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

by Kiera Zane

  It’s a false flag strategy, creating an imagined enemy, one used by some of history’s less-than-glorious figures. But I have to admire the cunning of it, the sheer politic of it. There is more to Senator Jonathan Caine than some Pollyanna Boy Scout, no question.

  I like that.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our own Attorney General Robert Kennedy himself is positioned to spearhead the fight against organized crime in government, in private business, in all facets of modern American life. We all can and must follow in that grand example. Nothing less than the very existence of the United States as a functioning democracy is at stake!”

  The floor breaks out in applause; senators from both sides of the aisle nod and clap, many of them standing up. I’m not obliged to by custom and that is probably just as well.

  I stand for him later, in private.

  One person I can stand less and less is Dragunov. He’s becoming more impatient, champing at the bit to take me out once and for all. I know he harbors anger and frustration that I cheated him out of assaulting me in his offices. But he was too stupid and too fearful. He was easy to manipulate because he wasn’t so invested in what would happen between us one way or the other.

  But now his life depends on it. This is no mere tryst in some Moscow office back room. We’re not in training anymore.

  But he knows, because his own spies are trailing me and so is he, that I’m spending a lot more time with Jon, getting more and more ensconced in his bosom, and he in mine.

  The only question will be if there is anything to Jon that they feel they can still use. They know from his dealings with the mafia that he is surely capable of dramatic and dangerous courses of action, and that he can become a valuable tool to them at any time.

  This, I reason, is why I’m still alive to be meeting with Dragunov in the main room of Poor Richards, a pub down the street from my apartment.

  I don’t like to meet him in public, lest I bump into Jon or anyone from his staff or even someone from the press with a sharp eye for a senator’s personal assistant and a possibly known international criminal. But it’s too dangerous for me to meet Dragunov in private now.

  He looks around as he enters. I’m already there, watching him come in. Alone. I don’t recognize anyone as KGB, even though I’ve been clocking more and more strange faces to see if any of them turn up recurrently. First time I see Maggie or Robert or anyone from that Connecticut hotel, I’ll know they’re ghosting me.

  Dragunov sits down at the other side of the table. “Lexy,” he says, sarcastically, making me regret I’d chosen it as my official cover name.

  “Dmitry,” I respond. “How’s Pop?”

  “He’s worried about you. We all are. We think, maybe, it’s time for you to come home, back to... Massachusetts.”

  I feel the little smile crawling across my face. The waitress comes up and I order a Budweiser. “And my brother will have a white Russian,” I say with a coy smile to his humorless snarl as she walks away. “Relax, brother, my treat.”

  “You seem quite at home here in Washington.”

  I lean forward. “And just you know how at home I am, brother. I don’t think Pop wants me to come home at all. I think he knows how well I’m... getting along. I think maybe he’s more interested in you coming home; for good, maybe.”

  “You little pig, I could drop one fork and you’d be dead in an instant!”

  A silent tension passes as the waitress approaches, setting down our drinks. I hand her a ten dollar bill. Without my gaze leaving Dragunov’s, I say, “Keep the change.”

  “Oh, wow,” the waitress says, “thanks, so much!”

  “Hey, we’re all in this together.” Now my voice joins my focus, straight at Dragunov, hitting him square in the face. “Isn’t that right, brother?” I hate him so much, and I need him to stay alive. What am I going to do? I can no longer fool myself. I can no more betray Jon than I can kill my own father. But I know that if I don’t betray him, my family, my father will surely die. All I can do is act weak with Dragunov. Sun Tzu comes to mind when dealing with him:

  “Lexy?”

  I recognize the voice immediately.

  Jon.

  I look down, but unfortunately no hole opens up beneath my chair to pull me away from this terrible situation. Instead I’m left to deal with it.

  Crap!

  “Jon,” I say, stammering slightly. “This is my brother, Dmitry.”

  “Dmitry,” Jon says, a subtle awkwardness to his usual smooth charm, as if he senses my discomfort. He knows something isn’t right. “I thought you said your brothers were Vick and Craig.”

  “Um, Greg, actually,” I say. “We took Dmitry in as a young boy and raised him as part of the family. I’m sure I mentioned him to you.” I give Jon a look that says, I call him brother but I don’t really feel that way about him. Now you gotta cover for me!

  Jon reads me perfectly. I almost feel guilty about my ability to manipulate people now.

  Almost.

  Jon extends his hand and a smile. “Dmitry. I’m Jon Caine.”

  Dmitry extends his hand, forcing the worst fake smile I’ve ever seen. “Mister Caine.”

  “Mister -- ? That’s my father’s name. Call me Jon. Lexy did tell me all about you, I’m sorry it slipped my mind. See you made it off the farm as well; welcome to the capital, Dmitry.”

  Dragunov nods, eyes glaring at me and then at Jon. I know in a flash Dragunov thinks I’ve set him up, sand-bagged him, and brought Jon to either ID him or some other complicated notion. I almost regret not doing that, but this is in fact an unfortunate coincidence, one I hope Jon will explain when I ask what he’s doing here.

  “To be honest, Lexy, I’d have to say... I was following you.” A hot wave rushes through me, skin tingling. “I guess you might say I was a little jealous, wanted to see who you were spiriting away to have lunch with.” He turns to Dragunov. “Your sister is a big part of the team, very important to me.”

  Dragunov nods. “So I have come to understand,” he says in his Boston accent that once sounded so convincing but is beginning to sound more and more like a bad impression of President Kennedy.

  But the looks he’s shooting me and Jon were too real for Jon to miss them. He clearly notices the hostile vibe and backs away, making a strategic step that is best for all three of us. There could be any number of reasons for this, and escalating the tension is no way to defuse it. I know that and so do the two men on either side of me, both figuratively and literally.

  “Y’know, I’ll let you guys enjoy your drink,” Jon says, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  I stand up. “Actually, we’re about done here, aren’t we, Dmitry?”

  Dmitry glares at me, and then back at Jon. “There were some things I wanted to go over with you, about Pop, and -- ”

  “You’re Pop’s favorite,” I say, knowing Dragunov reads my subtext. “You deal with him.”

  I walk out and Jon follows, turning to offer Dragunov a pleasant, “Nice to have finally met you, Dmitry.”

  Dmitry just nods from his table as we step out into the street.

  Jon says, “Wow, that’s your adopted brother? He seems quite a bit older than you.” Before I try to explain, he adds, “No wonder he’s so protective.”

  “Protective?”

  “Sure. You saw the way he was glaring at us. Now wonder you’re scared of him.”

  “I am not!” I say, a little too quickly to be convincing, even to myself.

  Jon looks at me with a tilt of his head. “Really? I wouldn’t want him as my older brother. He obviously doesn’t approve. Well, older brothers never do, right?”

  My eye brows arch casually over my eyes, something called hooding that I try never to do because it’s a clear sign of a lie.

  “No, right,” I lie. “He hates all my boyfriends.”

  After an odd moment, Jon asks, “How many have there been?”

  I swat him playfully on the shoulder. “None that I can remembe
r now.”

  He smiles and we kiss, then cross the street hand-in-hand while Dragunov’s hateful stare burns holes into the backs of our heads.

  Chapter Eight: I Love You?

  "Nothing inspires forgiveness quite like revenge." – Scott Adams

  I’m carrying an armful of photocopies across the bullpen when Jon says, “Lexy, drop what you’re doing and come with me.”

  Taking the time to set the photocopies down on Deloris’ desk, I turn to Jon. “What’s up?”

  “No time, Tige’s waiting in the limo.”

  Moments later we are in the back of the limo, Tige looking at me through the rearview mirror. He smiles, I’m not sure why.

  And that’s all I’m not sure about.

  “What is all this, Jon? Where are we going?”

  “It is a little surprise, I think you’ve earned it.” I like

  We cruise down the streets, stately statues and monuments rising up near and far, as though the city were a garden of stone.

  One building, iconic even in this museum of icons, stands out to my left, large as we turn the corner and drive slowly up to it.

  The White House.

  My stomach rolls under my nervous lungs, air suddenly hard to extract. I look at Jon, who wears a pleasant smile. My instinct is to be afraid, that I’ve been discovered and now I’m being taken before the King himself to be dispatched at his pleasure.

  But everything else in my body tells me otherwise; my reasoning brain knows that if Jon thought I was a Soviet spy, he’d hardly risk his own career bringing me into the White House, much less would he risk the security of the entire nation.

  After passing through the various checkpoints, but in and out of the car, we step into the hallowed halls of the great building itself. Portraits of dead, great men stare down from the walls, immobile in their stately grandeur. Dark-suited men stare me down as we pass down one hall and then another, finally arriving at the reception area of the Oval Office.

  We wait.

  The door opens.

  My heart stops beating as President John Fitzgerald Kennedy comes striding out of the Oval Office, his hand outstretched to Jon, a smile on his face. “Jon, thanks for coming,” the president says with remarkable informality.

  Then he looks at me and smiles.

  Jon says, “Mr. President, my personal assistant, Aleksandra Tomanek.” I smile demurely and let the great man take my hand, gently shaking it as Jon says to me, “Aleksandra, this is -- ”

  “There’s no need for an introduction,” I say with a nervous rattle in my voice, redirecting my attention toward President Kennedy, still holding my hand. He’s even more handsome than on television, his smiling eyes so welcoming, his brown hair just slightly rumpled over his strong brown. “What an honor it is to meet you, Mr. President. I had no idea that... I’m just so humbled and honored, sir. I’m sorry if I’m blathering, which I guess I am. And listen to me, I can’t stop!”

  Jon and the President both chuckle. President Kennedy says to me, “That’s quite all right, Miss Tomanek, it’s the place, has that effect on a lot of people. I’m sorry to be rude, but will you excuse us?”

  I look at Jon, then back at the president. “Oh, of course. I’ll wait right here.”

  Jon says, “Thank you, Aleksandra,” before turning to President Kennedy. “After you, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you kindly, Senator.”

  They chuckle and head into the Oval Office, a secret service man closing the door behind them.

  I sit in one of the plush chairs in the reception area, the man behind the reception desk shooting me snotty looks and the secret servicemen staring off into some paranoid distance.

  Realizing who I am, and how close I am to the president, I have to admit perhaps they’re not so paranoid after all.

  And maybe not so bright either.

  I wonder what they’re talking about behind those closed doors. Something to do with Jon’s speech on the senate floor? Is Kennedy somehow involved with the bill Jon was using to reach out to the mafia? Could the entire plan to placate the mafia be Kennedy’s idea? Is it further proof of his family’s ties to organized crime, even as they make a public display of trying to eradicate it? Is Kennedy secretly doling out government contracts to organized crime families and using Jon to do it? Does the mafia really have the White House in their pocket, as some people fear and others suspect?

  I think about Dragunov’s words again. There are factors at play I still don’t quite understand. But I’m getting closer.

  After a few minutes, Jon steps out of the office, but the president does not appear with him. We make our way back to the car with the silence and decorum befitting the dignity of our surroundings.

  As Tige opens the limo’s rear door for me, he asks, “How was it?”

  “Amazing. Have you ever met him?”

  “Not as yet,” Tige says, “but only because I’m too busy to return any of his invites.” We share a chuckle as I climb in and he closes the door behind me.

  My feelings for Jon continue to grow over the next few weeks. I see him striding down the hall of his offices; completely in control, the man above others, the unchallenged alpha male. And I am his mate. And everyone here knows it. And nobody challenges it. The last one of the pack to try and bark me down, Myron, was dispatched with a flurry of machismo that was neither expected nor overlooked. Now I’m ready to go head-to-head with any of these Washington clowns, even Dan Oglvy, just to watch Jon take them out on my behalf, to preserve my honor.

  But I begin to wonder how long it will be before I’m the one being thrown out, or thrown in jail, or thrown into the electric chair, which I know they do here in the States, especially in cases of espionage. I begin to wonder if Jon will believe me; that I am only acting to save my family’s lives, that I’m blowing as much smoke in Dragunov’s direction as I can, protecting Jon at every turn. I haven’t given Dragunov anything real to work with, except a shot at linking Jon with organized crime, and he couldn’t even manage to do that. But it’s not my fault.

  Not that Jon has to know any of this, of course.

  But most importantly, I wonder further, will he believe me, when I confess that I love him? And then what will become of me, of him?

  Of us?

  And I have other concerns. How long can I keep Dragunov at bay? How long before Sobchak decides to reel me in, maybe cut my throat and Dragunov’s and even Jon’s in the bargain? Is there something I can give Dragunov that will satisfy him for a while? What happens after that while expires?

  Time is running out.

  Again.

  Still.

  And other pressures are mounting as well. Jon’s staff hates me. Agreeable Ralphie the intern avoids me. Even chubby writer Nathan isn’t flirting with me anymore, which I know is a bad sign. They stop answering my questions or even looking me in the eye, even though I can feel their suspicious glares from every corner of the bullpen.

  And the press is starting to wonder about me and Jon as well, even confronting us in an ambush outside his townhouse one morning. We step out into a flurry of cameras and reporters, mics hovering on their boom stands.

  “This is a Miss Leslie Tomanek, your personal assistant?”

  “Lexy Tomanek,” Jon says, correcting himself with, “Aleksandra. What are you all doing here?”

  “That’s basically what we’re all here to ask you, Senator.”

  Jon glares at them, his arm protectively stretching out in front of me. “Miss Tomanek and I were going over details of my agenda for the next several weeks. We worked late into the night.”

  One of the reporters asks me, “Is that true, Miss Tomanek?”

  “Are you calling the senator a liar?”

  “Just asking for a confirmation, Miss Tomanek.”

  “You don’t need one,” I say, my posture straightening, shoulders back. “If Senator Caine says something, you can take him at his word.”

  They mutter to each other, only then do I
realize that I am in a terrible position. Life threatening. Every word I say could earn me a death sentence.

  But it’s too late now.

  Jon says, “Look, you guys, you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. But even if you weren’t, I’ll have to remind you that I am an unmarried man, Miss Tomanek is an unmarried woman of legal age. There’s no story here, but even if there were a story here, there wouldn’t be a story here. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Not really, Senator.”

  “Then I’ll leave you all to puzzle over it,” He takes my hand and leads me through the pack, video cameras trained on us. “One side, please, let us through.”

  Tige pulls up in Jon’s limo and we climb into the back, slamming the door behind us as we cruise off. Alone in the backseat of the limo, I want to throw myself into Jon’s arms, tear his clothes off and take him in right there and then. Only Tige’s glares from the rearview mirror stop me.

  And even then, just barely.

  That night we are all over the television news, with broadcast journalists reading my faked biography with my picture in a graphics window over their shoulders. I think, Wow, they’re buying every line of my cover story, and broadcasting it all like fact. The news media here is really easy to manipulate.

  Instead of capitalizing on the lurid aspects of a cheating husband or home-wrecking slut (as we are neither) the press decides to play up the story as a fairy tale of a powerful man who falls for his work-a-day gal assistant. I have to admit; even I’m drawn into the romance of it, even though I know the truth. This is no love story of a simple girl and her powerful prince. This is the story of a cunning spy who tricks a powerful man and gets close enough to cut his throat if need be, but choses love over duty. If anybody has the real power here, it’s me. But the legend of the plucky young farm gal who wins the heart of her powerful man is a potent fantasy, and it certainly plays well on the six o’clock news.

  It plays even better in my bedroom; night after night of pounding and pummeling, shifting and squirming, bucking and writhing and quivering in the sultry darkness, the lusty loom of our heated passion.