Page 10 of Lone Spy

I’m my grandmother’s only living relative—her brothers and sister all died in concentration camps during the Holocaust. My grandfather passed before I was born. And my parents’ car accident happened when I was eleven.

Eleven…tears burn hard at the back of my eyes, the loss of my mom suddenly a fresh wound. I can’t. I can’t.

This shouldn’t be legal! I yank open a drawer. It didn’t used to be legal. I let out a slow breath but my chest remains tight. The Supreme Court will decide within the next month. Just another bomb waiting to explode.

I pull out running clothes and try to slam the drawer back into place. I’m thwarted again by the pneumatic softening, and it closes with a gentled sigh.

I pause, breathe. Close my eyes. Notice the tightness in my chest, the sharp pain throbbing at my temples, the heat behind my eyes. I inhale, cool air passing over my lips. Then I exhale, the breath warm.

Opening my eyes, I'm staring at the sneaker section of my closet. And I just want to fucking scream. But I reach for socks instead, my hand brushing against an old worn paperback. I pause, forgetting the footwear and staring down at the edge of the book.The Twentieth Day of January…a gift from Vladimir Petrov.

I pull it out. On the cover a Soviet sickle and a pistol rest on a spread of hundred-dollar bills. The pages are yellowed, the scent that classic old book smell. I read it in one night. It’s hard to believe that was me. That I am her. The woman who didn’t know. Didn’t understand the machinations of influence and power.

I swallow the fear that haunted me the first night I read this novel—this gift from a Russian oligarch—about a presidential candidate under the control of the Soviet Union.

Published in 1980,The Twentieth Day of Januaryis a classic spy novel about an American businessman from a wealthy East Coast family who, with very little political experience, and spouting populist rhetoric, manages to win the presidency against far more experienced opponents.

Check.

A CIA operative discovers the plot and realizes that the Kremlin is in control of the President-elect. This creates a crisis for the intelligence agency: let a man with hidden ties to the Soviet Union become President, or create a possible Constitutional crisis by exposing the plot?

Check.

A no-win situation. The book, however, has a satisfying ending. The President-elect’s wife is shown the compromising materials being used to blackmail her husband and confronts him. Overwhelmed with shame, he commits suicide before his inauguration.

Grand’s wife is his biggest supporter—in the real world, the morality of women can’t save us. Too many of them stand by her man even as his boot presses on her neck.

Vladimir left this short book on my apartment door in a black bag—something you’d expect to find jewelry in, not an out-of-print spy novel that seems to be the basis for a Russian plot that was unfolding. Unfolded. It’s done now.

Petrov is dead, I cracked his skull open. But like any good evil monster, it just grows another head.

Chris looksup at me as I start down the steps to the beach. The wood is warm under my bare feet. The wind whips, pressing my shorts and T-shirt flush. Chris's eyes bounce from my hips to my breasts and finally to my face. Our eyes meet.

I saw you looking.

Chris clears his throat, and his cheekbones flush pink. The ocean wind toys with his pitch-black hair and presses his blazer tight to his side, exposing the outline of a gun beneath.

The beach spans away on either side of him. The tide has pulled back and while the strip of beach in front of my house is still narrow, it widens where the newer zoning keeps the homes at bay.

"Good afternoon," Chris says with a wary smile. He's not sure what I'm doing down here in my jogging clothes without a security agent to escort me.

"Hey," I say, my tone friendly. "I'm going for a jog."

His brows raise. "We're not prepared for that. But if you give me just a few minutes I can arrange it."

I don't wait.

Chris starts to follow as he speaks into his comms unit. "The Golden Bird is moving."

Actually, a smirk steals over my lips as I reach the wave line, I’m running.

Taking off at a sprint, my bare feet dig into the cold hard-packed sand. A wave froths over my toes, swallowing up to my ankles. I run through it—cold wet grit splashing up my calves.

I don't slow, I don't stop. Each wave surges and I relish the drag, relish the challenge.

Chris can't keep up. It's not his fault. He's in business attire. He's wearing shoes. He shrinks every time I look back.

But then over the pounding of the ocean I hear an engine. A dune buggy buzzes in my direction, the wide tires eating up the beach. It slows to pick up Chris and then, sand spitting in its wake, churns toward me.

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