The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Orson mentioned to the President that Katrina had proposed marriage and he was seriously thinking about making the plunge.

  “Go ahead, my boy, just so you’re not a fanatic about it. Be sure and warn her that the White House is your initial duty and that you might be asked to pull all-nighters on occasion.”

  These flattering words failed to turn Orson’s head, but he did turn them over in his mind and wondered what hazards might dog his path. The four-year term would end, and there might be a second, but then the ball game was over. At some stage he would be child rearing, or at least supervising such a project. Then there was mortality to consider. The years seemed to fly by.

  Another problem, not entirely his, was that Pat Tullis of NRA fame had managed to weasel out of complicity in killing Delilah by shifting all the blame to Jeb Irons, his errand boy, and the actual shooter, the waterman. Money and lawyers had done the job, all because of the golden rule. He who has the gold makes the rules. But the Tullis reputation was sullied and he had been replaced as the top NRA lobbyist.

  Irons had been sentenced to six years, while the waterman was given life with an eventual chance of parole, but no one seemed to know just when. He was an old man and would likely die in prison.

  So what to do about Tullis? It was common knowledge that he was the man behind the murder, but he had gamed the system. While Orson and others mulled the situation, Tullis left Washington for a vacation in the Dominican Republic. He booked accommodations in the solo section of a huge resort.

  Three days into the trip he was found one morning on the Atlantic beach dead, a victim of a fatal mugging according to resort authorities. The resort had no responsibility because the beach itself is public property, available to all. Orson believed it could have been a mugging, or it could have been some loyal NPR fans were also vacationing. The police down there really didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. Tourists were as common as grains of sand on the beach. Daily, almost hourly, planeloads arrived.

  Katrina once again reared her lovely head. This time she was seated in his living room reading a magazine when he returned from the White House at his usual time.

  Startled, Orson blurted out, “A home invasion?”

  “Cook let me in. Dinner’s shrimp and cheese grits. She invited me to stay.”

  Orson smiled. “Grits will put some meat on your bones.”

  “My bones are doing just fine the way they are, thank you. I work out most of the day. You might consider it yourself.”

  “Modern dancing?”

  “Exercise.”

  “We have a gym at the White House. I do my bit.”

  “You might do more than your bit. There’s a rumor that you’re the President’s lover.”

  Orson managed a grin. “Because I sometimes spend the night at the White House. You think I’m the only one?”

  “The only one doing what? Screwing the President?”

  This time he summoned up a laugh. “Spending the night at the White House. Issues do come up. Working well after midnight. Why come home. There is a gym. There are showers if one cares to take one. There is sustenance.”

  “No matter,” Katrina said, brushing the issue away. “Your childish capers concern me not at all. I am interested in our marital plans.”

  “Something non-existent. I wondered if you were simply drawn to me by my facial upheaval, disruption, disorganization, disfigurement, gruesome deformity, whatever you choose to call it?”

  “Why would that be appealing to anyone?” she questioned.

  “I’ve heard moths are drawn to flames. The flames destroy them. We carry our own seeds of self-destruction.”

  “The rumors about you and the President. It’s a joke of course. Can you imagine the President taking such a chance? But there are other things said. I run into all sorts of people at the Kennedy. I tell them we are neighbors and they go on about you. A man of mystery, thus a lonely and romantic figure. But scarred. And here we are together. Will you pour the pre-dinner wine?”

  Orson walked into the kitchen, removed a double bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator, and returned to the living room with the bottle and a pair of glasses. He poured the wine and offered a glass to Katrina.

  “The screw caps are handy, aren’t they?” she observed.

  “I prefer them to corks. We’ve seen many changes in our lifetime. I wanted to tell you about the twins. The girl is mine.”

  “That would be Alice.”

  “Yes, Alice. Dan belongs to Delilah.”

  “Your late wife.”

  “Yes. But I will honor her wishes.”

  “And those wishes might be?”

  “Alice is to be reared as a spy. Dan as a foreign service employee, possibly an ambassador, although that doesn’t matter. The point is those two professions require the same type of schooling, or learning if you please. So both will be trained in almost identical fashion.”

  “You make it sound like it’s almost your life’s work.”

  “That’s exactly the case. Most of my life is behind me. But the twins are on the threshold of something. They are like twigs planted by the water if you get my meaning.”

  “I get your meaning alright. You’re on the threshold of obsession. Wake up and smell the coffee. Child raising is incidental to living one’s life. You may be screwing the President, but the children are about to screw you out of a well-deserved later life. Snap out of it, Orson.”

  It was almost like switching on a light. At this point he realized Katrina was probably right and that he could well use her as a guiding hand. He was not an island. Perhaps the bell was tolling for him as well as the remainder of mankind. Of course man embraces woman. They could go dancing again and talk more.

  After refilling the glasses, Cook entered the room and ordered them to the dinner table. The nannies were already seated. Orson made a note to commit his plan for the twin’s education to paper so that he could let Katrina have a look at it. Truth to tell, he was the executive child rearing person, not really in the trenches.

  Two days later the President informed Orson that a secret mission loomed.

  He was properly impressed and replied, “I smirk at danger and yearn for frightening dark and deadly intrigue.”

  She smiled and asked, “How are you and Katrina faring with the wedding bell issue?”

  “It could be we need one another. In that case a union could be in the offing.”

  “You’ll have to tell me where you’re registered. Target or J.C. Penny’s.”

  “You’ll be one of the first to know.”

  “Make certain she has no STD’s. I want nothing to come between us.”

  Orson attempted a grimace, then asked, “The mission, Madame President.”

  “Go back to your digs. Pack something. You have a night flight to Brussels, then to St. Petersburg. There you will make your way to the (here she referred to a scrap of paper) Pushka Inn, which I believe is in the Admiralteysky District. Those crazy Russian names. Anyway it is very close to the Hermitage. So you will spend time in the Hermitage looking over Russia’s historical and aesthetic treasures. Someone will contact you.”

  “How will I be recognized?”

  The President burst out laughing. Before she could control herself she was pointing to his face.

  “Ok. I’m sorry. So you think I’ll be the only one-eyed American man with a black patch and a deep vertical scar in the Hermitage. So, maybe you’re right. I assume that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “You assume right. Now get out of here. Maybe you can have a final embrace with your Russian dancer. I’ve got a country to run.”

  The flight to Brussels was routine. His layover was long enough that he hopped a bus to the heart of the city and had an overpriced breakfast near the flower market. By nightfall he was in St. Petersburg, showering and downing shots of vodka in a pleasant Pushka hotel room.

  He had great affection for the Russian people. By and large they were
cheerful, bursting with good humor and much like Americans. He wondered how the two countries could drift so far apart. For once it wasn’t simply religion.

  The next day passed quietly, much of it spent at nearby restaurants or exploring the Gold Room of the Hermitage. It was on the second day that he was approached by an attractive woman, as tall as he was, with Slavic eyes and a fetching smile, who knew his name and suggested a cup of tea.

  “Is your name Minka or Olga?” he questioned.

  “Neither,” she replied in perfect English. “Your translation would be Anastasiya.”

  “You’re a tsarina?”

  “Don’t I wish. But no. Let’s have our tea. You have an appointment later today.”

  “Does danger lurk nearby?”

  “Hardly. You’ll soon be on a plane back to the States.”

  They had tea. Anistasiya kept checking her watch. They had more tea. Finally the woman said, “Time to go to your hotel room.”

  “You and me?” Orson asked.

  She sighed deeply and said, “Just you for now. Perhaps I’ll join you later,” then led the way. Orson guessed she was in her late thirties, or early forties, but almost perfectly preserved. Maybe a ballet dancer like Katrina. Never rains but it pours.

  She left him at his door and counseled patience.

  Maybe a half hour passed, then a knock. The door opened, doubtless with a passkey, before he could get to it. In walked Sergei Zyuganev, the prime minister and new state leader.

  “Well if it isn’t the ruler of all the Russias,” Orson said. He had read someplace about multiple Russias. He guessed it referred to provinces, or once independent countries.

  Sergei smiled broadly, gave him a rib-cracking bear hug and said, “Sit down my friend. We need to talk.” Orson did as he was told, and the prime minister, now also president, continued to talk. “I have looked for a way to repay the great favor you did not only for me, but for all my people. Through our embassy I am in daily touch with what happens in Washington. There is one despicable person, this Senator Brad Redon, a person of French descent, which you might call a frog. Very funny. He is what is known as a sharp thorn in your toe. No?”

  “Yes, Sir. We might say a thorn in our side. No friend of the administration. Always demanding hearings about this or that. Making a general ass of himself during floor speeches and questioning witnesses. Popular among the extreme right and the so-called Christian right.”

  “A bad ass?”

  “Where the administration is concerned, yes.” The two sat face to face in comfortable hotel chairs, alone together. Orson wondered if the conversation was being recorded. But he thought not.

  Sergei smiled and nodded. “This man, this Brad Redon, was also a young hell raiser. You might say almost a traitor to your country. Some would see it that way. He was in Moscow as a young man, one of the leaders of a group of U.S. anti-war dissidents. He actually made overtures at becoming a Russian citizen. Had a Russian girlfriend.”

  Something clicked in Orson’s brain. “Who might that have been?”

  Sergei wagged his finger. “You are a good guesser, my friend. Anastasiya. A fine figure of a woman, eh? For her age. You would say well kept.” The Russian prime minister burst out laughing. “She will accompany you to Washington and confront this frog, this Brad Redon. How is that for what you would call payback?”

  “I’m amazed,” Orson responded. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “You already have. And this is just partial payment. In the future, well, you and I might have occasion to get together more often.” Orson wondered about that remark. Sergei handed him a thick eight-by-ten envelope. “Papers and photos in this packet place our friend Brad in Moscow and tell of his activities. His friends in the Congress, as you call it, might take great pleasure in looking the items over. There are two copies in case he tries to seize one.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Orson said, clutching the envelope.

  “Think nothing of it,” the prime minister said, going to the door. “Anastasiya will be along directly. Please keep her company here in your room until your plane departs tomorrow. I’m certain I can trust you two to be good.”

  Orson stood speechless and the ruler of all the Russias was gone. He would have to check on that phrase, “all the Russias.” Perhaps he could Google it.

  Minutes later another knock on the door. This time he opened it and Anastasiya stepped inside. She carried a small gym bag.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek and said, “You and I are destined to spend the night together. It will be wonderful. Room service, wine, talking, laughter, conviviality.”

  “You paint quite a picture. I must tell you one thing up front. There is a woman in Washington, an aging ballet dancer named Katrina, she and I have talked of marriage.”

  “I know the name. Her parents fled Russia long ago. So she is almost a Russian. We Russians share everything. You like?”

  “I like. Just so the air is clear.”

  She glanced out the window. “On a clear day you can see the Hermitage from here. I’ll call room service and get things started. Oh, there will be no charge. Uncle Zyuganov said the party’s on him.” She got a far-away look in her eye, whirled around once or twice, then said, “How I long to see Brad after all these years. And tell him about little Brad. Quite the man now. An officer in the Red army.”

  Orson listened in wonder. The story got better and better. Could it be that the senate minority leader had a Russian child out of wedlock, a child now a member of the Red army?

  He was ready for that drink. He embraced Anastasiya and almost jumped for joy. That embrace led to the first steamy bout on the king-sized bed. Was this living, or what?

  The flight to Washington was uneventful. Orson stashed Anastasiya in his townhouse. She would bunk in with Cook. She also got together with Katrina, they seemed to share temperaments, both given to flights of fancy and unexpected eruptions. Like prairie fires.

  Orson reported in to the President.

  “Sergei called,” she said. “We had a jolly conversation. We are much the same.”

  “I can believe that,” Orson replied.

  “He also believes you have ice water instead of blood and brought up the matter of a flashy automatic weapon his predecessor was known to possess.”

  In reply, Orson offered her the packet of material on Senator Redon’s early life and relayed the fact that the good man seemed to have a son who was an officer in the Red army.

  She took in the entire picture with wide-eyed glee and remarked that he should visit the political hack as soon as possible.

  He mentioned the fact that Sergei referred to the senator as a frog. “Is he from French stock?”

  “The name Redon is carried by at least one fairly famous French individual, although Brad is certainly American, possibly for generations. The Russians enjoy their jokes. Moscow can be a flat out boring place, save for vodka.”

  Back in his office, Orson asked his secretary to call the senator’s office and ask if he could have an appointment as soon as possible.

  An hour later Senator Redon himself called. “Orson Platt, part-time chief of staff to the President. So you want to parley. Make a deal, I suppose?” Redon seemed in high good humor.

  “Well, yes, talk things over if that’s what you mean.”

  “I think I know what you mean, Platt. Compromise. Quid pro quo. Well, we’ll see what you have to offer. Sure. Come to my office tomorrow at ten. I’ll be glad to see you.” There was a certain edge to the senator’s voice.

  “Do you mind if I bring someone with me?”

  “Not at all. A staffer I suppose. A detail person.”

  “No. An out-of-town visitor. A person who wants to look around the Hill.”

  “No problemo, muchacho. Bring him along.”

  As he hung up, Orson mulled the word “him,” which brought a smile to his face.

  Orson and Anastasiya entered the senator’s outer office promptly at ten th
e next morning. They were told the senator was in conference, but would be with them shortly. A half hour later a pair of far-right senators, no friends of the President, were admitted to the office. Orson guessed he would be confronted by all three, a trio with blood in their eyes.

  Minutes later Orson and his guest were invited into the office. They were faced with the three senators and offered a pair of straight chairs. Senator Redon began to greet the two in ersatz camaraderie, then the blood seemed to drain from his face when he took a good look at Anastasiya.

  Orson, who had seated himself, stood and introduced his guest, then himself to the three men. “Anastasiya is from Moscow. She’s a member of the Communist party. She’s extremely interested in our form of government, eager to cut through all the propaganda she might have been subject to. But in truth, Russia today is fairly open and liberal. Comparatively.”

  The two senators who had not introduced themselves smiled and nodded in an effort to show they were men of the world and had no fear in introducing a Communist into their midst.

  Orson was keenly interested in what Redon might do next. What he did was rise and in a most gracious manner say, “I had no idea you were bringing such an attractive person from a foreign land, someone eager to see the Capitol and learn our ways. I would be honored to spend the remainder of the day as your tour guide, fair lady.”

  “Thank you, senator,” she replied. “Have we met before?”

  “How could that be?” He turned to his colleagues and said, “Well, gentlemen, I’ve called you here in vain. So we shall resume our conversation at a later date.” Turning to Orson, he said, “You’ll be available, won’t you, Platt?”

  “Of course I will, Brad. And please feel free to call me Orson.”

  The two senators mumbled their goodbyes and left the office.

  Redon sank into his posh desk chair and suggested that his two guests occupy the more comfortable chairs vacated by the recently departed. Turning to Anastasiya, he said, “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long, Brad. You missed watching our son grow up.”

  “That’s a bit too much, Tasha.” Turning to Orson, he said, “I always called her Tasha. There is simply no son. I would have known.”

  “But there is, Brad. Your son is a young officer in the Red army. He is a hero. All Red army soldiers are heroes.”

  “I have no son,” Redon insisted.

  “Genetics may argue that point, Senator. Let me have a snippet of your hair.”

  “Certainly not!” Redon exploded.

  “It might be better to permit us to do it quietly than to obtain a paternity court order. But if you insist. Everyone will know. What does that make you? The raging wild bull of Capitol Hill?”

  Redon gave each of them a hard look, then said, “Ok. Cut off a piece of my hair. It will prove there is no son.”

  Orson had scissors on a Swiss Army knife and clipped off a small sample, placing it in an envelope he had brought for the purpose. “Tasha, as you call her, has brought a sample of her son’s DNA. The process shouldn’t take long.”

  “Well, you’ll find I have no son. I appreciate your visit and will be glad to show you both around. Then we’ll say goodbye.”

  Orson shoved his packet onto Redon’s desk with the words, “I have some material here that might interest you. Have a look.”

  Redon opened the envelope and looked up with suspicion in his eyes. “If this is some sort of blackmail attempt…”

  Redon sorted through the photos and documents, some of them signed by him, applications for Russian citizenship. Finally, fully deflated, he looked up and asked, “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Burn them if you like,” Orson said. “We have copies.”

  “This is an outrage,” Redon said, suddenly angry. “Youthful indiscretions. Easily forgiven.”

  “Then tell your fellow senators about your early life. Let your constituents in on the fun. And be certain to tell them about young Brad in the great Red Army, a family hero.”

  “I have no son,” Redon insisted.

  “But you do,” Tasha corrected. “I’m really getting fed up with your babbling, Brad. You were more fun as a young man. Now straighten up and man up. You’ve become a pompous jerk.”

  “I’ll say this, Tasha. Your English has improved. You seem to have mastered the idiom.”

  “I’ve mastered more than that, you bastard. When the DNA comes back your ass is fried liver.”

  Orson looked at her quizzically and said, “Fried liver.”

  “Why not,” she responded, fuming.

  “I’ve handled this situation poorly,” Redon said. “Obviously the stuff in this envelope alone can end my career. A son would just be icing on the cake. Once the DNA is back, I’ll acknowledge paternity, Tasha. If we have a son, I’ll visit Russia and be united with my small family. I’ll do whatever I have too. Including becoming a friend of the President.”

  “You’re a bachelor, Brad?” she asked.

  “I am. I’ve had no time for family, maneuvering my way through the political mine field. The fact is, I would welcome a son, an heir. Red army hero or slacker. I’m starting to come to my senses. So, it’s almost lunchtime. Let’s adjourn to the Senate lunch room for a bowl of bean soup.”

  As they exited his office, Tasha looked as if she were on the verge of tears, her lower lip trembling.

  With young Brad’s DNA already in hand, it was a relatively simple matter to have the senator’s hair processed. Paternity was proven. Orson made the phone call. Redon invited himself to dinner at the Georgetown townhouse.

  Cook made some sort of stick food with chicken and vegetables, plus a couple of barbecue sauces. This was mass produced to serve the group gathered at the table. White and red wine with dinner. Brad Redon provided the after-dinner brandy.

  Brandy poured, glasses in hand, the senator announced, “This is the high point of my life. I have discovered I have a son, whom I intend to get to know, and I would like also to have a wife.” Sipping his drink, he nodded to Tasha.

  “After all the horrors I’ve put you through, Tasha, I’m now asking for your hand in marriage. Please think it over.”

  “No need,” she said bluntly. “I accept.” She downed her drink in one gulp.

  Redon looked around and shrugged. “I don’t know what to do or say next.”

  “For a politician that’s quite an admission,” Katrina tossed in, adding, “Maybe we were expecting a fond embrace, but romance at your age lacks spontaneity.”

  “We are not that old,” Redon said. Seated across from one another, he rose, rounded the table and gave Tasha an awkward hug and a kiss, she being seated. “You’ll come home with me tonight, I hope,” he whispered.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “It’s not like our first rodeo.”

  “There you go again,” Redon said, “you must have an idiom book.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  The truth was, in the days to come, everyone was surprised. The senator revealed the entire story on the floor of the senate, followed up by television and print media interviews. It was similar to a flower blooming; he was suddenly a national figure, savoring more than his fifteen minutes of fame with Tasha by his side. Thank God for the shortened version of Anastasiya, it simplified things.

  Rather than slip off somewhere for a quickie joining, at the urging of his office staff they made it a grand affair at the National Cathedral with a reception to follow. Unable to find a restaurant capable and willing to accommodate the crowd, they convened the gathering at his senate offices to the dismay of the Capitol Police.

  In the afterglow of the affair, with the newly joined couple planning a trip to Russia during the recess, Katrina toyed with the idea of wedding bells.

  “After the Kennedy ordeal,” she told Orson, “they’re after me to do a female version of Kafka story, The Metamorphosis.”

  “What on earth?”

  “A man wakes up to find he is turning in
to a giant insect.”

  “What sort of an insect.”

  “A disgusting insect.”

  “There are insects and insects. You’ve seen those birds flitting through the air, swallows and swifts. They’re feeding on flying insects. So there you have a wholesome food source.”

  “Think of the insects. Would I be doomed to be eaten by a giant bird if I became a giant insect?”

  “There are worse fates.”

  “Name one.”

  “To be eaten by an alligator, or to be swallowed alive by a large snake.”

  “I fain would quit the dancing game.”

  “And do what?”

  “Marry. Supervise child rearing.”

  “You know you would have to agree to my child-rearing terms.”

  “Solid educations. Sounds rather simple.”

  “Not that simple. I’m thinking they should start out on language at eighteen months, or two years, whichever comes first.”

  “Probably eighteen months. To what regime are you wedded?”

  “Three tutors, some doubling as nannies, who are already on board. Chinese and German let’s say. Then you could pick the third language. I’m torn between French and Arabic. What would you pick?”

  “Probably French, but maybe something from the Middle East might be more useful. What about French instead of German?”

  “We can settle that one. As you can tell, I’m willing to compromise, just following the bare bones of the project. At four we would move into geography and simple mathematics. Once again these are goals. I’ve become fairly flexible.”

  “We would use tutors for every subject?”

  “Again, yes. But we could drill them on geography and other topics. We must stress the importance of these subjects. They must also give up certain segments of social activity.”

  “Such as playing with other children?”

  “Not entirely, but keeping it to a minimum. They will of course be smarter than other children, that is better educated, book-wise, school-wise.”

  “Might they be boring?”

  “I’ve considered that,” Orson said solemnly. “It depends on their personality and that of their tutors and nannies. There should be fun times.”

  “What about scheduling?”

  “How many hours of schooling a day? I’ve thought of six days a week and half a day Sunday. Probably the morning would be best for learning on Sunday so they might look forward to an afternoon off. Then we section out the day. Certain subjects take two hours, others three. So there might be three, three-hour segments in the day, or two three-hour segments and two two-hour segments.”

  “This would eat up either nine or ten hours a day, six days a week, except Sunday. Am I with you?”

  “With the standard 24-hour day, either of these would take up less than half the time. When the children are young they should sleep eight to nine hours a night. With ten hours for lessons and nine hours for sleep, the max, that’s nineteen hours. Which leaves five for eating, personal hygiene and simply goofing off. Now that’s the broad structure. How does that hit you?”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “But can you get on board?”

  “We might be criticized, but I don’t see anything actually inhumane about it. I mean something that might bring us jail time. So, yes. It sounds like a grand experiment. Child rearing in academia. What if they rebel?"

  “That’s a possibility, particularly after puberty. But by that time they will have learned discipline, learned to do without such things as frivolous TV and other non-essentials. Of course they must stay abreast of world events. Possibly MSNBC and NPR will be standbys. Harpers, The New Yorker, The Post if we stay in Washington. But not enough outside reading to tax their young minds.”

  Katrina couldn’t help herself and burst out laughing. “Of course we don’t want to tax their young minds,” she finally blurted. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ll try it.”

  “We should marry very soon,” Orson said.

  “You’ve got my vote. I’ll tell them to take Kafka and shove it. Can I teach Alice ballet?”

  “Teach them both to dance in their idle hours,” Orson said with a grin. “Tell me, in the Kafka thing is there a costume, or how does one transform oneself into an insect?”

  “Frankly, it’s a good note to go out on. They see me as a ‘danseur noble,’ but I’ve never thought of myself in that light. So one gets this horrid black stuff smeared on the body, possibly along the lines of an emerging insect. I think the idea is to become an insect right there before everyone’s eyes.”

  “Have you no shame?”

  “Apparently not. It’s not easy, but the human form is blended with that of an insect. It’s monstrous and if done properly, the audience might be moved to the screaming heebie-jeebies. Some will see it as a metaphor, others literally. Writhing on the floor – like raw sex on the stage. Thanks for taking me away from all this, Orson.” She gave him a hug then turned quickly away. A dancer’s move?