April 25, 2004
Chicago, ILL
"We are who we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."
-Kurt Vonnegut
The thick, obfuscating air carried the mutterings and chatterings of the various clusters of men back to the stage. The redhead with the microphone might as well have been an especially voluptuous piece of furniture as they discussed their unsavory business transactions in rapid Russian. She finished her last song with a jazzy flourish, smiled graciously in response to the raucous applause, wolf-whistles, and catcalls, and murmured a demure, atrociously-pronounced "spasibo," and stepped down from her pedestal.
The moment her comically high-heeled, sparkling shoe touched the filthy floor of the speakeasy, the singer was accosted by several hopeful regulars, clamoring for her attention. Animals.
"Kotik, come sit on my knee and bring me luck. You always turn the game in my favor."
"Ignore him, Vivian, lapochka. Let me buy you one of those sugar drinks you love so much."
"Such a lovely performance, zvyozdozchka moya. A voice like honey and velvet."
She held up a hand and smiled.
"Thank you so much, gentlemen. I'll watch a game or two, but if I am to be fair to all of you, I can't favor one player. Your luck is your own, darlings." There was a collective groan of disappointment. The largest and most bearded man wrapped an arm around her waist.
"If you won't choose, then, a night of passion for the biggest winner?" he hazarded, grinning down at her. She lowered her eyes and giggled. Jesus fucking Christ, how does he manage to smell like a rotting carcass and a burning building at the same time?
"Igor Andreivich, you know better than that. What would Alexei say if he knew how you were talking to me? I will bestow one kiss, and it will be to the one who loses the most. That way I'll know which of you loves me more than money." As she spoke, she raised a finger and tweaked his nose before maneuvering deftly out of his grip. Igor brayed with laughter. He gestured to the other men, who abandoned their respective games and pulled together several tables. One man dragged over a bar stool for the coveted Vivian, who thanked him with a coy smile.
Within a minute, almost every man in the bar was seated or gathered around a single, central game. Those who were not playing watched and conversed quietly on the outskirts. The singer sat in the midst of the crowd, surveying the game and letting the various exchanges wash over her.
A few rounds in, the players began bantering. The contents of the repartee began as dull insults and cursing, but as the competition for dominance became more aggressive, business talk seeped in, safely encoded in Russian. The youngest, most inexperienced shestyorka, Grigori Bragin, was the biggest talker. To Vivian's annoyance, he was also the least informed. He blustered at length about the bank robberies that he had coordinated. Old news, Grisha. Please shut up.
"Oh please, that's small change. What did you bring in from those, a few thousand? You barely cover your own cost, Grisha." Finally, Igor was speaking. The young upstart's prattling had set him on edge, baited him to establish dominance. So you are useful for something.
Grisha's hackles rose at the other man's dismissal. Vivian watched the cards with a rapt expression, careful not to betray any sign of understanding the ongoing argument.
"Oh yeah? What makes you so special, then, old man? You don't bring in any money, you're just the boss's personal lapdog." There was a chorus of uproarious laughter from the younger men, but the more experienced members of the congregation shot each other uncomfortable, knowing glances. Vivian looked around the table, feigning confusion at the sudden fugue.
"Did somebody win?" she asked innocently, earning herself several fond chuckles and endearments, and one muttered "dumb slut."
"No, mishka, just a little fool running his mouth off," Igor looked up at her with a fond smile, but it did not reach his eyes. That's odd. I thought he adored me.
They returned to the game, and the discussion escalated.
"If you want to know my importance, you'll have to start earning a little more status. Arkady Ivanovich doesn't let just anyone visit his menagerie."
So. Igor manages the ring. Good to know. He won't be stupid enough to tell me where they are, though. He's a cunning bastard.
"Menagerie?" demanded Grisha, fuming now. "What are you talking about?"
The little whelp is going to get himself sliced to pieces, she reflected indifferently. Then: Since when did knowledge like that stop bothering me? He's an idiot and a crook, but he deserves it a lot less than most of the psychopaths in this room.
Partly to defuse tension, partly because the affectation she had assumed to play her part had grown into a full-fledged addiction, Vivian pulled out a cigarette and put it between her lips. Immediately, every man in her vicinity produced a lighter. She smiled and leaned forward, allowing a young krysha the honor. She raised her eyes to his and treated him to a slow, silken smile. He blushed under her gaze.
The game continued as she she blew smoke rings across the room, looking bored. She tried to relax the tension in her body as she waited for Igor to answer his youthful challenger, but he only shot the kid a pitying look and changed the subject, speaking in English now.
"Vasil Antonovich tells me that you've been helping him with paperwork, kotik." He spoke affectionately, but when he looked up at Vivian from across the table, his expression was suddenly shrewd.
Fuck. Is Vasil under suspicion now? She nodded eagerly, her eyes lighting up with girlish enthusiasm.
"Yes, he lets me do the numbers for the reports-the English ones, anyway. It keeps me busy when you boys are too busy to pay attention to me."
"I am glad that you have an occupation. Perhaps you ought to take a position in Arkady's offices." Igor's English was extraordinarily formal and heavily accented, as though he had learned it exclusively from British literature.
"I would love to! Would you recommend me, darling?" Her excitement now was genuine, though her motivations were-she hoped-concealed.
"If only you spoke Russian, kotik," he said, watching her closely, " I would be glad to have an assistant with your… wonderful attributes. As it is, if you are serious about working for Arkady, I will find you a position." She smiled her brightest smile and hurried around the table to kiss his bristly cheek, as though she hadn't noticed his scrutiny.
"Oh, thank you, Igor!" Calm down, woman, He doesn't know anything. "You won't regret it!"
The game dragged on and ended without revealing any more useful information. A speckled youth, who had managed to lose not only every penny he had, but also his Rolex, a valuable gold signet ring, and a diamond ring meant for his would-have-been bretrothed, hurried forward to claim his kiss. She rose to the tips of her toes and kissed his nose.
"Save the rest of that eagerness for your girl, darling," she advised him, smiling sweetly. Then, wading through the sea of grasping, greedy hands and spirited catcalls-God, I wish I didn't speak Russian-she vanished into her dressing room.
Standing in front of her sumptuous vanity table, Helena Blythe stepped out of her preposterous shoes, wiped off copious layers of makeup, removed the heavy diamond drops from her ears and throat, and shed the slinky, low-backed dress, sloughing off the character of Vivian Grant like a snake's skin.
She leaned against the wall, willing her heart to stop hammering and contemplating her next move. If Igor really did suspect her, then she needed to get herself and her informants out and under police protection as quickly as possible. If he didn't, however… then this was the opportunity she had been waiting for.
She checked the clock on the wall. 2:30 am. It won't do me any good to think about this now. If they kill me in my sleep, well, so it goes.
Despite her resolution, her mind raced through the possibilities as she dressed in a flowing floral dress that Alexei liked. Her vivid imagination conjured horrifying images of exactly what Igor might do if he knew who she was. She thought of gentle Katya. No matter what happens to me, they'll do worse to her. And every minute she suffers at their hands will be my fault.
Quietly, she snuck out the back door and melted into the darkness, her conscience snapping at her heels all the way home.
Alexei woke late into the morning to the bracing aroma of strong coffee drifting through the bedroom door. His foggy, uncomplicated thoughts registered pleasure and anticipation, but little else. He stretched out and closed his eyes, listening intently. Sure enough, warm strands of Vivian's voice came floating from the kitchen, wrapping around him and filling him with boyish joy. He bounded out of bed and into the kitchen to find his girl bustling around the kitchen, dressed in his favorite dress, copper hair braided over her shoulder. At the sound of his heavy footfall, she turned and gave him a dazzling smile.
"Darling," she murmured, rushing forward to kiss him ardently. "I missed you last night." She pulled back and looked at him with gentle reproach. "I thought you were going to watch my performance." He pulled her in again and she yielded immediately.
"I'm sorry, my dove," he said, burying his nose into the crook of her neck. "You know how my work tires me. But," he continued, in a tone that he knew she would recognize. She did not disappoint: her eyes lit up and a smile began to supersede her pout, "I think I have a way to make it up to you. Cover your eyes."
She obeyed with alacrity, and he hurried to the door to fish his offering from the pocket of his coat. He pressed it into her small, white hand. She opened her eyes and gasped in astonishment and joy.
"Oh Alexei, it's so lovely! You spoil me, darling. It's too much." But she was already hastening to a mirror to admire the glittering ruby necklace against her ample white decolletage. He followed her and fastened the clasp for her, then wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck and back, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress. She giggled coquettishly. "Don't you want coffee first?" she asked, turning around and pressing up against him, hands finding his chest.
"No."
Vivian Grant spent several ecstatic hours wearing only the flaming rubies that her lover had brought back to her. Helena Blythe spent them in a silent panic. Her calls to Vasil and Katya had gone unanswered, and now she was trapped without information until Alexei had his fill of her. She channeled her anxiety and tension into their vigorous love making until, finally, the man fell back on the bed, thoroughly spent.
"You are spectacular, Vivian," he panted, propping himself up on his elbows and watching her carry in a tray, the breakfast he had interrupted beautifully arranged upon it. Vivian shot him a shy smile, overtaken as usual by a wave of timidity after asserting herself sexually. Because that's what you want, you hirstute chauvinist. Lady in the streets, freak in the sheets, as they say.
"Is the food still alright?" she asked him anxiously. "I hope it reheated properly."
She found her fingers toying with the necklace, tracing the facets of the crimson stones that lay like drops of blood on her chest. Jesus. Melodramatic much? Still... I've seen this atrocity somewhere. She filed the inquiry away in the back of her mind.
"It's perfect." Again, he kissed her, and Helena sensed the danger that he might be winding up for another round. She cast around for some distraction
"Oh! Igor Andreivich said that he might be able to find me a position in your father's business! Isn't that lovely, darling? We could work together!" His expression of displeasure was plain to see. It was a delicate balance to preserve exactly the right amount of jealousy and mistrust between the two men.
"I thought that you were already helping Vasil with the bookkeeping. And you perform at The Casanova Club. What do you need another job for?" Oof. Definitely too much jealousy.
"Oh! I don't. But I want to be a part of your family, Alexei. Everyone in your family works for your father," she pointed out, eyes wide and guileless. Careful. Don't want him to propose. But Alexei softened and smiled at her, brushing a stray curl away from her face.
"Let's stick to Vasil for now. Igor Andreivich is not a nice man, Vivian. You're sweet and innocent, you can't imagine what that man is capable of."
"Then you should come to my performances! He's always there and he frightens me. Come protect me tonight, baby." No, seriously. Please come prevent me from being gunned down in seven inch heels. I don't want to die in that outfit.
"I wish I could, Vivian, but I'm leaving on a work trip in a few hours." At this, Helena's heart plummeted instantly. It must have shown on her face, because he chuckled and kissed her lovingly.
"You'll miss me?"
"Oh yes." It was the first sincere thing she had said in weeks. "What will I do without my champion?"
"It's only a few days, my dove. I'll bring you back something sparkly." Vivian remained sulky, so that he had to coax her back to him. Helena's mind raced again. She needed to find Vasil. If Alexei was gone, she was unprotected and so were her people. Finally, she yielded and kissed him. Considering her options, she lay back against his chest.
"Darling?" she asked casually.
"Hmmmm?"
"Do you know where Vasil is today? I've got some spreadsheets to finish and I'll be at the Club all night, so I had better do them after you leave this evening."
"I saw him yesterday at The Empire. He's very busy at this time of year." When she did not smile, he relented. "Would you like me to find him for you." She rewarded him with a grin.
"Yes please."
At 5:00 that evening, Vasil met her at their usual place, a small pizzeria well outside of Arkady Volkoff's territory. He looked pale and drawn and continually wiped his face with his silk handkerchief. As usual, they spoke French.
"Lenotchka, thank God you're alright," he gasped, rising to his feet and kissing her forehead tenderly. "Sit, sit. How are you?"
"I'm fine, darling," she reassured him, settling down across the table and taking a voracious bite of the pizza he had ordered. "I was just worried for you. I think Igor suspects one or both of us."
"It's you," he sighed. "He came around The Empire this morning asking about you. I wanted to send you a message, but I didn't know how."
"What was he asking?"
"Whether you'd ever been given access to the documents pertaining to the less than legal side of Volkoff's business. Whether I'd noticed you do anything out of character. I don't think it's occurred to him that I might be involved."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Vasil. The man's ex-KGB; if he suspected you, he'd be able to hide it."
Vasil made a sound similar to one that a dying duck might make. He wiped his forehead again.
"What are we going to do? If Igor finds out who you are… what you've asked of me…" He was going off the rails. Helena mustered every ounce of the kind, reassuring persona she played for him. She interrupted his ramping panic by seizing his hands tightly in hers. He gazed into her eyes, desperate for relief.
"I will get you out of this, Vasil. If Igor brings me in for questioning, I have a list of names to give him and you're not on it. Now: hand me the paperwork so that we keep our cover, go buy a box of pastries next door for your wife, and go home. I'll call you at 9:00 tomorrow morning. If you don't hear from me, gather your family and turn yourself into the police. Give them my name and tell them to call Andi Swann at the FBI. She'll take care of you."
The man was taking deep, shuddering breaths, his eyes still fixed on her. Don't you dare pity him, Blythe. He was complicit in everything Volkoff did for years.
"Vasil, you've been so brave," she murmured, leaning in. "And you've been like a father to me in this nest of vipers." She had said the magic word. His shoulders straightened and his hands, still in her grasp, stopped trembling. He was still frightened, but he could have courage for Lena, a surrogate for the daughter he had disappointed. "Be brave for me one more time, darling."
"For you, Lena, the world."
Helena's shift at the Casanova didn't start until midnight, for which she was grateful. Before Alexei had left, she had asked him the question she desperately needed an answer to.
"How's your mother, Alexei? How's Kat?"
"You're a sweet girl, Vivian. She just left for California for a few days. Father thought that the sun would do her some good; you know how fatigued she becomes."
Thank god. She felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. If the soft-hearted older woman had been found out…. well, it would be near impossible for Helena to live with that. Katya was as close to innocent as it got around here. Certainly more innocent than you, Mata Hari.
Now, she sat in Alexei's apartment, paralyzed by the choice before her. The obvious choice, to request extraction, seemed impossible to her. To give a year of her life to a cause, then to withdraw before the game was over… Helena realized to her dismay that she would rather die than abandon her mission. Idiot nobility. When have I ever been prone to idiot nobility?
Distracted, she began to flip through the documents that Vasil had brought her, expecting only the most innocuous of the Volkoff tax returns. What she saw instead made her heart leap into her throat. The files were in Russian, and detailed with fearsome precision the path through which the mobster laundered his money. No wonder he was so jumpy. Looks like I'm not the only one suffering a bout of idiot nobility today.
She lit a cigarette and kept reading, drinking in the smoke and information, seeking the one tiny detail that she had been searching for, and that would make this mission worth her life and Vasil's. But either it wasn't there or the details were buried too deeply for her to find it on her own. She frowned and leaned back. Whatever she did had to happen fast and silently. Without knowing if this file contained exactly what she needed, she could not yet come in from the cold; she simply had to transmit the information to the CIA quickly before diving back in.
Before tonight, the vicious realist in her remarked. Igor might not wait for proof before he kills you. Your shift starts at midnight; he may very well shoot you the second you walk onto that stage.
Fuck it, let's have a drink. For tomorrow we die.