The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Orson breathed a sigh of relief. He had done what he could to avenge his bride. Now it was up to the courts. Tullis, Irons and the waterman were in custody. Of course Tullis, with the might of the NRA behind him, easily made bail. Irons would save his skin by testifying against Tullis. And McBride was unable to tie Orson or anyone else to the kidnapping.

  The President had watched the entire drama unfold with some amusement. She had dropped a few hints that Orson was not to be harassed by the FBI or anyone else. In fact she had a mission for him.

  What that was, he had yet to learn. Stepping out of his townhouse in the early morning, the brick fronts crammed together with scarcely a stoop between them and the street, he almost bumped into an attractive, mature woman who seemed to be just standing on the street.

  He smiled and said, “Going my way?”

  She returned the smile and replied, “I thought you might emerge at this time.”

  “I’m a creature of habit. I’m easily stalked.”

  “I live next door, temporarily at least.”

  “You were looking to chat me up?” Orson inquired.

  “I thought you might be a dancer,” She said.

  He laughed at the sound of her words. A dancer. “I’m Orson, who might you be?”

  “Katrina, a dancer.”

  “I suppose you might say we are all dancers, dancing around this or that, not always light on our feet.”

  “I do ballet on the stage. My bread and butter.”

  “Good for you. A ballerina.”

  “I don’t like that term. It sounds like a little girl. I think you and I are about the same age.”

  “I doubt that,” Orson replied. “You retain the bloom of youth. Anyone my age would not likely be dancing, for money anyway. Unless it was on a street corner.”

  It was her turn to smile. “You paint a sordid picture of a down-and-out hoofer, maybe Bojangles.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Many think I am too old, but I still have energy and fire. The young set say I should move into retirement and make room for those moving up. So what do you think?”

  “Think about what? The ballet? No thoughts. I have my own game. Although sometimes it’s best simply not to have deep thoughts. Read the paper, watch TV, listen to NPR, keep up with current events, eat well, have a taste of alcohol in the evening. That’s life.”

  “You have the look of a dancer. So we start over.”

  “In tights?”

  “Ballroom.”

  “During my green years I learned to dance. The Fox Trot, two-step, or whatever it might be called. I sought to blend in with the crowd. I find it more difficult with this face.”

  “From your left profile, I can see you as you were.”

  “Then if you walked with me on my left side and I never looked at you, I would be…what?”

  “A prime fool, I suppose. I’d like you to take me dancing.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know your household. There are two nannies, two infants and a housekeeper.”

  “That’s Cook.”

  “But no wife unless she never leaves the house.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Fairly recent if she gave birth to those babies.”

  “Fairly recent. She was murdered.”

  “Deliberately?”

  “Gunned down.”

  “That’s a horrid thing. Are you recovering?”

  “Slowly. I have a job and the household, which means the twins. I have their education to consider.”

  “A little early for that, isn’t it?”

  “No. These things shouldn’t be left to chance.”

  “I’ll leave that one alone. So, will you take me dancing?”

  “You a ballerina, me out of practice, and not a very good ballroom dancer. I’d be outclassed.”

  “Don’t call me a ballerina. My name’s Katrina. We’d be awesome together.”

  “Are you thinking of me as a type of sideshow freak?”

  “Oh, for Chris’sake, Orson. Will you or will you not take me dancing tonight. I’ve got a place lined up. No one will know either one of us.”

  “What the hell. Shall we have dinner first?”

  “Maybe a snack. We can’t dance on a full stomach. Can you pick me up at seven?”

  “Seven. Ok, seven. You snack at home. We eat dinner at six at my place. So I’ll have eaten.”

  “Good by me. But lay off the wine, or any other alcohol. We can sip between dances.”

  “Good, Lord. What have I gotten myself into? Goodbye, Katrina. See you tonight.”

  At the White House, Orson had a note from the President to show up at the family digs at seven-thirty to talk about his assignment. He e-mailed back that he was otherwise engaged.

  Less than an hour later a Secret Service man popped into his office to escort him to the Oval Office. Once they were alone and seated, she asked, “What in hell do you mean – ‘otherwise engaged’?”

  He attempted a sweet smile and announced, “I have a date to go dancing.”

  A look of unbelief crossed her face, and then she began laughing. Regaining her composure, she said, “You, dancing.” She was about to start another round of laughter, but instead she said, “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all.” He spilled out the entire story about the aging ballet dancer lying in wait for him in Georgetown.

  “A ballerina? What’s her name?”

  “She doesn’t like that term. She says she’s a ballet dancer and that ballerina sounds like a little girl – you know, ‘dance ballerina, dance.’ Her name’s Katrina.”

  “Yes, Katrina,” the President mused. “You mean she’s still dancing?”

  “Apparently. She said the younger people would like her to move on so they could move up, or at least compete for her seat, whatever that might be.”

  “She’s very good. And she chose you. Why?”

  “She’s staying with friends in the next townhouse. She seems to have been casually watching our comings and goings. She guessed I had no wife.”

  “Perhaps she guessed that.” The President seemed to ponder the situation, then said, “I don’t see how such a person would be involved in any kind of plot, or what that plot could possibly be. But let’s be on our guard. The warning flags are at full staff. Have your fun and I’ll have mine. Tomorrow night then we tryst in my quarters at half past seven. Taco chips and salsa guaranteed, maybe even a fresh jar of Cheese Whiz.”

  Orson found he enjoyed dancing with Katrina and he enjoyed her company. They planned to get together soon unless he was called away.

  “Might you be called away?” she questioned.

  “Always a possibility. Nothing unusual.” He wasn’t aware of what the President had in mind for him.

  But he did learn a few things the following evening.

  “I’ve checked on your friend, Katrina,” the President said. “Of course I heard of her years ago. She has one name, like Meatloaf or Prince. I think Prince is still called Prince. No matter. She was born in this country, but her parents were immigrants. The father’s name was Vladimir Sasha Anichkina. At Ellis Island they hung Val King on him, which is not a bad American name.”

  “So her real name is Katrina King?” Orson asked.

  The President allowed a brief chuckle. “For reasons unknown her parents decided to give her a traditional ethnic name – Ksenrya Irina Aleksandrova. Get your mouth around that one.”

  Orson shook his head. “Strange.”

  “Maybe not. They wanted her to have some anchor to the old country. They didn’t leave quite voluntarily. The old man was out of favor with the government and they decided to get out while they could. As a child they called her Katrina and she contrived to have her name changed to that single word.”

  Orson poured the wine and snapped open the sack of chips. The salsa was spicy. So was the jar of semi-liquid cheese. The evening was off to a good start. Good frie
nds. Good food.

  The following evening, Katrina bumped into him as he returned home. Obviously, she had been watching for him. He often showed up not long before six to look in on the twins, and then have dinner with the others.

  He first words were, “You didn’t come home last night.”

  “I have a life of my own,” he replied in semi-amusement.

  “But we danced together. Had a good time. You didn’t mention a life of your own, whatever that means. What about the twins?”

  “What about them? They have not one, but two nannies. Then there’s Cook. They’re well provided for.”

  “Parents are important.”

  “Of course they’re important. So are teachers. And friends.” He gave her a suspicious glance. “Why are you here? What are you doing in Washington?”

  “For a recital at the Kennedy. I practice with an ensemble most of the day. You’ll have tickets when the time comes. Now tell me where you were last night.”

  Orson managed a small laugh and said, “What a question. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I might as well tell you. I thought we might be married.”

  “You mean wed, like joined for life?”

  “Initially that’s why people go into such an arrangement. Sometimes it doesn’t work out.”

  “You’re a very nice person, Katrina. And I’m certain your ballet group will be a great hit at the Kennedy, but…”

  “It’s not a ballet group. It’s modern dancing. I’ve moved beyond ballet. No more Swan Lake. No more en point, well I could go on. You seem to be a lonely person and we’re about the same age. I’ve told you that. I’m ready to give up the stage. I could be a good mother to the twins.”

  “No you couldn’t,” Orson countered. “Their lives were planned out before they were born. I don’t think you could get with the program.”

  “So you’re a good parent, but I would not be. We might quarrel occasionally, but I could tell you a thing or two about child rearing. I’m just past the child-bearing years, or what I consider them to be. But I have maternal instincts. I would help bring them up in a wholesome atmosphere.”

  “The last thing I want for the twins is wholesome.”

  “You mean to raise a pair of young desperados, or cutthroats?”

  “Possibly.”

  “The law will be on you, Orson. I know you’re having fun at my expense. Perhaps I can join your odd family for dinner in the next day or two. Then we can talk more about our future.”

  “Katrina. You moved in next door. You saw me once or twice. You asked me to go dancing. I can understand that. You’re here, more or less alone. I assume you’re something of a prima dona. A lonely designation. But now the marriage thing. When did you come up with that?”

  “When we were dancing. It seemed logical. Our ages. Your wounded face. My hidden scars. Our lives would seem made for one another, a trifle late perhaps. But if we hadn’t reached this stage in life, it could never be.”

  “You’ve got that right. I don’t see marriage on the menu. I like you Katrina. But marriage. You know the saying, this is so sudden?”

  “So, when can I come for dinner?”

  Orson rolled his eyes to heaven and replied, “My job is a chancy one. I may be called away any day. So come in now and we’ll see what Cook has brewed up. You’d better tell your friends though.”

  “Nobody home over there. I have the townhouse. They’re off eating their way through Europe and Asia.”

  “Hungry souls?”

  “Food writers. You watch the TV food channels?”

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  She squinted her eyes and cocked her head to ask, “Tell me about your courtship, you and Delilah?”

  “That was a private matter.”

  “You’ve something to hide?”

  Orson was loath to admit he had approached Delilah just as Katrina had approached him. Abruptly and to the point. Perhaps they were destined to be joined. In his heart, he believed that the moment Delilah was slain on that beach that she was reincarnated somewhere in the world, possibly in a male form, but no matter, somewhere on the globe. And she would come to maturity about the time of his death if he were fortunate, or unfortunate enough, to survive the years. Yes, perhaps he and Katrina should wed. She seemed presentable. And he was no aesthetic prize. He smiled, thinking of the reincarnated Delilah as being slightly younger than the twins. What an insane world!

  These thoughts flashed through his brain at supersonic speed.

  “Let’s get inside. We’ll have a glass of wine before dinner. I’ll introduce you to your future in-laws if such is to be.”

  Her expression remained unchanged, but she did loop her arm in his and they marched into the townhouse.