Beautiful Assassin (39 page)

“I don’t know exactly. But they think they can get important information from her. And they are prepared to blackmail her. About her personal life. It’s all absurd.”

He laughed at this, his scarred mouth knotting his face to one side. Then he took another drink, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“They want me to…become ‘friendly’ with Captain Taylor,” I offered, feeling embarrassed even saying it out loud. “They think we might be able to use him to get information about her.”

“So what are you going to do, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What have you told the American captain?”

“About what?”

“Have you confided in him anything that Vasilyev has asked you to do?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“Be careful around him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just think you should. Don’t trust the Americans either.”

“But why?”

“Just don’t.”

I thought of asking him more but decided not to go down that path. At least not right then.

“And what are you going to do, Viktor?”

He shook his head. “I’m not going to spy for that swine Vasilyev, that’s for sure. You and I, Lieutenant, we are soldiers. But this is not fighting. This is the usual trickery from those
chekist
bastards. The same ones that carted my father off in the middle of the night. They can get somebody else.”

“They’ll punish you,” I said.

He seemed to want to say something, but I could see that he wasn’t fully certain he could trust me.

“I’ll play their game. Smile and nod. But when the time is right, I’ll make my move.”

“Move?”

“The less you know, Lieutenant, the better.”

“You can trust me, Viktor.”

“It’s not that. I figure what you don’t know, they can’t get out of you.” He looked down at his bruised ribs. “They can make a stone talk, those pricks.”

I got up and went over to him. I took his face in my hands and looked at him.

“Think about the consequences,” I said to him.

“I have.”

I shook my head. “Since I can’t talk you out of it, at least be careful, Viktor.”

“Don’t worry. I will. You too, Lieutenant.”

T
hat afternoon a bellhop delivered my new clothes to my room. Vasilyev had picked out an entire outfit—a crepe de chine dress, a pair of uncomfortable shoes with wobbly high heels, an evening clutch that was no bigger than an ammo pouch, gold earrings, even a new brassiere that pushed up my breasts. The dress was breathtaking, made of a sheer black material, with sequins and gathered shoulders and a daring décolletage. I don’t know how or where Vasilyev had bought it, but again, he proved the magician. It fit me perfectly, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I thought, My God, who is that? I felt naked without my uniform, a turtle stripped of its shell. How could I go out looking like this? I considered telling Vasilyev I refused to wear it. The Americans expected a soldier, not some Hollywood pinup girl. I knew, though, that this was exactly Vasilyev’s plan, to make me look seductive. But the more I stared at myself, turning this way and that, the more I liked what I saw. I had to admit the fat scoundrel had good taste—the outfit was absolutely gorgeous. Never had I worn anything so fine, not even to my own wedding. For the first time in what seemed like years, I felt sensual, desirable, not like a soldier but like a woman again.

I kept thinking of my conversations with both Vasilyev and Viktor. How the former had wanted me to become friendly with the captain, and how the latter had given me a warning regarding the American. What did he mean by that?

Around six Vasilyev came to my room to tell me that Mrs. Roosevelt’s party was waiting for me downstairs in the lobby. Draped over his arm he carried a garment bag.

“Turn around,” he said. I did an awkward pirouette in my new shoes. He stared at me for a moment, his dark eyes seeming to frown.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, suddenly feeling like an insecure girl before her first dance.

“No. It’s just that you look stunning, Lieutenant,” he exclaimed.

“You don’t think it’s too…revealing?”

“Not at all. You’re a beautiful woman. That dress is very becoming on you.”

He lay the garment bag on the bed and removed its contents. There was the mink coat I had received from the furriers’ union.

“Try it on,” he said.

I took the coat from him and drew it over my shoulders, then looked at myself in the mirror.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“The question is, Lieutenant, what do you think?”

“It’s all right,” I said nonchalantly.

Vasilyev chuckled. “Always the obstinate one. Why can’t you simply admit that you like it?”

Finally I conceded. “All right, I like it.”

“Just one of the many advantages of cooperating,” he said. “When you return home, I think you shall find similar benefits awaiting you. They are quite pleased with your work here.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, who was pleased or what work I had accomplished. I hadn’t really done much except for giving a few speeches and interviews, reporting back to him about my conversations with Mrs. Roosevelt, and very little of what I’d told him in regards to that seemed of particular importance. I could only wonder what he had been telling them back home about me that had so pleased them.

“Lieutenant, some time during the evening,” Vasilyev said, “I would like you to bring up the subject of whether Mrs. Roosevelt likes foreign food.”

“Foreign food? Whatever for?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to work it into the conversation. From there it shouldn’t be hard to turn the conversation to whether her husband is fond of foreign food.”

“What’s all this about?”

“Our sources tell us that the president is traveling overseas in the near future. It would be of great value to us if we can confirm that.”

“And you think she’ll just come out and tell me this if I bring up whether they like foreign food? That’s ridiculous.”

“Such talk might make her allude to the fact that her husband has plans for travel. And if not, you might quietly broach the subject with the captain. It’s possible he’ll be accompanying them.”

When we reached the lobby, I saw Mrs. Roosevelt, Miss Hickok, and Captain Taylor, along with four or five Secret Service agents in dark suits. They reminded me of our own
chekisty
—silent men with the wary eyes of a cat. Over the past few days I had noticed that their presence had become more apparent, more visible, as if they were suddenly concerned about the First Lady’s safety.

“My goodness. You look simply ravishing, my dear,” Mrs. Roosevelt said to me through the captain.

“Thank you,” I replied.

As we got into the waiting limousine, Captain Taylor said, “You do look ravishing.”

I felt myself blush and had to look away. I thought of my conversation with Vasilyev, about not discouraging his attentions. I turned toward him and smiled. “Thank you, Captain,” I said.

The four of us chatted pleasantly as we drove through the city, ablaze with lights now as the evening approached.

That night we went to the opera, where we sat in a special box reserved for Mrs. Roosevelt, just above the stage, so close that we could look down and see the actors’ facial expressions. Captain Taylor sat between us, so that he could translate, while behind us the two Secret Service men stood guard. The opera, I was informed, was
Porgy and Bess,
by the American composer Gershwin. Before the performance, the captain read the program to me so that I had a basic understanding of the story. Once the opera began, I found I could follow along without
knowing exactly what they were saying. The woman who played Bess was my favorite, a large-bosomed soprano with a rich mahogany complexion and a gorgeous voice that resounded through the auditorium. Though the story was about Negroes, I saw not a single black face in the theater. When I mentioned this fact to Captain Taylor, he said, “It’s a segregated theater. They don’t allow Negroes.”

“Given the subject, doesn’t that seem hypocritical?” I said.

He conceded a nod, then with a smile added, “They are second-class citizens. Sort of like your kulaks.”

After the show, we went out for a late dinner at the Russian Tea Room. I was struck by the bright reds and golds, the gaudy opulence of the place. In some ways it reminded me of the Kremlin.

“I thought you would feel right at home here,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. Of course, I didn’t reply that this was hardly the sort of place where the average Soviet dined.

Mrs. Roosevelt ordered champagne for the table while Miss Hickok got a scotch. Not far away lurked several Secret Service agents. For a while the four of us talked about the opera.

“Did you like it?” the First Lady asked me.

“Very much indeed,” I replied. “But if I may be so blunt, it appears to bring up much that is unflattering about your capitalist system.”

“There’s plenty of unflattering things to write about in our country,” remarked Miss Hickok as she sipped her drink.

“Did not the writer get in trouble with the authorities?” I asked.

“Mr. Gershwin is no longer with us, I’m afraid,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt.

“Oh,” I exclaimed. I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Was he shot?”

Mrs. Roosevelt and Miss Hickok exchanged incredulous looks, then both broke out in peals of laughter.

“Why, heavens, no,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. “He died of a brain tumor. We don’t deal with objectionable material like that. People are pretty much free to write whatever they want.”

“Even when it’s a lie,” Miss Hickok interjected. She threw a conspiratorial glance at Mrs. Roosevelt.

“We have something called the First Amendment,” explained Mrs. Roosevelt. “It protects freedom of speech.”

“Though sometimes I think it might not be such a bad idea if we shot a few in this country,” Miss Hickok said, without breaking a smile.

“Oh, stop it, Hick,” Mrs. Roosevelt offered with a laugh. “You’ll give the poor girl the wrong idea.”

All this time, Captain Taylor nimbly translated what we said, hardly stopping to catch his breath. Occasionally, when there was a lull in the conversation, he’d glance over at me and smile.

“The smoked sturgeon is very good, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Roosevelt said to me.

A waiter appeared to fill our water glasses. He was middle-aged, with a broad, well-lined face and high cheekbones. He spoke English well, but with a heavy Russian accent. Bowing deferentially to Mrs. Roosevelt, he said something to her, which made her smile. Then he turned to me and said in Russian, “And you are Lieutenant Levchenko, no?”

I nodded.

“I recognize your picture from the newspaper. It is a great honor to meet such a famous countryman,” he said, with a little bow.

“Where do you come from?” I asked.

“St. Petersburg,” the man replied. “Now they call it Leningrad? Everything there goes by another name now.”

“Do you miss home?” I asked.

“The Russia I knew is gone forever. But I have my memories.” He stared at me for a moment, then glanced around, leaned toward me and whispered, “Even here one has to be careful what one says. I will pray for your safety, Lieutenant.”

His comment struck me as odd.

Mrs. Roosevelt said, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I am absolutely famished.”

When the champagne arrived, Mrs. Roosevelt proposed a toast.

“
Da blagoslovit vas Gospod,
” she said to me.

“Your Russian is much improving,” I attempted in my awkward English. Then, through the captain, I said, “May God bless and keep you as well, my friend.”

We conversed pleasantly throughout dinner. At one point Miss Hickok said that perhaps we ought to stop talking and give poor Mr. Taylor a chance to eat some of his dinner before it got cold. As I sat there, I kept looking over at Mrs. Roosevelt. She would smile kindly at me and with gestures inquire if I was enjoying my dinner. I nodded and returned the smile, but secretly I kept thinking about Vasilyev’s request. It didn’t sit well with me. It seemed one thing to pass on to him what Mrs. Roosevelt freely talked about in a conversation, but quite another to actually conspire to trick her into confiding something she might not otherwise. I felt, in a way I hadn’t before, as if I were betraying her trust. And yet, I told myself that it didn’t seem to me all that important whether her husband was traveling abroad or not. And, I reasoned, as their allies, shouldn’t we know if their president was going overseas?

“Mrs. Roosevelt,” I began, “do you like foreign food?”

“Some,” she replied. “But I’m afraid my tastes are rather pedestrian when it comes to food. Why do you ask, my dear?”

“Just that you have to travel about so much. And your husband, does he like foreign food?”

“I think being away from home is harder on Franklin than it is on me. Franklin gets tired quite easily, and he’s a finicky eater. He prefers plain old American food—hot dogs and pancakes and fried cornmeal,” she explained with a chuckle.

“What does he do when he has to travel abroad?”

“His stomach is rather delicate. I’m always afraid he won’t eat and he’ll lose strength.”

I paused for a moment before continuing. “Hopefully, he won’t have to travel out of the country for a while.”

Before translating this last part, Captain Taylor looked over at me and gave me a searching look. Did he see through my rather crude ploy, or was it simply my own nervousness?

“I only wish that were the case,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt.

She didn’t elaborate and I decided that if I pressed the issue it would look suspicious. So I decided to change the subject.

“I will miss New York,” I offered. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t have more time to see it,” offered Miss Hickok.

We were scheduled to leave in two days for the rest of our cross-country tour.

“You have only the one interview scheduled for tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “I was thinking that Captain Taylor could give you a tour of the city after that? You could have the entire day. What do you say?”

“I suppose.”

“How about you, Captain?” she asked him.

He seemed preoccupied, as if something didn’t sit right with him about being asked to act as my tour guide. “I’d be happy to show her about the town if you’d like.”

On the drive back to the hotel, we were tired and rode mostly in silence. I sat across from Mrs. Roosevelt, and Miss Hickok beside Captain Taylor. I avoided any sort of eye contact with him, staring out the window at the passing spectacle of New York at night. At one point, though, I happened to steal a glance at Mrs. Roosevelt, whose hand rested on the seat beside that of Miss Hickok. The latter’s little finger inched over until it was resting on the sapphire ring on Mrs. Roosevelt’s hand. The finger made small circular motions about the ring, rubbing it, caressing it. Watching them, I felt like a voyeur.

It was well past midnight when we reached the hotel. I thanked Mrs. Roosevelt for a wonderful evening and started to get out, but she put a hand on my arm. She said something to the captain.

“She wants me to see you up to your room,” he said.

“There’s no need for that,” I replied.

“She insists. This is New York, not Moscow.”

When we reached my room I said, “I’m fine now, Captain. Thank you. By the way, you really don’t have to escort me around tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I sensed that you agreed to take me just because Mrs. Roosevelt asked you to.”

“No, I’m really looking forward to it. I just…well, never mind.”

He stood awkwardly there for a moment.

“Shouldn’t you be getting back? Mrs. Roosevelt will be waiting for you.”

“I told her I would take a taxi. Is something the matter, Tat’yana?” he pleaded.

“No. Nothing, Captain.”

“I thought we agreed that you’d call me Jack, at least when it’s just the two of us,” he said, drawing his soft mouth into an almost childish pout.

“Of course. Jack.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked again.

I thought then of Viktor’s warning, that I shouldn’t trust the Americans any more than I did Vasilyev and his bunch. Despite this, I found myself drawn to Captain Taylor. Something about him that I liked, his smile, his soft mouth, the vulnerability that his missing arm lent to him. He had the sort of looks that made you want to pour your heart out to him.