A Spy Is Born

by Emily Kimelman

  "No worries.” Troy swallows before putting his half-full plate down on the edge of a nearby table. He takes my arm, moving me through the crowd. People are starting to enjoy the darkness. Laughter grows louder without music. People are still drinking. This is exciting. This is an adventure for all of them now.

  "Do we have eyes on him yet?" Troy asks. His lips pull down into a frown, and his eyes find mine in the dancing light. He gives me a small shake of his head. “Secret Service evacuated him.” I don’t know if I’m relieved or dissapointed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The line of limousines stretches down the road and around the bend. “Ms. Daniels!” a red-vested concierge waves me toward a stretch limo at the curb. I glance at Troy who’s flicking through his phone.

  “Go ahead,” he says, not looking up at me.

  Red Vest opens the back door, and I hesitate. This is not the car we took here.

  The interior of the car smells like leather and perfume—floral, feminine high notes with whiffs of masculine musk. It fits the woman sitting on the far bench with her crossed ankles, androgynous navy pants suit, and hair brushed back into a helmet.

  Vice President and Democratic Party presidential nominee Natalie Stone.

  I slide into the seat across from her. Stone’s green eyes are lit with intelligence and deep knowledge—her gaze holds a confidence I’m used to seeing only in men with too much power. The presidential hopeful’s lips are curled up into a closed smile that crinkles lines around her eyes. Has she had work done?

  Guilt and loathing instantly churn in my stomach at the question…practically an accusation in my mind.

  Clearing my throat, I smile at her, banishing all thoughts of plastic surgery and physical appearance. My lizard brain will never give it up, but there are bigger issues here than how much poison either of us has pumped into our faces in an attempt to stay young and relevant.

  “Angela.” Her voice is low, with a roughness to its baser notes, as if she is recovering from a cold. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  I nod, not sure how to respond. She didn’t request my company.

  The overhead lights dim as the car engine thrums. We are moving. Glancing behind me as we pull away from the curb, I see Troy Woods talking on his phone, gaze cast down to the sidewalk.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I give you a ride home.”

  “Uh, no, I just…”

  “Troy won’t mind.” She says it as if she knows him. Natalie Stone’s hands are folded in her lap, her gold wedding ring glowing softly in the overhead lights. Her nails are painted a soft, feminine pink. How many advisors did it take to pick that color? My own nails are lacquered in blood red, a color chosen by the stylist to match my dress. “Do you know why I’ve asked to speak with you?” Her head cocks ever so slightly—a dog picking up the taste of fear on a summer breeze.

  I offer up a timid smile. “I’m not sure.”

  “My opponent,” Natalie maintains eye contact, her voice even, “is a dangerous psychopath.” I can’t help a nervous smile taking over my face. “I must win this election. For the security of not just our nation but the world.”

  “I’m not really into politics.”

  Her eyes narrow, and a spark of anger brightens the green into a shimmering gold. “What a lazy thing to say.”

  She’s stolen my breath, and I can’t respond. Clearing my throat, I try to come up with something, but her eyes have me pinned in place, weighing on my lungs, sparking fear in my chest. She’s not a bully like her opponent, but she is dangerous.

  “Sorry,” I finally sputter out.

  Her lips curl again, and she settles back into the seat, glancing down at her lap and dusting at something. “Can I offer you a drink?” Her eyes raise back to mine. They are calmer, the deep green of moss in the shade of a large tree.

  “Water?” It comes out a question.

  She nods with her chin toward the bar by my side. There are plastic water bottles lined up, and I grab one out of the well. Cracking off the top, I take a long sip. She waits for me to put the lid back on before continuing.

  “While I’ll agree this is a messy business—politics—I hope you’ll agree that someone has to do it.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And from what I know of your interactions with my opponent, you’re not a…fan, shall we say?”

  “We could say that.”

  She nods and shows a bit of teeth with her next smile. “Good.” It sounds as if something has been decided, though I’m not sure what…if anything.

  We are merging on a highway, and the street lamps are casting tiger stripes of light into the close space. “There are only a few weeks left until the election, and I’m almost sure he will pull something unexpected.” She smiles at me again, those crinkles around her eyes deepening. “I have skeletons.” Natalie waves a hand dismissively. “As do we all. But a woman’s old bones…are not as accepted as a man’s.”

  She pauses, as though waiting for a response. The water bottle sweats in my grip. “Yes,” I say again, feeling, once again, like a parrot repeating words its master wants it to say.

  “I know what Temperance planned.” I keep my face neutral—not one twitch or flash of acknowledgment. Natalie’s eyes stray behind me, and I follow her gaze. We are getting off at my exit. “But that is unacceptable. He will be disciplined for his actions.” Her eyes return to mine, and Natalie Stone, the first woman to make a real run at the highest office of the land, pins me again with her gaze. “I hope that we can work together in some other way in the future.”

  The car pulls up in front of my building, and the driver gets out. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Daniels.” Natalie does not extend her hand, and when the door opens, I slide over to get out. A hot, smoke-tinged wind greets me as the driver begins to close the door. “One more thing,” Natalie says.

  I bend down to see her. She looks suddenly small in the large car—her hair too big, the cross of her ankles too practiced. Natalie is a woman from another era trying to use the traditional weapons of female apparent subservience to win a war against male brutality. It’s worked for her up until now, advancing cautiously through the system by working hard and appearing to follow all the rules. But she’s got skeletons because you can’t get to where she is without leaving bodies behind. And a woman like her, petite, elegant, whip smart in a world that isn’t, she can’t win.

  We need new weapons. New tools. How can women stop the violence and oppression against them? Not by crossing their ankles, spraying their hair into submission, and toning their asses to perfection.

  But right now it’s all we’ve got.

  “I’ve arranged for Mr. Styles’s release.” My eyes go round. “I will protect you from Mr. Grand until the election.” She gives me a predator grin. “And then once it’s over, his power will be greatly diminished.”

  “You’ll win, won’t you?” My voice is tinged with a desperation whose authenticity is so unique and pained. Immediately, I take note of the places where it came from—a tightness in my chest, the angle of my neck, a tremble in my jaw—and lock it away for a future role.

  Natalie’s brows raise. “I’ll do my best,” she says. The driver closes the door and bows to me slightly before heading back to the front seat. I stand there in that hot, harsh, smoky wind and watch the sleek black car pull away.

  If her best isn’t good enough we are all screwed.

  A black shopping bag hangs on my doorknob. I pause when I see it, my heart rate picking up speed. I glance back toward the elevator doors; they are closing quietly on the empty chamber.

  I’m alone in the hall.

  But is someone inside my apartment? I pull my phone out of my bag as I approach my door and cue up Temperance’s number.

  The bag is small and slick, shining in the hall’s bright lights. I peek into it without touching and see pink tissue paper and a business-card-sized note. It is embossed with the initials VS. Flipping it over, I see a n
ote in tight black script. This is the book I told you about. I think you will like it. -Vlad.

  The card trembles in my fingers. Vladimir is alive and giving me gifts. Pulling the bag off the doorknob, I swipe my fob and push into the apartment. I flick on the lights and find the place as I left it…or at least I think it’s the same.

  Archie gives a bark from his crate in the bedroom.

  My gun is stashed in the first drawer of the entry table, and I check the chamber and the safety before moving further into the apartment, leaving the black bag by the door. Sweat trickles down my back as I move toward the kitchen, my gun gripped in both hands.

  The kitchen is empty, the door to the balcony locked.

  Blood rushes in my ears, and I force myself to breathe evenly as I head to the bedroom. I left the door open, and the bathroom light on. It spills into the dark space, splashing across the made bed, throwing dark shadows into the corners. I flick on the lights, illuminating the room. Archie barks again, a high, happy sound from the far side of the bed where his cage sits.

  It’s just the two of us.

  I check my closet and the shower stall before letting Archie out onto the balcony to do his business. My dog back inside and the balcony door locked, I return to my living room and the waiting black bag.

  It looks like it should hold jewelry or lingerie, not a book. Placing my gun on the table I pull out the tissue paper and unwrap a worn paperback. The cover features the Soviet sickle and a pistol resting on a spread of hundred-dollar bills. The Twentieth of January.

  I thumb through the paperback, the yellowed pages releasing a fragrance I adore—old books. Nothing like it in the world. I take my pistol and the paperback with me. Archie follows climbing into his cage and circling twice before settling. It’s late, after all.

  I put the book and gun by the sink as I take off my makeup and wash my face. Keeping them with me, I return to the bedroom and slip out of the dress, pulling on a nightshirt and climbing into bed.

  Leaving the lights on in the living room and kitchen, as if electric bulbs can keep the bad guys at bay, I settle into the pillows, my gun next to me on the bedside table, and begin to read the thin volume.

  The last page crinkles between my trembling fingers as I turn it. I finished the book in three hours.

  The swirling rumors about Russian interference in the election, and the acknowledgment from the intelligence agencies of that reality, storm my brain.

  The Twentieth of January, published in 1980, is a classic spy novel with a Manchurian candidate—except this one is the presidential candidate himself, not the brainwashed assassin. The book weaves a tale about an American businessman from a wealthy East Coast family who, with very little political experience, and spouting populist rhetoric, manages to win the presidency against far more experienced opponents.

  A CIA operative discovers the plot and realizes that the Kremlin is in control of the president-elect. This creates a crisis for the intelligence agency: let a man with hidden ties to the Soviet Union become president, or create a possible Constitutional crisis by exposing the plot?

  A no-win situation.

  The book, however, has a satisfying ending. The President-elect’s wife is shown the compromising materials being used to blackmail her husband and confronts him. Overwhelmed with shame, he commits suicide before inauguration.

  Why did Vladimir send me this?

  I reach for my phone on the bedside table and call Temperance. It’s two in the morning, but I don’t care. Temperance picks up, his voice smooth—he wasn’t asleep or is excellent at faking wakefulness.

  “Have you read The Twentieth of January?” I ask.

  There’s a brief silence, behind which I hear the shifting of bed sheets followed by the sound of a door closing. He was in bed with someone.

  “Yes,” he answers. “How did you hear about it?”

  I pull off my own blankets and begin to pace. “Vladimir Petrov first mentioned it to me in Shanghai—”

  Temperance cuts me off. “What did he say?” His voice is like a laser, so hot and intent I stop walking, standing still in the middle of my bedroom.

  “He just asked me if I’d ever read it. It was small talk. I’d been telling reporters how much I love to read. Spy novels specifically, because The Tempest was an adaptation.”

  “All he did was ask if you’d read it?”

  “Yes, but when I got home tonight, there was a bag on my door with a note from him and the book inside.”

  “Why didn’t you call me immediately?” His voice has dropped to a dangerous rumble.

  “I don’t know, I thought—”

  Temperance cuts me off again. “Get out of there now.”

  My eyes scan my bedroom, which moments ago felt safe but at Temperance’s words has become a shadowed and dangerous place. “Why?” I ask.

  “Just do as I say. Now.”

  A sound at my front door sends my heart racing. “Temperance,” I whisper. “I think someone is breaking into my apartment.”

  The whine of the lock disengaging closes my throat even as I’m moving to my bedside table, the phone still pressed to my ear.

  “I’m on my way,” Temperance says, quick movements evident in the sounds behind him. I leave the connection open but place the phone on my side table as I pick up my gun.

  When terrified and in desperate need of my hearing, why does my heart beat so damn loud that it drowns out everything else?

  Pulling in a deep breath, I kneel behind my bed, using it to block my body from anyone entering my bedroom. Arms extended on the mattress, I aim my gun at the door.

  Archie, in his crate behind me, wakes and snuffles at the bars.

  There is no sound from the living room.

  I should just wait here.

  I’m safe here in my nightshirt and underpants, with my gun and my bed for protection. If I stand up and try to go investigating, I’m just begging to get killed.

  Blood rushing in my ears is like the ocean roaring during a hurricane. I can’t hear a damn thing except the pounding heartbeat that caused the internal storm and now Archie’s soft whine of concern. Why are you up in the middle of the night? I kind of have to pee now.

  My bedroom door, already slightly ajar, eases open. My shoulders burn and my hands ache with tension as my eyes narrow into a pinpoint on the entryway.

  Vladimir Petrov steps into my bedroom, his eyes quickly finding me hunkered on the floor, using the bed as a shield, the gun gripped in my fist. Just shoot him.

  But I can’t. He’s so damn alive. And just standing there.

  Those sharp blue eyes of his trace from the barrel of the gun down my arms and meet mine. “Angela,” he says, his voice slightly slurred, that thick accent turning my name into something exotic—almost precious.

  Oh, his face is…slack on the left side.

  His left shoulder is dropping as well. Did I do that to him?

  He’s wearing all black—a turtleneck and dark pants making his pale hair and skin that much lighter, those beady blue eyes that much brighter.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice steady. I’m the one with the gun.

  A faint smile toys with the right side of his mouth. “I wanted to see you. Did you like my gift?” He steps further into the room—his shoulders are almost as broad as the doorway, his head practically brushing the lintel.

  “Stop walking,” I say.

  That twisted version of a smile broadens, and he puts his hands up as if to placate me. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I just wanted to see you. Our last parting was so…” He raises his brows. “Dramatic.” A hint of anger has entered his voice.

  “Get out,” I say again. “Breaking and entering doesn’t work for me.”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t break in.” He holds up a key fob. I am so moving if I survive this…

  “Just because you can get into my apartment without smashing anything doesn’t
mean you have an invitation.”

  His eyes darken, something about my words bringing fresh anger into his gaze. Vladimir takes another step forward, and my finger tenses on the trigger. “One more step and I’ll blow you away.” What the hell, am I in a Western now?

  “You are much more than I ever dreamed of—a real tigress.” Ew. “Did you like the book I gave you?”

  “It seemed like a far stretch. Not that well-written, either.”

  His brow lowers, as if he’s taking my literary criticism seriously. “You have so much faith in your country that you don’t think your elections can be influenced in this way?”

  I did. “No,” I answer. “It just all seems a little cliché, doesn’t it?” The new theme of my freaking life. “I mean, a Manchurian candidate?”

  “The Communists in that Cold War drama could never accomplish what we have done.”

  He’s going to kill me. That’s why he is here. No way would he tell me any of this if he didn’t plan to take me out. I have to shoot him. It’s him or me!

  “The election isn’t over yet,” I say, taking in the breadth of his chest.

  An awareness comes into his gaze. He saw my look, honing in on my target. Vladimir’s muscles tense, and he launches himself at me. My finger squeezes the trigger, but it’s all a blur.

  His shoulder slams into me, rolling us both onto the floor, my head crashing into Archie’s crate. He barks with surprise and upset.

  Vladimir is on top of me—the softness of his cashmere turtleneck contrasting with the roughness of his grip. He gets the gun away from me as easily as the sun melts ice cream on a summer day and flings it across the room. The small, useless thing hits the wall and thunks onto the carpeting.

  Thick, strong arms circle me—he’s hugging me. Dry lips brush my neck and he takes in a deep inhale, reminding my own lungs to start working again. I breathe in mint and aftershave along with something musky and raw.