The Man of My Dreams (From Russia With Love Story Series)

by Kiera Zane

  ***

  August 1961

  Our routine never changes. We sleep for eight hours and awake at six in the morning. We are fed and instructed in English, given an hour in the courtyard where we are exercised like horses in a pen, walking in slow laps. After our evening feeding, we begin mind control studies with Sobchak and, if we’re lucky are returned to our quarters. Those who aren’t are dragged to Sobchak’s private torture room downstairs.

  Every other day we are taken to communal showers where, under the watchful eyes of the guards, we strip and shower before being returned to our rooms.

  Ivanna and I sit in the terrible stillness of our room, our eyes saying to one another what our lips cannot. We know these walls have ears, as well as teeth and claws.

  The great Russian Bear is all around us.

  They’re training us to be spies, my glance tells Ivanna. Her nod tells me that she agrees.

  Not all of us will make it.

  Her grave expression offers her further agreement.

  What will happen to the others?

  We look at each other, both knowing the sad answer.

  How many do they need or want? Must there be only one? How long before we are pitted against one another to make that sad determination?

  Ivanna looks back at me. I don’t know. Soon.

  The door swings open, our heads turning to see two uniformed officers glaring at me. With just a jut of their heads, they instruct me to follow them out the door. Ivanna gives me a look of grim sympathy, not expecting me to return.

  Goodbye, my friend, her look seems to be saying.

  Good luck, I silently offer her in return.

  They lead me down three halls and into an elevator. My guards, younger men but very tall and strong, stare straight ahead, their gazes never lingering over my body. I have the feeling they are ordered to behave this way, but I can only guess the reason.

  Moments later I’m escorted into a private office where KGB Agent Yevgeny Dragunov himself stands waiting. I have become accustomed to seeing him every day in our English language study classes, but to see him in a different room, a small and private room, and also late at night; I know right away that teaching me English is the last thing on his mind.

  He pours himself vodka, looking at me as he tips the decanter. I shake my head with a polite smile. He pours the drink anyway, and brings it to me.

  “Thank you, Agent Dragunov.”

  “Please,” he says, “call me Yev.”

  I take it as he guides me toward a chair on the opposite side of the desk. I sit as he clinks his shot glass to mine and drinks his vodka down in a single, swift pull. Looking at him, and then down at my own glass, I do the same. It burns as it goes down, but the rush of pleasure is a relief to my system.

  I haven’t known pleasure in so long I can barely remember ever having experienced it at all. Then I remember the endless days of playing and dancing among the wildflowers during the summers and in the winter snow. I remember nights by the fireplace with Papa, reading me Peter and the Wolf and my other favorite stories.

  The pleasure of those memories brings back the sharp pain of their recent loss, the drastic change my life has taken.

  I refocus on my surroundings, all pleasure fleeing once more.

  Dragunov says, “You have done quite well, Aleksandra. KomDiv Sobchak and I agree, you have a promising future in the service of the State.”

  In English, I say, “You are too kind, sir.”

  At this, Dragunov breaks out laughing and shaking his head. Pouring himself another vodka, he brings me the decanter and refills my shot glass. “Very well indeed,” he says to me, also in English.

  I nod to acknowledge his return of my reference. The vodka trickles against the glass as the surface level rises to the top.

  Dragunov says in our native Russian, “But your duties will go beyond merely speaking decadent English, beyond even the control of the mind which you’ve also been studying with great success.”

  I nod again. To say nothing is ensure that I do not say the wrong thing, which can be lethal even under the best of circumstances.

  And these are not the best of circumstances.

  “You will have to control the body as well as the mind,” Dragunov says, returning the decanter to the bar and raising his refilled glass. He smiles and drinks the vodka down.

  He approaches me, pointing at the filled glass in my hand. “Drink up, Aleksandra,” he says.

  So I do.

  I must.

  Appeased, he says, “I see you’ve had drink before. And I’ve heard about what happened with you and your guard in the truck from Omsk City. You killed him with your bare hands, I’m told.”

  I turn my gaze downward, not wanting to challenge him and certainly not wanting to begin excusing myself or otherwise admitting anything.

  He says, “Don’t worry, you’ll not be reprimanded. It speaks well of your qualifications. But it does lead us to wonder what experiences you might have with men beyond merely defending yourself from them?”

  He reaches down and touches my chin, pulling my face up to meet his gaze. He smiles. “But how to qualify such a query?” he asks. “How best to... measure your intimate skills, the breadth of your seductive capabilities?”

  I do not want to endure the answer to his rhetorical questions, any more than I did with the guard in the truck, the boys in the field or any other man of that temperament. I want to give myself up, not to be taken.

  I flash back to the things we’ve been studying in the evenings, wondering in that quicksilver light of inspiration how effective the tools would really be and knowing in that instant that I am about to find out.

  I say, “I am so gratified that both you and the komdiv are pleased. I appreciate his dedication and attention during our classes.”

  Dragunov turns his head slightly, as if to hear me better but in truth it is to understand me more clearly. “Have you... met privately with KomDiv Sobchak?”

  Doubt, I remind myself. The best way to influence the subconscious mind.

  I say, “I half-expected the komdiv himself to be standing on the other side of this door.”

  Dragunov considers, eyes peering into some reasoning distance as he evaluates and then re-evaluates his position.

  “But I’m sure that he would have no objection to you calling me in for a private meeting such as this one.”

  Dragunov’s face goes pale.

  I add, “And so what if he does? You have no fear of such a man, even if he is your so-called superior.”

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” he says, lips pulled tight over his teeth.

  “Let him think and do as he pleases. This is our time together, Yev -- “

  “Agent Dragunov -- ”

  “-- And I’m so glad for it! I hoped you felt as I do. Whatever happens, even if that ugly old fool puts us both up in front of a firing squad, it will be worth it.”

  Dragunov calls, “Guards!”

  But I ignore him. “Take me, Yev, take me and let them bury us together if they must!”

  Even louder: “Guards!”

  The office door flies open behind me and the guards step in, clutching their rifles. Dragunov says to them, “Take this woman back to her room, at once.”

  I shoot him a look of confusion and frustration, eyebrows high on my creased forehead, lips a sad little pout as they pull me out of the room.

  I keep up the act until they shove me back into the room I share with Ivanna, who smiles, pleasantly surprised to see me. In our privacy, I can finally let my own smile break across my mask of faux disappointment.

  At least the mind control works, my smile tells Ivanna.

  Her nod tells me that she understands.

  Although Sobchak brings me back for several more sessions under the ceiling hook, I am never approached by the coward Dragunov again. I often think that if Dragunov sees the burns and welts left on me by the beast’s whipping, and the electrical shocks from the opened wires,
and the purple bruises from the closed-fist punches he delivered to my ribs and belly, Dragunov probably won’t want me anymore anyway.

  Chapter Four: Deployment

  "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity". -- Edgar Allan Poe

  October 1962

  We’ve been training for several months, and one morning Ivanna and I are led into our classroom with only one other woman, the one of mixed descent, African and Asian.

  We stand quietly in front of the desk, KomDiv Sobchak sitting behind it and Agent Dragunov standing beside him and one step behind. The two armed guards stand behind us as we face Sobchak and Dragunov.

  Sobchak says, “Congratulations, ladies, you three have been selected to compete for an assignment with the KGB. Your performances in classes and on examinations have qualified you for this trial of your skills.”

  I stand, hoping my nerves aren’t showing even though I can feel my limbs shake. Months of doubt and speculation have led me to this moment of truth. A period of study can be trying, but a time of testing can be fatal. However, I survived to take the test. Now I am to learn the fate of those who failed, and I might yet join their sorrowful ranks.

  Sobchak says, “The twelve women from your group have been divided into three groups of four women each, and they have been turned over to various police lockups around Moscow as being subversive American students. Their part in this trial is to maintain that charade. You will each pose as an American diplomat, sent to win their release. You will be given credentials, as the officers holding these prisoners have no idea of the true nature of these circumstances.”

  Agent Dragunov pulls three manila envelopes from the desk drawer and hands one to each of us.

  Sobchak says, “Whomever among you can win the release of your four prisoners will qualify for the assignment. If more than one succeeds, our choice will be made by private deliberation.”

  Agent Dragunov says to us, “If you succeed, your four prisoners will be returned to their families. If you fail, they will be sent to the GUIN.”

  “And you will join them,” Sobchak adds with a wet-lipped grin.

  I stand there next to Ivanna. We both know the odds of us both returning successfully from this mission are slim to none; the odds are greater, in fact, that neither of us will come back at all.

  But we don’t dare glance at each other, for fear of how it will be interpreted.

  Dragunov says, “Appropriate attire has already been put in your rooms, as well as personal effects befitting the roles you will be assuming. Good luck.”

  The guards open the doors and escort us out of the office and into a future that seems to promise unending misery in the Russian penal system.

  Ivanna and I dress in silence, collecting our jewelry and the briefcase we are each given to affect the look of an American diplomat. Our gray skirts and jackets give us a look neither has evoked here before; sophisticated, classy.

  Sexy. Powerful.

  Primed and ready for the slaughter.

  The door opens and we exchange a farewell glance. I take a single step toward her and we hug, each with one arm around the other. But the guards grunt and jut their heads toward the door, and we know there is no more time for sentiment.

  There is precious little time for anything.

  We each get into the backseat of a different car and pull out of the subterranean parking lot. This is my first time out of the KGB building since entering it, and the sunlight streams through the clouds and into the car window, warming my face. I know what awaits me, my stomach churning with nervous bile. But the sunlight coaxes a smile out of my face anyway, perhaps the last one I’ll ever enjoy.

  My car pulls to a stop in front of a large stone building, one of the many police lockups around Moscow. My driver escorts me, dressed in his KGB uniform. I’m not sure why, but I believe he is intended to serve as a local escort, which I presume a diplomat would probably have, especially a young female such as myself.

  I assume the role of agitated and determined American diplomat before entering the building, taking the front steps with aggressive assertiveness, feeling the ire swelling behind my breast as I pull the glass door open and step into the chaos of the police station.

  My driver steps forward, saying in Russian, “I have a diplomat here, from the American embassy.”

  I say to him, “I’ll speak for myself, thank you very much.” I turn to the officer behind the desk and say, “The four American students you’re holding, where are they?”

  The officer behind the desk glares at me, and then picks up a phone.

  Moments later my KGB escort and I are in the private office of IVS coordinator Lt. Anton Bagirli, his skin-bald head reflecting the light from his desk lamp.

  I say, in Russian, “The American government will not allow you to incarcerate these students. They’re innocent of any intention to harm the State in any way.”

  Bagirli looks over my credentials, then glares up at me. “You’re American? Your Russian accent is perfect. How long have you studied?”

  I smile and nod to accept his interrogation as a compliment. In English, I say, “My whole damn life, buddy. Now let’s talk about the international incident you’re about to ignite if you send those little fillies up the river.”

  Bagirli says, also in English, “These women cannot prove their innocence. Whether they are a danger to the State is unknown.”

  I cross my legs and say, “Let’s take a look at what is known, shall we? You could wrongfully arrest these women, and bring down a world-wide media storm. These aren’t Sacco and Vanzetti, but four beautiful young American women. Tie them to the tracks and you’ll be playing the villain for sure. You know how tense things are out there, here and in the West. Do you really think this is the time for an international showdown? Do you really want to be the one holding the bag when all this comes crashing down on you, which it will in about twenty-four hours if I don’t arrive at the embassy with those women in tow; do you?”

  Bagirli looks up at me, mouth a still slit, no sign of his inclination on his immobile expression.

  “On the other hand,” I add, “you can do the right thing and release four young women back to their native country and correct a huge injustice. You’ll be avoiding an international incident, and isn’t keeping the peace more or less what you’re supposed to be doing?”

  I can tell he’s considering it. But like a lot of Russians, fear is motivating him toward inaction.

  And for me, that means failure.

  And life in prison.

  I realize I have to press my position while I still have momentum. “Uncle Joe’s dead, Lieutenant. You don’t have anything to be afraid of. Hell, the longer they’re here, the more complicated things are likely to get. As of now, you could turn them over to me and deny they were ever here to begin with, there will be no risk to you at all. But fail to hand them over to me now before word gets around and you lose the option. Then you’ll be committed, and no matter how ugly things get, it’ll be too late to stop it. That would be a show of weakness, something we both know you can’t afford.”

  “It is already too late.”

  “It isn’t and you know it,” I say, my voice snapping with impatience. “But it will be soon. Lock those women up and you’ll be locking yourself up with them. Raise the bayonet to them, you’ll only be cutting your own throat.” I can sense his doubt, I can hear the wheels churning under that bald pate.

  I add, “Uncle Joe may be dead, but Uncle Sam sure ain’t.” I let a little smile punctuate my sentiment, the silence in the room my only ovation.

  It takes two hours for Bagirli to make the necessary phone calls and to have the women processed out of the IVS. My KGB agent makes a call or two in this time as well, leaving me to sit and ponder how dangerously close I’d come to falling into the bottomless pit of the Russian penal system, a living hell.

  But I didn’t. Not only did I not fall in, but I saved four others from doing so; four women whose relie
f must be beyond measure.

  Four families can now share that relief.

  But not mine.

  I know I have succeeded, but I’m still tense. Until I get out of that building with my four charges safely delivered, I won’t be safe and I will not relax. I know things can change at any moment. A phone call from the KGB could still upend my entire campaign. And the reasons they might have for doing such a thing could be endless, beyond my imagining. However hard I flail, however well my efforts are applied, I know I am at the whimsy of much greater forces, and that they can tear me apart at will.

  My KGB escort and I are finally reunited with the four women, the gasping brunette among them. We quietly walk out of the building and to our car, a second one parked behind it and waiting.

  The brunette smiles at me and whispers, “Thank you.”

  I offer her a comforting smile. “They’re sending you home, y’know.”

  Her pallid expression, always so sad and meek, breaks with a ray of hope that makes my own heart full. If I can’t be reunited with my family, I’m glad that she will be at least.

  I step into the car with my driver, the brunette and the other three in the second car. I get a quick flash of the brunette’s face, a relieved smile stretching across it, the stress of her living nightmare finally receding to the calm of the just and the innocent and the delivered.

  I did it, I tell myself. We made it. I may just have a future to look forward to after all. My car pulls away from the curb and my body is flushed with relief.

  It doesn’t last.

  The explosion behind us is so close that I can feel the wave of heat pushing the car from behind. The flash of light fills the rearview mirrors, and I don’t have to turn around in order to confirm what I already know.

  The second car sits at the curb, chunks of metal still falling down around it, flames leaping up from within and beneath.

  Even in the heat and the flames, a cold stone sinks in my gut as my KGB driver pulls me further and further from the burning wreckage and charred corpses within.