by Kiera Zane
“I see.” He waits again expectant.
“When I elected to come to Washington, they felt I had dishonored them. I would destroy myself. I was never able to get them to believe otherwise.” I went back to picking at the salad more to cover my nervousness than anything. Will you accept my explanation or will you demand clarification.
“Maybe, one day, we’ll be able to meet so that they know you are doing well. I think most parents just want their kids to do well in life.”
You don’t have my parents – one is a psychotic rapist who will take advantage of any opportunity and another a despot abuser of women and children. My parents are Mother Russia who would kill me in an instant with no more thought about it than cutting off a toenail.
“Yeah, I guess.” I trail off not wanting to stay on this subject for too long. Sobchak’s image is once again at the forefront of my mind – nasty, smelly, leering old man who gets his jollies raping children. Would Jon want to meet my parents if he knew they held my real family hostage threatening to kill them if I deviate from the plan to betray him and all that he stands for?
Jon smiles at me trying to reassure me that most parents aren’t that bad. I smile back, but I know he sees the sadness in my eyes, the look of a defeated person staring back at him. “You like your bird food?” I know what he’s doing; putting some distance between us and an obviously painful subject. I go along with it, because I want the subject to change as well.
I look across the restaurant seeing a man sitting near the window sipping what I assume is coffee. He is looking at me, and he’s not Dragunov. He nods slightly in my direction taking another sip from his cup. It is a signal – I am watching you. If anything could reinforce my feelings of being threatened at all times, his slight nod is enough. I look back at my salad, my appetite gone. Every part of my life is monitored. I act free, but I will never be free. I look up again, just in time to realize that Jon is watching me.
What is he thinking; he looks like he wants to ask me a question. “What?” I smile at him, a smile I don’t feel.
“I wonder sometimes what you’re really thinking. You can go from being laughing, girlish and happy to a woman who seems a lot older than her years, haunted by a specter I can’t quite fathom. Sometimes, you seem on the verge of tears, but you always pull back. I get the impression sometimes, that you really don’t trust anybody.” He takes another bite of his potato – butter, salt and pepper toppings that taste oh so good. I lick my lips. He’s still watching me. “Then sometimes you seem to be ready to jump my bones.”
“What?” What did that phrase mean. Jump his bones? I never learned that part of English. “I don’t understand.” My throat tightens. It is probably a phrase that all Americans know, and I don’t know it. My breathing quickens. I see the question in his eyes. Why don’t I know this phrase?
He chuckles. “You really are from the Midwest. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘jump my bones’??”
It is a regional and not a universally American idiom. “I am from the Midwest, yes.” I giggle with relief. I play with the ends of my blonde hair, pushing it back behind my ears and over my shoulder. Flirting, distraction, deception. I lean in towards him. “What does it mean?”
After a pause where I begin to think he won’t share the explanation with me, he leans close and whispers, “It means make love to me.”
Oh, that phrase I know and understand. Having sex. Making out. Make love not war. Lust after your body. Getting a blow job. Doing the nasty. Having sex. “I see.”
“That’s all you have say?”
Obviously, I need to say something else although what escapes me. I run through all the American phrases I learned that were comparable to jumping his bones for a second time looking for something suitable. “Well, sometimes I do want to have sex with you. You are a very attractive man.”
He sits back in his chair, an amused look on his face, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Well, you are nothing if not honest.
Perhaps I said too much. Wrong phrase, maybe? I bite into a tomato. I really am beginning to hate salad. “Did I say the wrong thing?”
“No, I’m just not used to woman being so forward, so honest.”
“I like forward honesty; it cuts out misunderstandings. We are having a conversation about doing the nasty, correct? You want to get a blow job, perhaps?” I watch him choke on the water he’s just swallowed, his face turning an odd shade of pink. I have obviously said too much, but how do I walk it back. “I’m sorry I was just joking.” Americans always chalk a faux pas up to joking.
He starts laughing so hard that he holds his side chortling, tears running down his face. I start laughing, too. My laughter is more to blend in with the situation than a feeling of humor on my part. I have no damned idea what was wrong with what I said, but I learned that if I found myself in a situation like this, to do as the Romans do in Rome. Go with the flow, I believe it is called. My understanding of American men is that they always want to get blow jobs. But, I believe you didn’t expect me to say that right out, did you? Better to make it a joke that to have him think I have lost my mind, inhibition and my sense of propriety.
“You are amazing,” he says finally regaining his composure. “I never would have suspected that you would say something like that.”
“Well, you started it with that bone jumping joke. I just figured I would continue the joke.” Bat your lashes, look innocent girl. Smile sweetly. Does he have an erection? He sure looks hard. Nah, my imagination.
“Okay, I think we’d better leave it there for now.” I watch as he covers his lap with his napkin. He does have an erection.
We finish lunch and start back towards the office, What’s so nice about our relationship is that we can joke around and be friends I think the basis of any good, long-term relationship is the ability to be good friends, and the better I get to know Jon, the more I love him. I don’t tell him that, yet. I am just happy to have him as a friend.
I shouldn’t use the word long-term either. But I can hope. I don’t believe in God, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I did. It would help me delude myself into believing that I stand a chance to become Jon’s lover, confidant and lifelong friend.
In reality, I know that is impossible and that my days are numbered.
***
Dragunov is increasingly impatient with me and dissatisfied with the tidbits I keep tossing him, so I must come up with a big lie to tell him that will satisfy him. What would make him happy?
“I think he may have something to do with organized crime,” I say, intimating that Jon is in league with the mafia even though my true suspicion is that he’s trying to figure out how to get them out of the country and out of the government. Its better that Dragunov think Senator Caine might be duplicitous, because that’s something we could use against him, to blackmail or otherwise control him or even destroy him if necessary.
So this keeps Dragunov hopeful despite the continuous lack of hard information on him from me.
“Our time is running out, Aleksandra,” he says to me one during one late-night meeting in my apartment. “And our patience.”
I know he means his patience and Sobchak’s. And I know what that means for me and for Dragunov as well.
Death.
“I’m getting closer, you have to admit,” I say. “If we can tie Caine up with these mobsters, we can make him do whatever we want. We’ll have him right in our back pockets.”
Dragunov steps toward me slowly, menacing, glaring at me. “So you keep saying. But until we have hard evidence, we have nothing. You have nothing.”
“You’ll have it, Dragunov, in due time. You can’t rush these things.”
“Now is the time when results are due, you fool! There are other factors at play which are contingent upon you doing what you were sent to do. They are not for you to know, but they cannot wait for your personal time table.”
What other factors are at play?
He stares at me, scowling,
silence wrapped around him like a burial shroud. Finally, he lights a cigarette, and blows the cloud of smoke into my face. It burns my eyes, the inside of my nostrils, my throat quickly dry and scratched.
“You know what will happen to you, to your family if you fail. Your father will not die well.”
I know his mind.
I will kill you one day. Soon, my dear brother. “I am going to leave to go back to work on completing my mission if that’s okay with you..”
He stares at me with that wan expression, sickly countenance – I hate you more than I hate Sobchak. You are the product of his depravity, and you spread it over me like a cancer to choke out my life and leave me desolate, violated and alone. Don’t you think I know what you are? Sobchak is driven by his decadent desires, but I think you are motivated by anger and cold rage that has choked your soul out of existence. You are a shell of a man; you have not one redeeming quality. I look at you and all I see is evil, coiled and waiting to spring. I look at you and all I see is a man I will one day kill.
“I need you to recognize the seriousness of our mission.” Dragunov pulled at his tie. “This is not something we can play around with.
You think I’m playing? Well, yes I am playing a very dangerous game. But, I intend to win it, and not lose my cool. I must leave you before do what I want -- wrap my hands around your scrawny little neck, before I take that stupid, skinny tie you wear flattened on your stark white shirt, under the slightly frayed, always dark suit jacket and use it as a garrote to strangle the life out of you. It would be messy, I know, and likely traceable – hemorrhaging in the eyes a dead giveaway that you met an untimely end But it would be worth it rather than continuing to listen to your stupid threats and needless intimidation.
“I do recognize the dangers of messing up. I know that failure is not an option: My lips curl, my eyes open wider. Yes, I feign innocence and use all the other techniques I learned. I will even flirt with you if that’s what it takes to make you believe me for now. After the KGB training, there isn’t much I won’t do, even keep quiet about how you raped me in my sleep, how you stuffed your nasty penis down my throat, how you jumped on top of me like the humping chimpanzee that you are, thrusting your hard, stiff penis in and out until you gained release.
“I really do understand you, Dmitry.” Leaning forward, I can almost feel your breath on my cheek. The smell of you disgusts me; my stomach turns, but I do it anyway.
Don’t you think I know what my life is worth if I fail at this? Don’t you think I understand with brutal, unflinching clarity, that the Zolotov family from Siberia will be no more – that the KGB will hunt down and kill anybody remotely related to me? I don’t understand why you feel the need to punctuate my terror with constant reminders of my vulnerability. You are an evil, frightened little worm, and I could crush you beneath my three inch, staccato heels if I wanted to.
“I just want you to be very clear about things. I know that your family is small, but they are still your family. And you know what will happen to them if you fail.”
You have no regard for my family save beating me over the head with their impending demise. You don’t care about them; you don’t care about me. Why do you pretend to, when we both know you will strike without mercy, report back to Sobchak that I have failed and order the execution of those I hold dear. You don’t know about anybody else except my immediate family. Mother Russia isn’t as omniscient as she thinks. My other relatives have long fled, when they first heard I was going to be a spy. You must think me an idiot.
“Dmitry, I know we are in a real spot if we don’t get this accomplished. We must work together as a team and trust each other or we will both fail. And we both know what that means.” I smile at him, my stomach churning. Hopefully, you won’t see the disgust behind my gaze, or my smile that is the smile of your eventual demise. I will really smile when I kill you, Dragunov.
“Very well.” He stands to leave my apartment. “I think this is going to work out, and we will both bring honor to our families and to Mother Russia.”
I stand almost at attention. Serious. Straight face. “To Mother Russia.” I don’t crack a smile, and I carefully school my tone so there is no hint of sarcasm to give me away. I hate Mother Russia and all she stands for.
Dragunov looks at me for a moment before responding, “To Mother Russia and the success of our mission.” I watch him turn and leave my apartment, pulling on his overcoat and placing his black Fedora on his head as he walks out.
One day. One day I will repay both you and Mother Russia for all your kindness.
***
I’m getting to know Jon Caine’s mind as well. He’s authoritative with his staff, but never abusive. I see why Vivian puts her hand to her chest every time she sees him or talks about him. His strength makes him someone to respect, but his fairness and kindness make him someone to admire; while his sheer charisma and handsomeness make him someone to desire.
He’s funny but never inspired with the need to impress. He’s charming in an easy-going way. But there is a power simmering underneath, like lava always threatening to burst up through the surface, scalding and dangerous.
Trying to manipulate this man isn’t easy.
And it’s very dangerous.
I know the lobbyists behind the waste disposal contracts are associated with organized crime. Everybody knows. Jon himself once said, “Damn gangsters are gonna take over Washington if we don’t keep ‘em trapped out there in the swamps.”
“Louisiana?”
“New Jersey. I hate the idea of them doing business at all, but I think there’s a way to...” He trails off, and then smiles. “Anyway, that’s politics.”
“You don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s for your own protection, Lexy.”
“But I’m your personal assistant and, well, your friend... I hope.”
He smiles, reaching out to touch my chin, the gentle caress of his fingertips sending ripples of excited pleasure down my neck to my quickening heart.
But he doesn’t crack.
And I don’t give up. I let the days pass, keeping an eye on Jon and on the various members of his staff. And they seem to be keeping an eye on me. One day I’m walking down the hall and Dan Oglvy steps out of a room right in front of me. I stop, catching my breath.
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Oglvy -- ” But he just glares at me, not saying a word. “I ... I was just on my way to get some copies made for the senator.”
Again, not a word. His unmoving face wasn’t lacking in emotion; he seems to be choking back his anger, all his energy coiled up and ready to spring out at me. I half-expect his hands to jut up and grab my throat without warning.
Does he know? I wonder. Why doesn’t he turn me in? Maybe he only suspects. Is he waiting for me to slip up, giving me enough rope to hang myself? Maybe there’s some personal tension, like I have with Myron (and like everybody has with Myron)?
I can only stand speculating as Dan blocks the hallway, his broad, brawny physique an impassible obstacle.
“Lexy,” Jon calls as he comes down the hallway behind Dan, “you have those copies?”
I nod, then glance at Dan, who slowly considers. He looks at me, at the papers in my hands, then slowly steps back into the little office he slid out of to block me in the first place.
Jon says, “You okay, Dan?”
Dan fades into the office as I step up to Jon, lifting the papers to him. “Here are those waste management reports, three copies each.”
Jon looks at Dan, seeming to mull over his Chief of Staff’s odd behavior. He says, “Thanks, Lexy,” as he takes the papers, his mind on Dan’s quiet tension as he turns and heads back toward his office.
I follow him.
I had thought to make a copy of the waste management report for myself, to turn over to Dragunov, but I know that’s too risky. If a stashed copy were found anywhere after I’d been sent to make the copies, I’d be caught red-handed.
So I sit quietly i
n the bullpen while Senator Caine takes a meeting with Dan and Myron, each armed with a copy of the report.
I’m not allowed into the meeting, but my hope is to swipe Senator Caine’s copy of the report as soon as I can.
A call comes in and, with little else to do, I answer it. I don’t recognize the voice on the other end of the phone, but he speaks in a thick, Italian/American accent, with blunted consonants and mumbled turns of phrase.
“Who’s d’is?”
“I’m Aleksandra Tomanek, the senator’s personal assistant.”
After a brief pause, the man says, “Ten o’clock, tell him to come alone.” After a click, a buzz tells me the call is over. I hang up and look around the room, everyone going about their business without a clue as to what has just happened. Even I’m not sure, and I’m the one who took the call.
After Jon’s meeting, I invite myself into his office to give him the message. I have to be delicate here. I’m worried for Jon’s safety, but I know that whatever is going on, there is certain to be a lot more to it than I realize. I’ll have to go along with things and be able to strategize on the spot, based on whatever the newest information is, if any.
And I still want that report.
Because I still have my mission, I am less and less enthused about it but I still need to get that report to Dragunov. It is something he won’t be interested in; state secrets are juicer items, but it will prove once again that I am on the job. I’m starting to really like Senator Jon Caine, and I don’t want to see him in the pocket of the KGB. But I’m not convinced he’s doing anything in the wrong that would put him there. Of course I can’t tell them that, or he and I may both wind up dead. So I have to protect Jon from himself, from his enemies, from my enemies and from me.
I decide to move forward cautiously and maximize whatever opportunities arise, on whichever side of the fence they happen to spring up.
I say, “You had a phone call during the meeting, they left a message.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say; just ten o’clock, and that you should come alone.” Jon sits back, his face going pale. I can tell it isn’t good news. “Jon, what’s happening here? I know you want to protect me, but as your assistant isn’t it my job to try to protect you?”