifestyle of excessive partying had derailed his career. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, he was a famous Hollywood celebrity because of his friendships and social standing. One of the reasons for this was at the age of thirty-two he had married the daughter of an extremely wealthy banker from Boston whose older brother was a senator. This marriage had raised his partying status to the premier league. Marilyn’s plan required this man for the first important step.

  ‘Hello Marilyn, how lovely to hear from you,’ Peter charmed down the telephone. He had kept the English accent and he enjoyed using it on women.

  ‘Hello Peter, how are you?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘A little drunk, actually,’ he confessed.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she replied. ‘How are Penelope and the children?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all right. Now then, when are you going to come and see me?’

  ‘What, one of your legendary dinner parties?’ Marilyn flattered, suggestively.

  ‘Yes, exactly; I could feed you oysters and the best French champagne,’ he flirted, with charm.

  ‘Umm, sounds wonderful.’ she encouraged. ‘What guests might you have to tempt me with?’

  Peter paused while he thought for a moment and then he chuckled.

  ‘You bad girl; who are you after that good old Peter can get for you?’ he said, realising the reason for the call. He was sharp when it came to romance or rather sex.

  Marilyn pretended innocence.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, virtuously.

  ‘Come on, you can’t fool old Peter. You’re after someone and you need me to set it up. Now who could it be?’

  ‘Oh okay,’ she admitted. ‘You’re too clever for me. Can’t you guess?’