A Spy Is Born

by Emily Kimelman

  “Angela.” He says my name with a strange, horrible reverence. “You are magnificent.”

  I wriggle under him, and he sits up, getting some of his bulk off me so I can breathe more easily. His face above mine, Vlad looks down with that crooked smile. “Come,” he says. “We should go.”

  “Go?” I squeak, incapable of keeping the fear out of my voice. Archie is still barking, and Vladimir looks up at him and growls, a deep rumble in his chest that vibrates through me and makes Archie whine and then go silent. Scary dude.

  Vladimir returns his attention to me, brushing a strand of hair from where it’s tangled against my lips. “Grace Kelly gave up her career for Prince Rainier III.”

  My brain trips over itself. He doesn’t want to kill me, despite what I did to him. He wants to marry me. The hiccup of a laugh that is trying to break free gets stuck in my throat as his gaze lowers to my body—his inspection is like a frigid wind, and I tense under it. Vladimir’s eyes light, and he moves a hand off my shoulder down to my breast, cupping it so that I whimper and shiver. “You like that?” he asks.

  No! But I keep my mouth shut even as my entire body grows rigid against his touch. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “And”—his eyes return to my face—“brave.” That twisted smile distorts his mouth again. “Grand made a mistake with you—he went too far. But don’t worry. Vladimir is here to protect you now.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, letting my voice go breathy and bringing up a hand to cup his face. I need to play this just right.

  “You won’t need to work anymore,” he explains. “I will take care of everything. And I can protect you from Reginald Grand. From Temperance Johnson. No one will make you do things you don’t want to do anymore.”

  Except you, huh, buddy? “How?” I ask, infusing my voice with awe.

  “Reginald Grand is under our control,” Vladimir says.

  “Like in the book?” I ask. “You’re blackmailing him?”

  “Yes, moy pitomets, my little spy-in-training. You see, I am much more powerful than even your president. Only I can keep you safe.”

  Vladimir’s hand is slipping down the side of my body, following the curve of my waist. “Well, he’s not president yet,” I say, keeping my voice meek.

  Vladimir stills. “He will be,” he lowers his mouth toward my breast, so slowly that I make out every glint of stubble on his jawline, the tiny scar of a healed piercing in his earlobe, every detail of this moment searing itself into my mind.

  I didn’t kill Jack to lie here and take this!

  Raising my head, I take his earlobe in my lips. Vladimir shudders with pleasure as I flick it with my tongue. His fingers find my panties, and he shifts, rolling his hips to the side so that he’ll be able to remove them.

  Blocking out the sensation of his fingers against my thigh as my panties slide down my legs, I shift to roll him over. “I like to be on top,” I say into his ear.

  Vladimir’s laugh rumbles through his chest and shakes my will, but I have to keep up this charade for just a little longer. I find his lips and kiss him like a director is filming every second—this is the man I love, and he’s going off to war. He’s about to die, and this is the last time I’ll ever get to touch him.

  Vladimir’s hands squeeze my waist as my thighs press around him. I raise up over him and reach for the hem of my shirt. He watches, his eyes wide as saucers and dark with hunger, as I pull it over my head. I’m naked astride him, his eyes roving over my bare flesh. I smile down at him. We will be the greatest lovers of all time. Better than any novel. We are meant to be.

  Vladimir believes the lie.

  I spin the T-shirt above my head, joking now. Playful.

  The old rotary phone is right there, right above his head, but I don’t look at it. Don’t telegraph my intentions this time. I keep my gaze on him, keep spinning that T-shirt. Until I release it, letting it fly away, and his eyes follow it for just a moment—one tiny moment.

  I grab my white phone—the antique behemoth I bought so that I could take this city by storm, one promising call from my agent after another—and bring it down onto his face with every ounce of strength I’ve willed into my body.

  Every push up, every punch, every weight lifted and calorie counted comes down onto him. He jerks and cries out, and I strike him again. I keep going until Vladimir is still, his warm blood splattered over my burning, naked flesh. Then I stop.

  I breathe.

  I won.

  “Angela.” I whirl around at the sound of Temperance’s voice, a snarl ripping from my chest.

  He is standing behind me, looking down at the scene. His eyes trace the blood on my breasts, the phone still gripped in both hands, the pulpy mess that is Vladimir’s face.

  Temperance gives a curt nod and holsters the pistol in his hands, his movements practiced and calm. He reaches out, offering me his hand. Both of mine still hold the phone. “You can put it down now,” he says, all calm confidence. It soothes me, and my fingers loosen enough to place the phone on the once-white carpet.

  Temperance helps me up, and I stand on unsteady legs. “Go take a shower,” he says.

  I do as he says, making the water so hot that it practically scalds me. I use my dry brush with such vigor that I’m sure my grandmother would be proud. She was always punishing herself. My hand stills as an unbridled clarity overcomes me. She hates herself for surviving. It’s not a new thought—not original—but I understand it this time. Because there is a hate brewing inside of me…for me.

  My hair in two braids, wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, I open the bathroom door. The air feels cold compared to the steamy lair I’m leaving.

  Temperance waits for me, Archie in his arms. The little dog is wet and shaking. He must have had blood on him.

  He wriggles, trying to get to me. I reach out, tears welling in my vision as I wrap his soft body against my chest. He licks my jaw and snuggles his head under my chin with a soft sigh. “I’ll keep you safe,” I promise in a low whisper, talking half to him and half to the weak, sad part of me that is surrendering to self-hatred.

  “You did good,” Temperance says, his voice deep with a hint of pride.

  I bring my eyes to meet his tiger gaze. “How do you deal with…” I tilt my head toward the destroyed body, keeping my eyes locked on Temperance.

  “I have a team on the way,” he says.

  “No.” I shake my head, my thick, wet braids waving back and forth. “I mean, mentally. How do you not…hate yourself?”

  “Put it in a box,” Temperance says, his voice even. “Lock the box. And don’t open it unless you need it.”

  “Why would I ever need it?” I ask, letting the figure on the floor draw my attention. It’s horrible. Disgusting.

  “Don’t worry about that until you do. But remember that one day you will need it. So don’t try to get rid of the box. Just keep it in a dark, safe place. Can you do that?”

  I swallow and take a breath. “I think I can.”

  “You can,” Temperance agrees. “You’ve got it, Angela. Whatever it is, you’ve got it in spades.”

  He doesn’t touch me, but his voice is like a warm arm over my shoulder, comforting me…and welcoming me into a club. One I’m not sure I want a membership for. Temperance begins to move into my living room, and I follow. “What was the deal with the pen?” I ask.

  Temperance pauses on the threshold and turns back to me. “Digital kompromat,” he says.

  “Kompromat? Do you mean blackmail material? The dirt the Kremlin has on Grand?”

  “Basically everything relevant on Vladimir’s computers. It includes blackmail fodder against Grand, as well as evidence of ties between US white supremacy groups and the Kremlin. Everything we’d ever need to bring Grand down.”

  “But you won’t.”

  Temperance gives a sharp shake of his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Just like the book.”

  Temperance nods. “Life imitating art.” />
  A laugh bubbles up, and I let it escape, ballooning into my death-filled apartment. “You’re telling me that the Kremlin got this idea from a freaking spy novel.”

  Temperance shrugs one shoulder. “There is credible evidence that when Grand traveled to Moscow back in the early 80s for business, he came home with a copy of that book.” His eyes flick to my bedside table where the paperback still rests—only a few droplets of blood marring the cover. “We suspect it was the KGB that gave it to him… it is shame that kills the character in the book. Grand seems immune to that emotion.”

  “He ‘wishes to be in politics for business reasons’,” I say, quoting the book. Temperance’s attention is drawn to his phone. “So he’s not a pawn, you don’t think. He is working with the Russians to win the election.”

  “Yes,” Temperance answers without looking up from his screen.

  “Grand is not going to kill himself, he is going to follow through,” I say. “The man is a total egomaniac.” Temperance is typing into his phone now. “But we can’t kill him?” I ask.

  “He won’t win the election,” Temperance says. “The Russians have not penetrated our electronic voting systems. They are using propaganda to try to win votes for their candidate.” His eyes reach mine. “That’s powerful. But we must have faith that the American people won’t be so easily manipulated into choosing such a divisive leader. We just have to trust the democratic process.”

  My brows rise. “Since when do you have that much faith?”

  A sad smile tugs at his lips. “I have to. My hands are tied.”

  Temperance returns his attention to his phone, and I glance back at the room one last time. I didn’t want to become a member of this club, but now that I have my entry card, maybe there is something I can do with it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They let Julian go this morning,” Mary tells me over the phone. My heart thumps loudly. I’m out walking Archie up in the hills of Griffith Park. Dry brush rattles in the hot wind and golden slopes stretch out before me, the silver and black of the city below, the ocean twinkling in the distance.

  “That’s great to hear.”

  “There is a press conference arranged for this afternoon, and the accuser will be there, saying she made a mistake and apologizing.”

  “That’s good,” I say as three other female hikers pass me. We nod at each other. One has a can of mace at her waist.

  “He asked that you come too, as his girlfriend, to show support.”

  “He did?” I say. “Because he hasn’t called me.”

  “Well,” Mary sounds curt. “It was actually Billy’s idea.” She references Julian’s publicist. “We are all against it over here. You don’t need to be there. Have dinner with him tonight or something. Let the paps see you together, but I think showing up to this press conference is too much. You’ve only been dating for what? A few weeks.”

  “I’ll give him a call and see what he says.”

  “Just so you know, we strongly recommend against it.”

  “Objection noted.”

  “What?”

  The connection is breaking up the higher into the hills I get. “I’ll call you later,” I say, but Mary is gone. Slipping my phone back into my bag, I slide my hand over my own mace can before re-zipping the pack. Pulling my hat lower against the bright sun, I keep climbing, legs burning, mind settling into the rhythm of the hike.

  When I get back to my car, I’m sweaty and tired. Archie sits in the passenger seat, and I tune the radio to the news.

  On the day of the candidates’ final debate rumors circulate around both campaigns. According to the FBI, a new investigation is being opened into Vice President Stone’s handling of campaign finances, and a warning from the State Department this morning of Russians meddling in the election has both camps scrambling to control the narrative.

  I pull out of the parking lot and navigate the twisting roads toward home. The news announcer’s voice is paused when my phone rings. Julian’s name comes up on the screen, and I answer. “Julian,” I say. “Mary told me you’d been released. That’s great news.”

  “Yes.” His voice is rough, like either he’s been using it too much or not enough. “Apparently, it was all a big misunderstanding.” There is bitterness in his tone. “We are having a press conference later.”

  “Yeah, Mary said you wanted me to be there?”

  He sighs. “No, that was Billy’s idea. I don’t want to involve you more than necessary. I wish we didn’t have to do it at all. But can I see you later?”

  “Sure.” My grip tightens on the wheel. This is all my fault. I have to end it with him to protect him.

  “How about my place? Seven?”

  “See you then.”

  My other line beeps as Julian and I say our goodbyes. It’s a New York number I don’t recognize. I take the on ramp for the highway as I answer it. “Angela Daniels,” I say in my most professional voice.

  “Angela, so glad I caught you. This is Tabitha Sanders from Reginald Grand’s campaign.”

  My finger hovers over the disconnect button on my steering wheel, but I restrain myself. “I remember you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

  “Reginald wants to see you again. He has matters of great importance to discuss.”

  Like why Temperance Johnson isn’t dead. And Vladimir Petrov is…and how I got Julian released from prison perhaps?

  This could be a golden opportunity…Natalie Stone asked us to leave him alone. Temperance and Troy seem to have given up on the idea of taking him out. But maybe…

  “I’m very busy at the moment preparing for a new role, but I could make some time tomorrow.” I keep a neutral tone in my voice.

  “We can send a car again,” Tabitha suggests. “We will be out at Mr. Grand’s resort in Santa Barbara. Do you know it? Grand Golf and Conference Center.”

  “I’ve never been, but I’m sure I can find my way. I don’t need a car.”

  “Tomorrow at, shall we say 6 p.m., then?”

  “Yes, perfect.”

  We hang up, and a grin spills over my face. I’m coming for you, Mr. Grand.

  I arrive at Julian’s place up in the hills as the sun is setting over the ocean and throwing a pink and peach mirage across the landscape. A shiver runs down my spine. It reminds me of when I arrived at Jack’s house.

  So much has changed since then…

  Julian answers the door in jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. He smiles at me, but there is a wariness to his eyes that wasn’t there the last time we saw each other. He reaches for me without a word and pulls me into a warm embrace. Julian’s face nuzzles my neck, and he kisses me there, setting another shiver—this one fueled by desire—racing down my spine.

  I have to be strong. Have to end it with him.

  “Angela.” His voice rasps against my skin and even though my brain is telling me to pull back, my body is melting against his… maybe one more time…

  No. That’s not fair to him. Or me.

  His lips move up my neck, nibbling my chin and finally reach my lips. I open my mouth—to protest, I swear—but he devours me instead, pulling me closer, moving us into his house, kicking the door shut behind us.

  His hands find the zipper on my dress, and it slips off my shoulders, settling on my hips, his fingers unclasping my bra and shoving it away so that his mouth can move south.

  I try to take a deep breath, but he steals it with his touch, making me crazy and dizzy. The back of his knees hit the couch, and he sits, his hands securely around my waist, holding me in place so that he can control my every move. I love the way he touches me.

  He asks for everything and demands nothing.

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I bite my lip as he worships me. I want this, him, me… us.

  I lean down and cup his face, kissing him back, lowering to my knees in front of him so that we are at the same height. I’m not ready to let this go yet. No matter how selfish that might be.

  I’m go
ing after Grand. Yet I want to keep Julian--and everything else about my miraculous career. But I know I can’t have it both ways. There will be no delayed-reaction pills involved when Grand and I meet, no way to mask the killer. And to my surprise, it’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms. Daniels,” Tabitha Sanders smiles at me. “I know Mr. Grand is eager to speak with you again.” She turns and begins to move down the hallway.

  My low heels make no noise on the carpeted floor. We are in Grand’s hotel outside of Santa Barbara, a golf resort and conference center. He’s taken over part of the top floor with his entourage. Secret Service line the hall, standing as silent, watchful sentries. Tabitha slows to a stop in front of an agent I recognize as the same one who patted me down when I first met Grand for breakfast.

  “Maloney, right?” I say.

  “That’s right, Ms. Daniels.”

  I offer him my purse, and he takes it, opening the small leather bag and searching through it. Satisfied that I’m not concealing a weapon within its silky interior, he turns to my body.

  Ah, my best weapon.

  I suppress the smile that toys with my lips, moving my feet apart and spreading my arms for his inspection. His touch is the same as last time, professional and thorough… and he does not discover the tiny pistol tucked between my breasts.

  Maloney opens the door for me, a waft of stale air seeping into the hallway. Taking back my purse, I step into the dark room, alone. The shades are drawn, and the only light in the office comes from a television tuned to a twenty-four-hour news station. Grand is sitting behind a large desk, a breathing shadow in the dark room.

  The door closes behind me, and I sip air, waiting for Grand to turn his attention away from the announcer, who’s sputtering with rage about something.

  “Angela,” Grand says, muting the TV and swiveling his chair to face me.

  “Mr. Grand.” I mimic his tone—syrupy sweet and dripping with ownership.

  “Please, sit.” He gestures to one of the two chairs facing the desk. I approach it, resting a hand on the upholstered back, keeping it between us.