by Kiera Zane
Deloris just looks at me, not sure what to make of my comment, my appearance, my presence, my anything and my everything. I’m not sure if she wants to turn around and run or throttle me death with the desk lamp.
Instead of either, she picks up the phone and starts dialing a number, saying, “If you’re the senator’s personal assistant, what are you doing here while he’s in a meeting with Senators Geason, Bartlet and Donahue?”
I’m not sure, which is the only reasonable answer I can give. “They sent me here.”
“Who did,” Nathan asks, “the agency?”
Not exactly sure what he means and not wanting to give away anything, I say, “I just graduated from college. There was a program, to apply for this position.”
Deloris asks, “As personal assistant to a United States senator without any real experience?”
Nervously, I say, “My daddy, he’s friends with a man, I really shouldn’t say who...”
“Forget it,” Deloris says, raising the telephone receiver to her ear. “This is Washington, here everybody’s daddy knows somebody, they really shouldn’t say who...”
“Don’t mind her,” Nathan says to me, “she’s always under a lot of stress.”
Deloris says, “Take a good look, sweetie; I used to be pretty too. And it wasn’t that long ago.” Deloris turns her attention back to the phone and says into it, “Yeah, Deloris Brooks from Senator Jonathan Caine’s office. I need to look over that transcript you’re using on the waste management story...”
Nathan leads me away with the gentle jut of his jowly head. He says, “As long as the senator’s not here, maybe you’d like to do me a little favor?”
“Well, um, of course, sure, as long as the senator doesn’t need me.”
Nathan shrugs. “That seems to be the case. But I’ve got a five-page report that needs to be looked at. I don’t see our intern around, so how’d you feel about running down, grabbing a quick pastrami on rye, extra mustard?”
I consider it, seeing an opportunity that would solidify this man as my friend, my ally, a weapon in my arsenal. And if the ammo for that weapon included fatty meats and mustard, so much the easier for me.
“Sure,” I say, just as Vivian walks by, putting a ten dollar bill in my hand.
“Chinese chicken salad,” Vivian says.
Before I get to the door, I’m holding sixty-five dollars and trying to keep five lunch orders straight, all of them from different types of restaurants.
I stand in the elevator thinking, This can’t be what the KGB has in mind, unless they want me to poison the entire staff.
The day drags on and finally chubby, friendly Nathan walks me to my apartment building nearby. I convince him not to follow up to my room, letting him think he might find his way up there someday.
And I’m glad, because Dragunov’s presence in my room is neither a shock nor welcomed.
“How was your first day on the job?”
I shrug, not giving him the satisfaction of having surprised me. “Didn’t even lay eyes on the senator. I think I’m the personal assistant to everybody but the senator.”
“See to it that it doesn’t last,” he says. “We didn’t go to all this trouble and expense so you could deliver sandwiches to a bunch of fools and flunkies.”
“Deliver... are you spying on me?”
“Of course, child,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, plopping down on the couch. “I’m the lowest rung on the ladder, I just got there and already half the people hate me just because I’m there. I can’t start making demands. Now you and your caveman master are just going to have to be patient and back off or you’ll blow the whole thing and I’ll be the one who has to pay for it.”
Not showing any offense to my outburst, he says simply, “That’s right, Aleksandra, you will.”
The next day I spend the first few hours continuing to do errands for the rest of the senator’s staff. I haul reams of blank paper, clear waste paper baskets, bring up food and even bags of soda pop to refill the office’s refrigerator.
I also meet Ralphie Adler, the boyish and enthusiastic intern, who seems even more feminine that me. He gestures grandly, reacts broadly with a looping voice and bright, bulging eyes. “So you’re the new P.A. I heard he was getting one. I love your hair, you are so pretty! I just know we’re gonna be best friends!”
Ralphie is at one end of the spectrum, closest to my own lowly position. And at the other end, the only other member of the staff (besides the senator himself) I haven’t met.
And my first contact with him is not an introduction.
Chief of Staff and Administrative Assistant Dan Oglvy sees me from across the room. I feel his eyes locking on me as an unfamiliar face, always unwelcome in political circles.
But instead of approaching me, he simply holds out his pointed finger, his voice loud and his words slow and definitive. “Who... is... that... young... woman?”
The entire office goes quiet, only the spattered ringing of the telephones underlying the new tension in the room. He’s tall, with the baring and command of a high-ranking officer.
Myron St. Matthews approaches him and whispers something into his ear. Then Dan glares at me from his position across the room, bellowing, “Personal assistant, is that what they’re calling them now?”
He strides toward me, everyone in the office watching his approach. Everything has ground to a halt and refuses to move until something happens between us.
And it won’t have to wait long.
He arrives in front of me. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
He looks me over, sneering and snarling, his ice-cold eyes nearly freezing the blood in my veins. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”
Myron let out a surprised chuckle. “Ha! That’s what I said.”
“Shut up, brown-nose,” Dan says without taking his eyes off me, even though I take it as more of an offensive gesture toward Myron than a lustful advance upon me. I get the feeling this man is into another type of woman altogether.
And I make a note of it.
“Yes sir,” Myron says to Dan, backing away.
“What’s all this?”
We turn at the voice, unfamiliar to me alone. But I know the face. Senator Jonathan Caine himself strides into the bullpen, that central area where most of the staff have their desks. He looks much like his picture, even more handsome. The black-and-white of the photo did little to get across his healthy complexion, the whiteness of his teeth, the sparkle of his blue eyes, the graying hair that is more blonde than brown.
He smiles at me, extending his open hand. “Jon Caine,” he says.
I take his hand, large and steady around mine. “Aleksandra Tomanek.”
“Aleksandra?” the senator repeats. “That’s a mouthful. You’re my personal assistant, Alexsa.. Lexy?”
“Yes, Senator, I’m happy to be of any help I can be.”
He shrugs, shaking his head. “This is Washington, Lexy, we all need as much help as we can get.” He turns to Vivian. “You know what I need done, right?”
Vivian nods, her hand over her chest. “Absolutely, Senator Caine.”
He turns back to me and smiles. “Welcome aboard.” With that, he turns and strides down the hall, most of his staff following on his heels.
Vivian approaches me and puts her hand on my arm. “Let’s go find a pen.”
We spend a good amount of time outlining the personal tasks the senator will need me to do for him. And although I can’t say I look forward to much of it, I feel that it’s a big step toward completing the mission and a big step away from being the office slave which I fast became.
Another lonesome night in Washington DC. After explaining to Dragunov that I’m getting access to the senator’s personal living space, his dietary habits, a complete personal prof
ile, I’m left to another night of staring at the flickering specks of light in that inky sea that flooded my apartment’s only window.
I grew up in a small town in the Omsk, where there was little enough in the way of excitement. As a little girl, I’d dreamed of adventure and heroics, of grandeur and danger, of princes and heroes and journeys to far-off lands.
Now, here I am, a grown woman in the capital city of the one of the most powerful countries on Earth, working alongside one of the most powerful men in that city. I am strong and adult, capable enough to be sent on a mission of international intrigue and import.
Yet I’m confined to my room like a child, punished for a wrong-doing that was never my own, trapped in a world I not only never made but never really wanted. There are no heroes here, I realize, only villains. No adventure, only danger. No romance or glory, only dishonesty and risk and fear and probably death at the end of it all.
Still, the lights are so pretty, so bright, so small and yet so strong, cutting through the darkness that oppresses them and tries to smother their tiny glory. But they are not bowed, they shine on.
They survive.
And if they can, so can I.
The next day I am at the senator’s buzzing office for a brief while in the morning, only to be told amid the confusion and hustle that I’m not supposed to be there at all. I am supposed to be executing the laundry list of chores to take care of on Senator Jon Caine’s behalf. And I use the term laundry list without very much irony, as laundry is in fact very high on that list, but not before shopping for his groceries, sorting his mail and finding suitable gifts for the nieces of his ex-wife. I don’t know much about what happened in that marriage, but if this man still wants to give gifts to the woman’s nieces, I can only assume that he is a man of excellent character and strong emotional bonds.
I make a note of that valuable information, and any other insights I can glean from an otherwise tedious day of picking things up and dropping them off.
On the street, between one thing and another, things really start to pile up, and I’m not being figurative. My arms are spilling over with ten dress suits, each including two pair of pants and covered with a long plastic bag. It’s not that they’re heavy, which they are, but they keep sliding away from each other and falling to my feet.
Eventually, they all go cascading to the sidewalk, gathering around me like Joan of Arc’s kindling.
I bend down and start scooping up the suits, turning with a start to hear, “Lemme help you out.” I recognize him immediately, even though we haven’t met. Tall, broad, dark-chocolate skin shimmering, his black chauffeur’s uniform absorbing all light.
Tige Abrahmson, Senator Caine’s driver, bends to help me collect the suits.
“Thank you so much, Tige.”
He says, “You know me too?”
“Too?”
He nods. “You’re the senator’s new girl.”
I look him over, allowing the offense to take my expression. “I beg your pardon? I’m the senator’s personal assistant; I’m not anybody’s girl.”
He considers as he gathers the last of the suits, his expression stoic, grim. “My apologies. No offense intended.”
I give it some thought. If I weren’t the KGB’s girl, I would have been even more offended, but it occurs to me that this man would make a powerful ally under the right circumstances. More often than not, men of power seek the advice of the least among their circle; drivers, shoe-shines, housekeepers.
I smile. “No offense taken. I’m Aleksandra.”
“Tige. Can I give you a lift?”
I look at the limo, windows blacked out. “Don’t you have to take the senator somewhere?”
“On my way to get her washed, actually. C’mon.”
He walks over and pops open the trunk, setting the suits in his arms and mine flat in the trunk and closing the lid.
But I insist on riding up front with him, as his equal and not his superior. At first he hesitates, as if being seen with a white woman in the front seat of a car could get him lynched; because in some parts of the country, it would.
But not here, in the country’s capital.
We glide past the crowded sidewalks, movers and shakes all pushing and shoving not only to get ahead, but simply to get by.
Tige says, “I’ve seen you around the office, Aleksandra. In fact, we were all shown pictures of you before you arrived... security measure, you understand.” The Kremlin has done a thorough job, but I am still a little nervous to hear Tige take this line of conversation. “But how do you know me?”
I have to think fast.
“Deloris mentioned you, she described you to a tee. Plus the uniform and all, I guess I took a leap of faith.”
Tige grunted, peering out the side window. “Anybody comes to this town does.” We share a chuckle as Tige pushes the limo into a muscular left turn toward the senator’s townhouse.
Tige leaves the limo double-parked as he helps me with the suits. After hanging them in the closet, Tige asks if there’s somewhere else he can drop me before he has the limo washed and returns to the offices. I shake my head and allow him to get on with his day, content to walk to the drug store to pick up the senator’s personal toiletries.
Ah, the glamor of Washington!
Another exchange with Dragunov separates my strenuous day from my monotonous night. It’s easy enough to goad Dragunov into thinking I’m making strides in the mission to get close to Senator Caine. It’s not much more progress than the day before; but we both know the mission will take some time, and that the progress I am making is enough to warrant a bit of leeway in my governance.
Before he leaves, I ask, “Where are you going tonight, Dmitry?” using the Americanized name he chose as his cover.
“Out,” is his only answer, before stepping into the building hallway and slamming the door behind him. I think about his disposition. He’d shown an interest in me before, back in Moscow, but the threat of Sobchak’s wrath kept him away. I even expressed an interest myself, hoping my positive enforcement of a possibly negative condition would further him toward doing what I wanted him to do.
It’s one of the things I learned from Sobchak himself.
But here and now, there’s nothing to keep him from pursuing me; and as far as he’d know, every reason and justification for doing so.
Yet he doesn’t.
And I’m not disappointed at all, of course. The last thing I need is for my own watchdog to be nipping at my heels. But the fact that he doesn’t gives me pause, makes me wonder what other forces are acting upon him, constricting him.
Watching him.
Watching him as he watches me.
I know I’m surrounded on all sides. I remember the fiery explosion that took the lives of those four female KGB hopefuls. When Myron told me not to trust anybody in Washington, I didn’t know then but I come to realize more and more that this includes anybody in Washington, no matter what country they’re from. There are people around me I can’t trust and that includes taxi drivers, beat cops, bums on the street. Anybody with eyes and ears and a heartbeat could be an enemy, sent by my own keepers to monitor my every move.
To kill me without a moment’s notice if that is what the orders are.
And if so, I have no protection and no escape.
I stare out into that night, night after night after night, the grind of the days filled with pettiness and greed and ambition and even sloth giving way to nights of ceaseless worry and wonder and waiting.
Something has to give.
One night, after tending to a day’s worth of the senator’s dry cleaning and grocery shopping, I decide if I must die without warning, I want to see some of Washington DC’s nightlife before I go.
After my routine meeting with the increasingly agitated Dragunov, I slip down the staircase to the rear exit of the apartment building lobby, a floppy hat pulled over my head, and step into the sultry heat of the Washington summer.
I stroll th
rough the city at night, the bustle and energy not diminished by the dark of night. If anything, darkness seems to bring out the true nature of the city. I find myself walking past the famous memorial dedicated to the United States president Abraham Lincoln. He sits on his great stone throne, a face nearly ferocious with determination, eyes glaring into a future that he would sacrifice himself to ensure. He faces eternal enemies, and faces them eternally. I look into those stone eyes of that great white giant and wonder what demons he faced within as much as without. And the whole world knows the price he paid and the prize he won.
I wonder what prize I’ll win.
I already have a pretty good vision of what price I’ll pay.
Soon enough I find a nightclub, a line of young people waiting to get into a place whose blinking neon sign proclaims it, DCGB’s.
I look over the line; mostly men, a lot of them with women in tow. No single women. So I step up to the beefy doorman in front of the entrance. I take off my hat and toss it away, shaking my blonde hair lose around my shoulders. I’m ready to say, Senator Caine, knowing the power his name carries in town. But I don’t have to say a thing. My face does the asking, my body does the talking.
It’s all part of the mission, I tell myself.
Once inside, I’m surrounded by flashing lights and loud music, a crowd so dense I would almost think they’d been imprisoned here but for their swaying hips, tight dresses, stylish hairstyles, everybody smiling and dancing.
If this is an American gulag, I tell myself, it might just be time to turn myself in.
“Martini,” somebody says behind me. I turn to see a handsome young man, his black hair short and clean, even his black suit seeming to hang relaxed on his young and powerful frame.
“Pardon me?”
He repeats, “Martini,” then adds, “what do you say?”
I look around, suddenly feeling like the only person in the room without a drink. Knowing it will never compete in potency with the vodka of my own home town, I nod and shrug and smile and offer up a few more unnecessary indications of my acceptance.
Reading my awkwardness, he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.” He turns to the bar, gesturing with the bartender, who nods his understanding.