I Know You Love Him
Chapter Four: The Interim
Some women really do love their husbands. I wasn't one of them. I meant Andrian Lazarey in London. It turned out the British intelligence officer had been in Australia for sometime, but a sudden resurgence of "patriotism" sent him scurrying back to his native soil when I tracked him down. Actually, after I found him and presented the KGB's offer, I think he panicked; he really didn't have much to offer us, and the potential risks of "using" him far outweighed any potential benefits. I soon realized that the real goal of my mission was practically a fore- gone conclusion: this man had to be eliminated. It was still grunt work, and Andrian didn't have nearly as much clearance as I did. But he did help me track down my target once I got to England. I think it was his parentage more than his skills that caused the KGB to partner us. When Andrian proposed, we were far from intimate; I was still sleeping with Alexander, although infrequently. Andrian hadn't even kissed me; he was surprisingly old fashioned that way. (Well, there was that one time in Prague, but every body knows that missions don't really count.) Still, we had been working together very closely for two years. I had come to enjoy his company. His aristocratic manner was sometimes irritating, but paradoxically, I found it endearing as well. I thought about it for a while – what it could mean for both of our careers, what it would be like to be tied to a man in this way, to owe him something. Perhaps it was simply because I was getting older, but the no- strings relationship I had maintained with Alexander Khashinau was beginning to lose some of its appeal. So I did it – I said "yes." In the end, I do not think it was for the illusion of love, but for the tritest of reasons that I entered into marriage: I wanted companionship. What I did not want was a child. I was terrified when I discovered I was pregnant. It happened just a few months after we were married. I was still laughing inside my mind at the irony of Alexander giving me away at the altar. Every doctor I had ever seen told me it would be virtually impossible for me to conceive. I acted disappointed, as everyone expected me to, but secretly, I was relieved. I thanked God and whatever deformed strand of DNA that had bestowed this gift upon me. I knew I would ruin whatever came out of my womb as surely as I had ruined Ella, our younger sister. I was far too selfish to be a mother. And I though I had accepted being tied to Andrian, I never wanted to bear his son. I wish I could say that everything changed when I told my husband, or that everything changed as we waited out the nine months, and I suffered the indignities to my body. I wish I could say my feelings of fear, my selfish concerns, melted the instant my little boy was in my arms. But it was not that way at all. My acceptance of my motherhood was a gradual process. At first, I was afraid to hold him, to even touch him. I was afraid when he cried I would lose my temper and do something incredibly wrong. But when I saw that stupid nanny cradling him, coddling him with such simple-minded, oblivious ease, fury and possessiveness took a hold of me. I'd snatch him from her and hold him clumsily, incorrectly, while we argued. Eventually, I fired her. And it seemed, as soon I grew comfortable with him in my arms, he was too big for me to carry. Indeed, he didn't like being carried, or even holding my hand. What he wanted to wander about on his own, slowly and deliberately examining everything around him. He was a quiet, pensive child with very little resemblance to his father. For this, I was glad. He was, is, incredibly intelligent: in short, a genius. This is not an opinion, colored by a mother's thinly veiled self-importance. It is a fact. They did tests. For four years, we lived a relatively normal, peaceful existence. Andrian, under the guise of his diplomatic title, gathered information for the KGB, and I used my linguistic skills to relay the intel back to Russia in "letters" to Alexander. I wonder sometimes, in those brief moments before I fall asleep at night, if it could have gone on this way indefinitely. Would my apathetic affection for my husband have deepened somehow into love? I doubt it. Alexander came to see us, a visit that was part social-call, part business. For once, the "business" was taken care of surprisingly easily; I assassinated a new arrival to the American embassy (a CIA plant) and got home in time to have dinner with my family. Andrian was not pleased. Though he would never admit it, he found it very emasculating that I had been tapped for this assignment and he hadn't. But I had a record for "clean" kills, executed with a minimum of fuss; in contrast, he was sloppy. " I suppose this will increase your status," he said over dinner, referring to my standing with the KGB. Knowing how it grated on him, I had to smile. Sometimes, he was so controlling, and I relished the few opportunities I had to remind him of my power. "Don't be jealous, darling. I'll still be your obedient wife." The look he gave me indicated that he did not find my attitude amusing. "Of course, when it comes to official matters, you might have to take orders from me..." He gave me the "You're really pushing it now Katya" look. "Oh, relax." I sighed, annoyed with him for being irritated so easily. Was he that insecure? He had been doing so much of the "work" lately. I deserved this. He grunted, frowned. Julian, my son, looked from one of us to the other, sensing the tension. "Mommy, help me get ready for bed," he said in Russian. Andrian smiled. He was always pleased at how naturally Julian spoke our native tongue, despite his English-soaked surroundings. "You need to finish dinner," I said automatically. I winced when I realized how stereotypical I sounded. He pushed his food around on his plate and made a face. "Your mother is right; you are far too skinny. Eat. All your intelligence is nothing without strength." This was Andrian's idea of praise. Julian started in on his dinner again, chewing slowly, as if he were mulling over every bite. His father was pleased that his words seemed to hold more sway over our son than mine. Like it was some damn competition. I surprised myself with the force of this thought. Perhaps I was just irritable because it had been a long day. I smiled tightly at my husband to signify a truce. I think of this as our last "happy" moment together. Later, as I gave Julian a bath, he said solemnly, "We fixed Dad's feelings, huh?" and I could've sworn he winked at me. I gave my husband a seductive glance as we got ready for bed. Fool that I was, I thought a little exercise in passion would change his mood. I was at a point in my life when I was almost beginning to believe I loved him. "You seem to be very friendly with Khashinau." I stiffened. Had I confused professional envy with personal jealousy? Perhaps he was insecure, not as an agent, but as a man. "Well, we did work together for a long time back home." "Was that all you did, work together?" I turned to face him fully. At least he was being direct. "We were lovers." His face tightened. His hands clenched, grasping the blankets on our bed. "Why did you not tell me this?" "Because you never asked. Just as I never asked you all the sordid details about whom you slept with before we were together. Honestly, Andrian –" Suddenly, he was up from the bed, his hand gripping my arm painfully. Before I could react, he had hit me, and I fell to the floor. He dragged back up. He sat me down in front of the mirror, on the edge of the bed. "Look at yourself," he whispered. "You bitch. Haven't I been good enough for you? Have you gotten bored with me? What do you want? The exciting life, sleeping with a different man in every city? Laughing before you make the next kill?" My mouth opened and no sound came out. I was in shock. He threw me down on the bed. "Go to sleep," he snarled. I heard him stomp through the house, leave, slam the front door, knowing Julian must have heard. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A jealous, broken man ... no, I simply couldn't have done it. It was just too cliché, too melodramatic, too much like a tragic novel. But when he came home, reeking of vodka, he pushed himself on top of me, in the darkness. And it was only because I was too strong and he was too drunk that nothing happened. As I pushed him off of me and fled for the living room couch, I knew the truth I had married a man like my father.
Chapter Four: The Interim
Some women really do love their husbands. I wasn't one of them. I meant Andrian Lazarey in London. It turned out the British intelligence officer had been in Australia for sometime, but a sudden resurgence of "patriotism" sent him scurrying back to his native soil when I tracked him down. Actually, after I found him and presented the KGB's offer, I think he panicked; he really didn't have much to offer us, and the potential risks of "using" him far outweighed any potential benefits. I soon realized that the real goal of my mission was practically a fore- gone conclusion: this man had to be eliminated. It was still grunt work, and Andrian didn't have nearly as much clearance as I did. But he did help me track down my target once I got to England. I think it was his parentage more than his skills that caused the KGB to partner us. When Andrian proposed, we were far from intimate; I was still sleeping with Alexander, although infrequently. Andrian hadn't even kissed me; he was surprisingly old fashioned that way. (Well, there was that one time in Prague, but every body knows that missions don't really count.) Still, we had been working together very closely for two years. I had come to enjoy his company. His aristocratic manner was sometimes irritating, but paradoxically, I found it endearing as well. I thought about it for a while – what it could mean for both of our careers, what it would be like to be tied to a man in this way, to owe him something. Perhaps it was simply because I was getting older, but the no- strings relationship I had maintained with Alexander Khashinau was beginning to lose some of its appeal. So I did it – I said "yes." In the end, I do not think it was for the illusion of love, but for the tritest of reasons that I entered into marriage: I wanted companionship. What I did not want was a child. I was terrified when I discovered I was pregnant. It happened just a few months after we were married. I was still laughing inside my mind at the irony of Alexander giving me away at the altar. Every doctor I had ever seen told me it would be virtually impossible for me to conceive. I acted disappointed, as everyone expected me to, but secretly, I was relieved. I thanked God and whatever deformed strand of DNA that had bestowed this gift upon me. I knew I would ruin whatever came out of my womb as surely as I had ruined Ella, our younger sister. I was far too selfish to be a mother. And I though I had accepted being tied to Andrian, I never wanted to bear his son. I wish I could say that everything changed when I told my husband, or that everything changed as we waited out the nine months, and I suffered the indignities to my body. I wish I could say my feelings of fear, my selfish concerns, melted the instant my little boy was in my arms. But it was not that way at all. My acceptance of my motherhood was a gradual process. At first, I was afraid to hold him, to even touch him. I was afraid when he cried I would lose my temper and do something incredibly wrong. But when I saw that stupid nanny cradling him, coddling him with such simple-minded, oblivious ease, fury and possessiveness took a hold of me. I'd snatch him from her and hold him clumsily, incorrectly, while we argued. Eventually, I fired her. And it seemed, as soon I grew comfortable with him in my arms, he was too big for me to carry. Indeed, he didn't like being carried, or even holding my hand. What he wanted to wander about on his own, slowly and deliberately examining everything around him. He was a quiet, pensive child with very little resemblance to his father. For this, I was glad. He was, is, incredibly intelligent: in short, a genius. This is not an opinion, colored by a mother's thinly veiled self-importance. It is a fact. They did tests. For four years, we lived a relatively normal, peaceful existence. Andrian, under the guise of his diplomatic title, gathered information for the KGB, and I used my linguistic skills to relay the intel back to Russia in "letters" to Alexander. I wonder sometimes, in those brief moments before I fall asleep at night, if it could have gone on this way indefinitely. Would my apathetic affection for my husband have deepened somehow into love? I doubt it. Alexander came to see us, a visit that was part social-call, part business. For once, the "business" was taken care of surprisingly easily; I assassinated a new arrival to the American embassy (a CIA plant) and got home in time to have dinner with my family. Andrian was not pleased. Though he would never admit it, he found it very emasculating that I had been tapped for this assignment and he hadn't. But I had a record for "clean" kills, executed with a minimum of fuss; in contrast, he was sloppy. " I suppose this will increase your status," he said over dinner, referring to my standing with the KGB. Knowing how it grated on him, I had to smile. Sometimes, he was so controlling, and I relished the few opportunities I had to remind him of my power. "Don't be jealous, darling. I'll still be your obedient wife." The look he gave me indicated that he did not find my attitude amusing. "Of course, when it comes to official matters, you might have to take orders from me..." He gave me the "You're really pushing it now Katya" look. "Oh, relax." I sighed, annoyed with him for being irritated so easily. Was he that insecure? He had been doing so much of the "work" lately. I deserved this. He grunted, frowned. Julian, my son, looked from one of us to the other, sensing the tension. "Mommy, help me get ready for bed," he said in Russian. Andrian smiled. He was always pleased at how naturally Julian spoke our native tongue, despite his English-soaked surroundings. "You need to finish dinner," I said automatically. I winced when I realized how stereotypical I sounded. He pushed his food around on his plate and made a face. "Your mother is right; you are far too skinny. Eat. All your intelligence is nothing without strength." This was Andrian's idea of praise. Julian started in on his dinner again, chewing slowly, as if he were mulling over every bite. His father was pleased that his words seemed to hold more sway over our son than mine. Like it was some damn competition. I surprised myself with the force of this thought. Perhaps I was just irritable because it had been a long day. I smiled tightly at my husband to signify a truce. I think of this as our last "happy" moment together. Later, as I gave Julian a bath, he said solemnly, "We fixed Dad's feelings, huh?" and I could've sworn he winked at me. I gave my husband a seductive glance as we got ready for bed. Fool that I was, I thought a little exercise in passion would change his mood. I was at a point in my life when I was almost beginning to believe I loved him. "You seem to be very friendly with Khashinau." I stiffened. Had I confused professional envy with personal jealousy? Perhaps he was insecure, not as an agent, but as a man. "Well, we did work together for a long time back home." "Was that all you did, work together?" I turned to face him fully. At least he was being direct. "We were lovers." His face tightened. His hands clenched, grasping the blankets on our bed. "Why did you not tell me this?" "Because you never asked. Just as I never asked you all the sordid details about whom you slept with before we were together. Honestly, Andrian –" Suddenly, he was up from the bed, his hand gripping my arm painfully. Before I could react, he had hit me, and I fell to the floor. He dragged back up. He sat me down in front of the mirror, on the edge of the bed. "Look at yourself," he whispered. "You bitch. Haven't I been good enough for you? Have you gotten bored with me? What do you want? The exciting life, sleeping with a different man in every city? Laughing before you make the next kill?" My mouth opened and no sound came out. I was in shock. He threw me down on the bed. "Go to sleep," he snarled. I heard him stomp through the house, leave, slam the front door, knowing Julian must have heard. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A jealous, broken man ... no, I simply couldn't have done it. It was just too cliché, too melodramatic, too much like a tragic novel. But when he came home, reeking of vodka, he pushed himself on top of me, in the darkness. And it was only because I was too strong and he was too drunk that nothing happened. As I pushed him off of me and fled for the living room couch, I knew the truth I had married a man like my father.