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

by Kiera Zane

  I can’t be weak. I have a job and a mission and the one is reliant upon the other. My life is at stake, which is incentive enough for a warm shower; not to mention the filth and degradation that I feel all around me, inside and out, that even a hundred showers won’t wash away.

  The water is hot against my skin; rejuvenating, pushing my blood through my veins with greater eagerness, restoring my vision and hearing to some kind of functionality. I wash every crevice, letting the soapy film cling to my aching body. relishing the blanket of hot water wrapped around my back and legs and arms and breasts.

  I dress and get to the office, only a minute or two late.

  But I’m not surprised to hear Jon call my name. Vivian gives me a sympathetic look, as if I am about to be sent to the gulag. Myron snickers, his smile only making the same grim assertion.

  Jon stands up behind his desk and gestures with an open hand to one of the two leather easy chairs facing him. I sit, the burgundy leather creaking beneath me.

  “You look well this morning,” he says. I know what he means, but given the strange occurrences in my room in the dead of the night, I feel it’s best to let him continue, make himself clearer and maybe make the events of the evening clearer, too. He adds, “I’m glad to see you can still bounce back from such a night. Lexy, I really do want you to be more careful. Too much drinking and partying; not only is it bad for your health, but it can leave a young woman vulnerable to... all sorts of unpleasant circumstances.”

  I feel my blood run cold. My growing admiration and respect for Jon is chilled by the ugly realization that the man who took me last night may well be sitting right in front of me now.

  I didn’t believe it before, because I didn’t want to believe it.

  I say, “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. And no wonder.”

  He turns his head, squinting in his confusion. “How do you mean?”

  “You said it would catch up with me, and it sure did. Guess you decided if somebody was going to deliver my comeuppance, it may as well be you.”

  He shakes his head now, his confusion seeming to give way to slow realization just as his nurturing tone recedes in favor of the quick snap of anger and defensiveness. “Lexy, I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about, but I put you to bed and that’s where I left you, completely untouched. If we had been in a relationship, well, I know you’re young, but I wouldn’t have just left you there.”

  “What does that mean?” I challenge. I’m angry at him.

  “It means that you wouldn’t be out in the middle of the night staggering home completely drunk. I wouldn’t allow it.” He was clearly angry, but so was I.

  I always have to push the envelope of reason. “You wouldn’t allow it!” I keep my voice steady. American men are arrogant; no, Jon Caine is an arrogant idiot. I get up to leave. I’m done with this conversation.

  “Sit down.” Jon’s voice is as quiet as my own, but the tone is unmistakable. If I make a move towards the door, there will be consequences. I’m not sure what the consequences will be, but they will be something. I can’t afford to lose this job.

  I sit on this overstuffed chair, and it’s a good thing that I am sitting, because my newly nervous knees feel like they would have buckled. Now the confusion is mine, and my own anger gives way to utter embarrassment and shame.

  Jon asks me, “You didn’t go back out after I left you to bring some strange man to bed?” He has brought his voice back under control.

  “No, I, of course not...” Now my shame becomes horror.

  Jon says, “You’re saying somebody crept into your room and raped you last night?” His anger survives his new compassion, but I get the feeling the anger is more protective of me than directed at me. What was with this man? He plays rescuer last night, takes me home and doesn’t take advantage of me. Only to pull me in his office to lecture me about the pitfalls of leading a fast, loose lifestyle. Well, he is my boss, but where does he get off?

  My memories are cloudy, my mouth suddenly dry. I know why he’s talking this way, and the truth seems inescapable; the ugly facts of what and most probably whom.

  The word shalava comes to me. The voice is not KomDiv Sobchak. It is Dragunov, I think it is, but I’m too fuzzy to be sure. One thing I do know is that Vlad was right; I didn’t know what men were capable of. No such innocence remains now after training.

  It also validates Jon’s lecture, but I can’t tell Jon about Dragunov or my entire cover will be blown. I can only shake my head and say, “No, I ... I guess it was a dream, seemed so real.” I trail off.

  Jon had been right about that lifestyle catching up with me, and now he’s right about something else; I really am becoming quite a good liar. I hear Jon sigh, and I relax a little. “You need to be more careful. This is a wild city, and not everything is as nice as it seems. Drinking to excess is not only unbecoming; it is downright dangerous. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t come along.”

  “I have been drunk many nights.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. Jon’s expression darkens and he regards me silently. I feel like a child caught doing something wrong.

  Finally he breaks the silence. “I don’t think the fact that you’ve been drunk on many occasions is something to brag about.”

  Silence. More silence. Jon doesn’t know that silence is something I can do all day and all night long. I lived months in complete silence; he is a lightweight in this department. I am nagged by the idea that he thinks he can boss me around and lecture to me like I’m a child.

  It feels like we’ve been sitting here staring at each other for a long time. My mind begins to wander; I think about where I used to play when I was young, the feeling of the breeze on my face – cold, crisp . . . clean. I can almost smell Mamma’s biscuits, hear Papa’s grumbling and see that secret smile he reserved only for me.

  I so want to go home. I am so alone here. My gaze lowers in spite of my stoic façade. I want to go back to my home in Omsk. I feel moisture on my cheek and snap up looking at Jon horrified. He sees the tears and silently hands me a box of tissues. He probably thinks I’m shamed by my behavior, and in a way I am. My parents would be horrified with what I have become. We are simple, hardworking Russians; our family has been in Siberia for as long as I can remember. I can never return to that life; I am truly dead to them. That’s why I drink; I have nothing else.

  I grasp this American life, because it’s all I have. And, I don’t really have that either. At any moment, my handlers can end my existence. With a simple swipe of the pen, KomDiv Sobchak can send out the KGB dogs to slaughter me and not just me. They will end my family – Mamma, Papa, Vlad, Gregory, even distant cousins if they can find them.

  “I don’t mean to make you cry, Lexy. I just want you to think about what you’re doing. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Jon is now sitting next to me. When did he move? I must do a better job of keeping up with the external world. People just move around and suddenly they’re right next to you. I look up into his eyes.

  “You care about me?” It is a stupid question from the depths of my desperation. Is there anybody left who cares about me? I swallow my sob and retreat into silence. I am still looking at him, and see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

  “Yes, of course.” He takes my hands in his. “I want you to promise me that you will back off on the binge drinking until all hours of the night. I know you’re young, but you have to exercise some sort of sense. Promise me?”

  In this moment, I would promise him anything. He cares about me; somebody cares about me again. There is a connection between us. I feel it, and I know he feels it too. It’s probably sexual; everything between men and women has sexual undertones, but there’s also something else – an answer, maybe, to my desperate loneliness. “Yes, I promise.”

  “Good.” He lets my hand go and the connection is cut, but I can still feel it. His hands are warm, loving and gentle. I loved feeling his hands, and I reach
out and touch his hand again. He doesn’t move them. He is still . . . waiting.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He covers my tentative hand with his own as if claiming me. Our gaze is locked. I want him to kiss me, and he wants to kiss me. I know it. Or I am more desperate than I think. He licks his lips, and I lick mine in return. Yes, he wants to kiss me. I am back with Ivanna – silent communication between two distressed people, well, one distraught person. I need that contact if only to wash away last night. I am not only Shalava. I am not only a dirty slut, drunk and spy for Mother Russia. I am a person in my own right.

  “Go back to work.” Jon whispers releasing my hands. “I will talk with you later, Lexy. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” My voice sounds meek in my ears; I hear it; I feel it.

  Tears. I need to escape this office, this moment in time when so much passed between us. He is the man in my vision; the far away man who rescues me from the monsters. I have known him all my life, incarnated in difference forms but always with those beautiful, caring green eyes. My visions led me to America, to him – and my life will never be the same again. I must figure out a way to get away from Mother Russia. I must save my family, and I have no idea how I’m going to do any of that.

  ***

  I spend the rest of the morning working hard on the variety of busybody work that newly hired people get stuck with. I don’t want to reflect too much on what happened last night or the somewhat embarrassing lecture this morning. All I wanted to do was go out and have some fun, blow off some steam as the Americans are always saying. Now, I’ve not only been taken home by my boss, but raped by my handler while I was in an intoxicated state, a state that I get lectured about the next morning by my boss who happens to be the man I dreamed of living the rest of my life with.

  I get up to go for another cup of coffee. Caffeine and aspirin is the elixir of life for a nighttime party girl. The fact that I’m Russian and can’t drink doesn’t escape me. I have never been able to hold my liquor – vodka which is supposed to be running in my veins knocks me out and turns me into a near comatose wreck with a huge hangover the next day. All the water in the world does little to offset that fact.

  “Would you like to go to lunch?” I hear Jon’s voice before I see him. Where did he come from so suddenly? His presence seems to suck the surrounding sounds away. It’s as if it is just Jon and me suddenly. I jump, regain my composure and turn towards him. His eyes are so pretty. They’re supposed to be the windows to your soul, right? Who said that – Shakespeare, DaVinci? Oh, who cares. His eyes and his gaze are so soft . . . inviting. Sobchak never said it would be like this. I’ve only been here a few months, and already I have such strong feelings for this man that every time he comes near me, I quiver. Nobody at the KGB prepared me for this.

  “I’d love to. Should I bring my steno pad to take notes?” Good. Keep him guessing about my feelings. Don’t appear too forward. Find out who said that quote. It will keep your mind off his lips and other body parts.

  “Of course.” He replies with enthusiasm. “I believe you need to get a handle on the duties as my personal assistant.”

  I wonder if it includes making out. Squelch that thought. I am supposed to seduce you, though. That will be fun. “What time is convenient?” I stare at his lips crushing the desire to lick my lips. His lips look so kissable. “1:00?”

  “That would be perfect.” He turns and walks back towards his office. I am aware of other people around me then, curiosity in their raised eyebrows and soft whispers. I can care less what you think of me. I have a mission to finish, and I won’t be put to death because you people think I act unseemly. Wow! These sharks had already gotten to me. Calm down. I don’t want to give my anger away to them. Remember, Lexy, you have had much worse in the Kremlin Spy Academy -- my nickname for the training school. I look at the office staff silently from the kitchen area. After Sobchak, you may think you are sharks, but you are rybka, small fish in a very large ocean.

  Chapter Six: Closer

  "The doctrine of the immortality of the soul has more threat than comfort."-- Mason Cooley

  September 1963

  “Lunch?” I smile when I hear his voice looking up from my desk. We have gotten much closer since that night when I was drunk and he brought me home. I look up at him smiling from my desk which is piled high with reports to type, notes and steno pads. Another typical day in the office. I go to lunch with Jon, and when I come back the sharks are circling. So far, I’ve been lucky; they haven’t found anything out about me that will give them the ammunition they need to take me out. Thank you, Mother Russia for your excellent if brutal training.

  “Of course, I was waiting for you to invite me.” My voice is soft; I have seldom raised my voice since coming to America. On the rare occasion when my temper has gotten the best of my sanity, I have screamed, snarled and sniped at the target of my anger. It has never ended well. I smile up at him batting my eyelashes. The State and my mother gave me wavy blonde hair, flirty long lashes and with the right amount of mascara I’ve enhanced them even more. My lipstick is kissably flawless, red hot and all the rage for the 1960s, and my dress just clingy enough to be sexy without appearing slutty. I finish the look with three inch heels, black patent leather . . . shiny.

  I know the sharks are watching, frowning – biding their time to strike. Vivian, who put me “in my place” on my first day is there almost sneering, her face drawn up under the black, horn-rimmed glasses. She hates me. I don’t care. Jon is smiling, and I might get enough information that I can supplement with material from the Free Library to ward off my real enemy – Dragunov. Fortunately for me, Dragunov and my country seem incapable of realizing that you can find almost anything about anything in American libraries. Add a bit of sauce from Jon’s conversations – just enough for authenticity and you’ve got state secrets to share.

  The better I get to know Jon, the stronger my feelings, the less Mother Russia gets from me of use. It’s a dangerous game, a tightrope that I walk, but I have found the man in my visions, my dream man . . . and I won’t betray him. I won’t; I can’t. I know my decision probably means my eventual demise in some dark, dank gulag, but I don’t have it in me to hurt him. He is the first man save my father who has ever been nice to me. The village boys were nice, but they wanted sex. Sobchak and Dragunov were never nice, and then there was Jon. Tall, strong, Fibonacci beautiful.

  “You’re daydreaming again.” That’s what he calls it, and as always, in that tolerant almost loving tone he uses. He is accustomed now to my mind wandering away. “What do you think about when you go away like that?”

  I so wish I could tell you, Jon. My heart aches that I must lie to you. But, you have no idea the lengths I go to protect you. “Just dreaming about home, fields of snow covered crops in winter, the crisp air on my face. Little things I remember, like Mamma soup, her biscuits that were so delicious when hot, my Papa – “ I stop. I might have gone to far, revealed too much. I look at him again, and I see the smile on his face.

  “We should visit your family someday.” I wish I could, but they are dead to me.

  “We can’t. They’re all dead.” I look back at the work on my desk. My heart hurts. I want to cry. I will never see them again. I shuffle some papers to take my mind off of my family. “What time, Jon?”

  “What time for what?” I hear the confusion in his tone. He wants to ask me what happened to them. I can’t tell him they’re being held hostage in Russia. I must make up another lie. Lies and more lies. Nobody told me I would feel this way about the man I was lying to everyday, who trusted me and took me into his confidence. It was almost too much, and I wanted to escape. Lies to Jon; lies to Dragunov; lies to my family. Everything is just dust, dirt and lies.

  “Lunch.” I can’t say anymore lest the crack in my voice give me away. He can’t hear the pain I feel; it will make him want to probe. I can’t get him suspicious. I must get myself together.

  “Oh, right. One-ish like u
sual?” I know you are concerned about me. I shouldn’t have said they were dead; that was wrong. I need to correct that. You caught me off guard with your humanity. I am not used to kindness.

  “That’s fine.” I nod continuing to push the papers around. I grab my steno book and read the notes I’ve recorded. Professionalism. Ignore him. If you look at him, you will dissolve, and you can’t dissolve. Remember your training. Remember Sobchak.

  ***

  “Steak and baked potato, fixing on the side. Can I have a baked potato with my steak. Loaded garlic potatoes with my steak. Steak, steak, steak.” I tease him, “don’t you know anything else besides steak and potatoes?” Laughing with him is so nice; it is a wonderful connection between us. I can forget my real life for a while and relax.

  “Well, it’s better than that bird food you eat all the time. Don’t you ever eat anything of substance?” It’s true. I do eat light, but I have to. I can’t turn into a full figured Russian woman on him. Most unattractive.

  “It is healthy.” My lips curl upwards and I take a bite from a cucumber slice. In reality, I don’t care about healthy or unhealthy actually. I could be dead at any moment, so who cares if my diet is hale and hearty.. My real reason is that I must stay small, lithe and graceful. Attractiveness is another weapon I possess. Yes, I am crazy for potatoes; I would love a steak, a big dessert preferably all chocolate and a fattening side dish to go with the potato. But, I just can’t afford to balloon up. So, I sit here famished, eating bird food and smiling. .

  “My family is not dead.” I let the statement drop into the middle of our lunch, and Jon gets quiet – his gaze steady and his look expectant. “We are estranged, that’s all. They were heartbroken that I didn’t marry a hometown boy.” That was actually true, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that you tell the truth whenever you can, because you can’t lie about everything and keep it straight in your head.