Kiss of the Assassin

By Joylene Nowell Butler

Marina Antonovna, a Soviet spy, and Mateo Arcusa, an American homicide lieutenant first meet in Cambodia during the Vietnam War as enemies. Fearful that the most powerful man in the Soviet Union, KGB Chairman Vladimir Kurenkov, has ordered her death, Marina risks everything to defect to the United States. She promises Mateo that her days as an assassin are over. Vladimir is determined to do whatever it takes to bring her back and, by threatening Mateo’s life, forces Marina to break her promise.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509241613

Joylene Nowell Butler

Joylene is Métis from Canada. She began her first novel in 1984 to honour her father’s memory. Today she and her husband spread their time between Canada and Bucerias, Nayarit. Her first novel Dead Witness was a finalist in the 2012 Global eBook Awards. Suspense thriller Broken But Not Dead won the 2012 IPPY Silver Medal for Canada West. Mâtowak: Woman Who Cries was released on November 1, 2016. Maski was released on April 18, 2017. The audiobook version of Matowak was released in the summer of 2017. Today Joylene is applying the finishing touches to a new suspense thriller and an epic political novel. She's also working on her first children’s book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A collective farm outside of Moscow, 1956

When Mama shouted, the walls shook.

Marina scurried past her. Papa couldn’t protect her or himself when Mama shouted like that. Safety waited under the table. Careful not to disturb Papa’s porcelain figurine of Christ sitting on top of the table, Marina lifted the faded linen tablecloth and scuttled underneath. The dirty wooden floor was rough, but Marina was practiced at scooting back against the wall without getting a splinter.

You are a fool, Mama yelled.

I am not. I am your husband. I say what will and what will not happen, and you…you…wife, you will listen.

No Papa.

Fearful Mama would hurt him like the last time, cutting his arm deep, both hands clamped around her ears.

The memory brought the warmth of shame to Marina’s cheeks. The village healer had to bandage Papa’s arm. It was the first time she ever felt disgrace for her father. The healer scolded him, calling him a slabovol’ nyy chelovek (weak-willed person), to let his wife rule him. The healer said the neighbors laughed at him because his wife bullied him.

Dear Papa, don’t make Mama angry. Don’t bring the healer back here.

Red-hot coals sizzled in the fireplace, but the wall at Marina’s back chilled her to the bone. She stuffed the hem of her dress in her mouth to keep teeth from chattering.

You have humiliated me for the last time, Mama yelled. You are nobody. You’re a disgrace.

I am your husband, and you must obey. Papa roared in a tone Marina had never heard before. No more tests on my daughter.

The tests. Would Papa put a stop to them?

Marina feared the gray-haired man in the long white coat, the one Mama called a neurophysiologist. He had plunged a needle into the back of her neck on three separate occasions since spring arrived. With each puncture, she screamed in pain until everything went black. Later, when Mama woke her, the throbbing returned even though the sticky tabs were gone. Mama shushed her, demanding she be a good girl, a quiet girl. Her pleas for her Papa were ignored. After each visit, Marina smelled burning straw for days. The other children taunted her when they saw the bruises and freshly shaved spots on her head. Chants of ‘You deserve such punishment’ rang out. But why? They had endured the needle only once; Marina had suffered three times. Why hadn’t Papa saved her?

With a trembling hand, she touched the bald patches on her head. Everything was okay; Papa would protect her now.

The worn tablecloth let bits of evening light seep through, but it could not hold in the day’s heat. Marina shivered so violently the skin on her back felt as if it might flake from scraping the wall. Yes, Papa. Be brave this time.

You stupid little man, do you speak any other language? Mama’s big shoes spread wide. Don’t you understand what these tests prove? The neurophysiologist says Marina is special. At five years of age, she already knows seven languages. You, husband…speak rubbish.

Papa stepped back and bumped the table. Marina heard the figurine of Christ wobble on the tabletop. She gasped. The statue kept them safe and fed. It stopped the monsters, who scratched at the window at night, from hurting them. Papa said it always would. But if the statue broke, who would protect them?

Marina waited with bated breath for the figurine to topple over and roll off the table. She peeked out from underneath the tablecloth, hoping to catch it if it fell. Instead, she saw Mama lean over Papa, her eyes bulging. Marina sank back.

The tests prove that not only is she a linguistic prodigy, she has a special gene, Mama said. How often must I explain this to you? With a prodigy, we can leave here. We won’t have to plant potatoes or break our backs during harvest. We won’t have to freeze in the winter’s hell. We can live as we did before the war, before you turned into an imbecile. We will once again be respected.

A brief moment when all was quiet quickly dissipated. "You listen good, husband. You send a note to Comrade Kurenkov before he returns to Moskva, and you tell him you made a mistake."

Papa’s shabby boots stepped closer to Mama. I will take my daughter away.

What? What did you say?

We will go far away, where…where you cannot…What are you doing?

A gut-wrenching shriek echoed in the room. His legs crumpled and he thumped to the floor. His muddy boots slammed against the coal box next to the door. A knife clattered to the ground beside him. Marina clasped her hands tight across her mouth staring in horror at the blood soaking into the dirty floorboards. A terrible smell mingled with the rising dust. So much blood. So thick. So red. Creeping like sticky syrup across the boards.

Unable to stop herself, Marina vomited the evening meal down the front of her dress.

Mama’s big shoes stomped away from the table.

Marina wiped the disgusting taste from her lips and lifted the tablecloth. Should she get the blessed water from his trunk and pour it over Papa to help him? Mama needed time to lose her rage. Papa had explained it to her the first time. Hide until you are sure Mama is herself again. Marina listened. It was quiet.

Papa rolled onto his side and faced her; his eyes glazed over. Marina squeezed her eyes closed. The tablecloth slipped from her hand. The room was so quiet she could hear the wind snap the icicles dangling from the roof outside. Faint bubbles sounded in her chest. No. The sound was not from her breathing. She peeked under the cloth and gulped for air. Papa stretched out a hand toward her. A tear trickled down his cheek.

Help me.

Look what you made me do. You fool.

Hearing her Mama’s voice from across the room, Marina scampered back to her safe haven. But did Mama’s familiar tone mean she was herself again?

At that moment, an explosion from the far side of the room shook the house—the same noise as when the bosses shot crows from the sky. Marina’s shoulder slammed against the leg of the table. Why would a weapon go off in the house? Mama hated guns. Papa hated guns. What was happening?

He stayed still. Mama said nothing.

Marina hugged her knees. The icy wind sang through the crack in the wall. Gradually the faint light of day gave way to darkness until shadows no longer danced across the floor. She pressed against the rough wall, and her eyes closed.

Loud voices, thumping noise. Marina opened her eyes wide. A stranger spewed commands to someone outside. Bright lights skimmed the splintered floor and passed through the thin tablecloth. Heavy boots trampled through the room passing within inches of the table.

Another man entered. They dragged something wrapped in dark cloth toward the door.

Marina squeezed her eyes shut and tried to be invisible. When no one called for her, she ducked low and looked out from under the tablecloth. A dark, red-brown stain covered the spot where Papa had rested. A man passed by. His boot struck something on the floor and sent it twirling under the table. It spun close by and stopped.

The arm of Christ. The statue…Broken!

Vomit once again rose into her throat.

A man’s scruffy boots marched from the door to the fireplace to the bed and back to the table. His voice rose in an angry tone. She wanted to cry out for Papa, but fear stopped her. She prayed to Jesus to keep Papa safe.

Well? the man standing closest to the table asked. His worn boots formed a giant V: heels together and toes apart.

Comrade Chief, she is nowhere to be found, the man at the door said.

What do you mean nowhere?

We have checked the other yurts and the fields, and there is no sign of her.

Check again, cretin.

Problem? another man said, approaching the table.

Marina caught a glimpse of a perfect crease down the center of his black trousers. His shiny boots were spotless.

Marina recognized this man’s voice from earlier in the day; he was the important comrade Mama whispered with, the one she was to obey.

No problem, Comrade Prosecutor Kurenkov. Yes, we are only two and not equipped with the tools or the officers your militia in Moskva have, but I assure you a five-year-old cannot have gone far.

Indeed, the man said, in the same tone the healer used. Or it would seem she has disgraced your tiny quorum.

The scruffy brown boots slid together, toes touching. We will find her. She is a mere child.

Her parents, what is their history before coming here?

They were Anton Abramov and Parfenia Abramova. Anton was once a brilliant and prominent engineer, but no soldier. Rumour is three of them were gassed during the war. But that is of little consequence, Comrade Chief grumbled. Evidently, time on the front broke him because his wife beat him often. Today she stabbed him then shot her brains out. Problem solved.

Weapons are forbidden. How did Anton come to possess one?

How would I know, Comrade Prosecutor? Maybe it was a souvenir from the war.

The shiny boots turned slowly toward the worn boots. The bullets?

That is perplexing, but I promise you—

Be careful what you promise, Comrade. A short, thin cigar stub landed near his shiny boots. Not all things can be reasoned, even with proof. One boot crunched the cigar nub into the floorboards, a sound similar to grinding salt in the mill.

Comrade Chief, somebody called from the door. We have located a neighbour who is willing to talk but asks not to come inside. He fears others might see him and wants to meet behind the flour grinder.

Excuse me, Comrade Prosecutor Kurenkov?

Of course. Do your job. Pretend I am not here.

His shiny boots and creased trousers stayed put, while the other man’s scuffed boots shuffled across the floor. Marina gripped the rear-left leg of the table and stared. The shiny boots did not move. The wind off the snowfields blowing in from the open door could not compare to the bitter fear restraining her.

The lone comrade took two steps toward the door, then, as if twirling on ice, turned and came back. He crouched low, lifted the tablecloth, and peered. Marina gasped. When he made no move toward her, Marina studied his face as he studied hers.

His hair was the colour of dry corn stalks. His eyes were the colour of the blue flowers in the meadow in spring…a blue that looked to be mixed with milk. His gaze was so intense Marina could not look away. Wind from the open doorway tugged at the sable fur of his hat.

"Zdravstvuyte (Hello) He reached out a hand. Idikomne."(Come to me)

Marina hesitated. She had promised Papa that she would never trust anyone. But, yesterday, Marina had promised Mama she would be polite and obedient to this particular comrade. She wiped at the tears, sticky on her cheeks, and wished Papa would come back for her.

Little one, what is your name?

Marina Antonovna Abramova.

What happened here, Marina Antonovna? What did you see with your pretty gray eyes?

She shrugged.

Did they quarrel?

Papa knows to never argue.

The milky-blue eyes focused even more deeply on hers.

Marina pressed her chin to her knees and closed her eyes. Mama hurt him. Her lip quivered. But the man spoke her name and she had to look up.

"Malyshka, tell me what happened."

She didn’t want to remember.

What happened to your papa?

Mama cut him with a knife. I heard a loud bang. It hurt my ears. Where are they?

The man’s eyes sparkled. You saw Mama stab Papa?

Marina lowered her eyes.

Did Papa speak?

She swallowed the sob in her throat.

What did Papa say?

She tried to find the words. "Papa…said…Help me."

Did you?

Sticky tears burned her cheeks.

The man looked away, and Marina knew not helping Papa was a bad thing. Would she be punished? What if this important man left now? Or would he ask her again to come out from under the table? Marina would accept her punishment. Then she would beg Papa for forgiveness.

I know you are frightened, Malyshka. I will not lie to you. His milky-blue eyes looked full of sorrow. Papa is badly hurt. But you must not worry. If you obey, one day, he will return for you. Meanwhile, I will protect you. Come to me. He stretched his hand out farther. There will be no more tests. No more going to sleep cold or hungry. Come to me, Marina Antonovna. I will take care of you.

She stayed frozen to the spot because although she wanted more than anything to move, a voice inside said no.

Where is Mama?

His smile receded. She is dead.

A sob caught in her chest. She brushed the hair out of her eyes. Is…is Papa angry with me?

He looked at her clothing and hair. Do you know what a prodigy is?

She remembered Papa telling her she was special, but to her it was an empty word.

Come to me, Marina Antonovna. Come out here so I can see how special you are. Come out here, and I will make sure you never have to hide under a table again.

"Obeshchanie." She needed a promise.

The warning to run was so barely audible that it could not stifle the fear of being alone. Marina inched out from underneath the table and toward the stranger. He smelled like the bliny pancakes Mama served Papa before coming to this yurt. She would often top them with sour cream and black caviar. Marina would climb onto Papa’s lap and, when Mama wasn’t looking, would bite back the samples Papa offered.

Marina’s hand disappeared inside the important comrade’s large warm hands. Still crouched low, he gazed at her soiled dress, the rips in her thick stockings, and the long strands of hair hanging loose. Do you know what day this is?

She knew, but she had lost her voice.

Do you know why this day is extraordinary?

Still unable to take her eyes off his, Marina shook her head again. She liked listening to his words, spoken softly to her as he had spoken to Mama yesterday morning. She wondered if he had noticed her. Afraid to anger Mama, Marina hadn’t stood close enough to hear his words, though Mama seemed pleased; she had smiled so timidly.

Today is the 27th of January, and the year is 1956. His soft voice was like a lullaby. Marina imagined him to be Jesus with short hair. Remember this date, little one. Today your life begins. But remember, because I will not desert you as my papa deserted me…as your papa deserted you…you belong to me now. Forever.

Chapter 2

Soviet Embassy, Warsaw, Poland 1970

(14 Years Later)

Decorated U.S. Marine Sergeant Mateo Arcusa, fresh from Vietnam, leaned on his cane to take his right femur’s weight. To relieve some of the pressure in his right shoulder, he tightened his sling and then accepted a champagne glass from a passing waiter. The Great Hall of the Soviet Embassy in Warsaw, with its stained-glass windows, cornice ceiling, and crown moldings loomed before him, as extravagant and prestigious as anything he’d ever seen. Scattered about in intimate groups the elite and powerful mingled, clinked their glasses, smoked their cigars (courtesy of Comrade Fidel), and pondered the world’s problems, or so he assumed. Notably less influential, their women seemed to flaunt their lack of compassion for those less fortunate by the diamonds and rubies strung from their necks.

A colonel’s wife passed by without looking at Mateo. The stench of whiskey mixed with French perfume burned his nostrils and left a worse taste in his mouth than already existed. Three more wives passed. To avoid accidentally tripping them, he shuffled back until his heel hit the wainscoted wall.

Still sluggish from the sodium pentothal the CIA injected him with two days previously, Mateo regretted his decision to accept Santana’s invitation. He did not belong here. Not among these civil servants who probably knew little of what was happening in Vietnam. Or was his uniform the reason they ignored him?

A foreign diplomat turned, and for the briefest moment, Mateo felt recognition. Samo, he exhaled. The man looked right through him. Not Samo and although Mateo knew it was illogical, his heart did cry. Mateo had been spared, why hadn’t Samo?

Mateo tilted his glass, one-handed, enough to wipe the sweat from his upper lip without spilling his champagne. He hated where he was. He focused beyond the guests closest to him on a small cluster of Soviets some fifty feet away under one of the six nine-foot chandeliers in the room. In Vietnam, he’d seen the VC equipped with Soviet antiaircraft guns and Russian-made SKS rifles…and the tanks and the missile launchers and the cranes and the trucks and all the other goddamn Russian paraphernalia. Some idiot from the CIA had said the Soviet Union had picked its side of the conflict as had America, the good news being they’d picked opposites sides.

Yet, here they were mingling as if they were best friends instead of enemies. Laughing, drinking, and exchanging meaningless stories and anecdotes, while speculating on the world of tomorrow.

Like that mattered to the dead and those dying every day in Vietnam. Like it mattered to his dead team and his friend Samo.

Samo’s image, his chest soaked in blood, his face breaking into a grin with his last breath, choked Mateo with grief. He stared at the roomful of dignitaries and fought tears. Samo was gone, and only now did that realization sink in. Gone. Dead. Never to be in his face again. Never to brag of his appeal to women…or his shooting skills, or his intellect…or that he’d go home to start his own business, and if Mateo were a good boy, he’d give him a job when Mateo got back to the real world. For a brief moment, Mateo saw Samo’s narrow eyes disappear into his round face as his short thick frame shook with laughter, the kind of laughter that had you laughing with him, never at him.

The American ambassador patted the German consul’s back. Mateo bowed his head and quickly composed himself.

In the far corner to the right, an American senator stood in deep conversation with a Polish general. Mateo emptied his glass, gripped his cane, and considered getting drunk. Now was the worst possible time. Not with his emotions on the verge of cracking. Not with a room filled with people who didn’t give a damn about anything but their careers.

Don’t lose it in front of these people.

He set his empty glass next to the four-foot-high flower arrangement and grabbed a full glass from a tray sweeping past. Should’ve gone home to his mother and Tom. Back to where life made sense. He shook his head and leaned against the wall. Better to get drunk. Better yet to find a woman for one night of pleasure. It had been long enough.

A hand touched his back. Mateo sprung around…ready. Pain shot up through the right side of his body.

Congressman Santana smiled. Is the evening turning out as bad as you expected?

No, he lied while admiring the Congressman’s tailored suit and satin bowtie. The man had come a long way from La Raza mediocrity. Why he’d asked Mateo to be his companion tonight remained a mystery.

I respect your effort, Mateo. Though if you decided to leave the protection of this comfortable wall, you might discover a few interesting people.

I’m sure I would, sir. He wanted to tell the Congressman not to call him Mateo because that was his name from his old life…but, damned if his mother, despite being thousands of miles away, whispered inside his head that rudeness was unacceptable no matter how bad things were. Santana had gone out of his way to have Mateo released from the CIA’s clutches. His debriefing had moved up a notch when Mateo couldn’t explain to them why he was the only survivor, or how he got across the Cambodian border into friendly territory. As if the news was any more acceptable to him than it was to them.

It is a shame you are not much for socializing, Santana continued. Soviet Ambassador Rogov is a fascinating man. He’s one of the few who would appreciate those fine ribbons on your chest. He has stirred up much controversy in the past year because, above all else, he loves his country. His opinions on Soviet strategic measures put him in a compromising position a while back, and it is rumoured he’s still feeling the repercussions. I’ll introduce you. Santana’s inquisitive eyes peered at Mateo through thick-rimmed glasses.

Mateo doubted the ambassador would be interested in meeting a lowly marine sergeant, regardless of the congressman’s influence. I’m fine, sir. Protocol had him exactly where he should be: against the wall. Besides, who cared about Ambassador Rogov’s troubles?

Have you thought about what you’ll do once you return home? Santana asked, in an apparent need to make small talk.

I’m interested in law enforcement. His mentor, Tom Sutton, was a retired cop and his mother’s boyfriend, although carefully referred to as ‘Mi mejor amigo’ by his mother. (My best friend)

Santana’s voice drifted on, and Mateo’s attention drifted to the aloof man strolling into the room. On his left arm lay the dainty fingers of a young woman. Stunning. High cheekbones, full lips, straight nose, strong jaw…captivating eyes. She moved like a dancer. And also looked familiar.

The couple crossed the room. Mateo’s gaze followed.

The congressman turned his head to see what had distracted him. She is pretty.

Pretty doesn’t even come close. Who are they?

I’m not sure. But I will find out.

Mateo shook his head while his eyes stayed fixed on the girl. Something about her felt familiar. Sir, no, please.

Santana waved off his plea and headed toward the other end of the room.

Though fascinated by her aristocratic beauty, Mateo couldn’t help but notice her guarded expression. Her companion, on the other hand, looked as if he owned the room.

Mateo wasn’t the only one who had noticed them. The room held a sudden stillness. Women gawked; men nudged each other, their expressions grim. The Soviet Ambassador’s tiny wife excused herself from a circle of guests and rushed toward them, while the ambassador continued to converse with a group of men near the east door, brows furrowed, his face paling. Mateo looked back at the couple he now suspected were unexpected guests.

Why did she look familiar? Until ten days ago, he hadn’t seen a round-eyed girl in a year. No one this exquisite. Her shoulders were lean; the muscles in her upper arms were defined. Her hips…his breath quickened. She moved across the room enchanting every man present.

Despite the pain, he leaned precariously from left to right, stretching enough to get a better look through the guests in front of him. The ambassador’s wife was directing this dazzling beauty with the impassive expression…Dios mío, (My God) in his direction. Damn, could he be that lucky? The shock of why his heart was pounding hit him. She’d make him forget where he’d just been.

****

Vladimir Yevanevich Kurenkov was pleased with the attention his sudden appearance created. He smiled at his countrymen’s mundane rhetoric while enjoying the anxiety etched across Ambassador Rogov’s face. He watched Marina Antonovna glide across the room. She had chosen a black strapless gown for this evening’s event. Her midnight-black hair was pulled back in a chignon. She wore no jewellery. Didn’t need to. Five-six, athletic-looking but elegant, she reminded him of a ballerina, too exquisite to be touched or even approached. One would not think of deadly when admiring such an angelic creature.

Ambassador Rogov conversing with several local party members, glancing too often in Kurenkov’s direction. Considering what the immediate future held for this Soviet dissident, Kurenkov revelled in the man’s disturbed expression and nervous twitches. Unlike Marina, Rogov could not hide his emotions.

Mrs. Rogova led Marina through the crowd, stopping to introduce her to various important Polish and Soviet Communist members. Kurenkov supported his elbow and smoothed his moustache with his free hand and watched. Marina’s performance far outshone the ambassador’s. If Kurenkov hadn’t had someone answering to him on the American side, he would never have suspected that Marina knew the marine. Her performance was that good. Apart from her back muscles tightening when she set eyes on Sergeant Arcusa, her control, her obliviousness to the American, was extraordinary. As she’d matured, Marina had gained great inner strength. Every plan he had set in motion in the last fourteen years would come to fruition, thanks to her attention and discipline. He caught sight of Marina’s profile as she turned aside and trembled with pride. Their connection was no accident. Both were motivated by locating their fathers, though for different reasons. Marina’s father was the phantom quest she reached for. His father was the driving force behind his every ambition. Finding his father before or after becoming premier was of no consequence as long as both goals coincided.

Father, why did you desert me?

Kurenkov’s heart fluttered at the thought of his father. It was never good to dwell on what could or should have been. Finding his father and becoming premier would happen just as he predicted. Doubt was not a word he permitted in his vocabulary. Even Marina’s mistake in Cambodia had proven to be advantageous. She had intervened to save the sergeant’s life, which had produced surprisingly positive results. Washington’s specific situation was now secure; Arcusa was here, and though Marina didn’t know it, she would serve a dual purpose this evening. Consumed with that thought, he glanced at his Malyshka then in the direction of Marine Sergeant Mateo Arcusa. First, he would see to it that Rogov had suitable accommodations for him and Marina, then he would set the stage for his next plan.

He took in the room, all the distinguished citizens and asked himself: which ones would live, and which ones would die before he became premier? The answers made him smile.

Chapter 3

Marina, conscious of the sweat on her palms, gripped the stem of the champagne glass for fear of it slipping from her grasp. Her muddled brain struggled to form one coherent thought, anything as a reason for choosing Plan A, or Plan B. She should never have accepted her guardian’s invitation. He knew as well as Marina did that social events were not her forte. She did not do well in crowds. You’ll be fine, Kurenkov said when Marina had tried to refuse his invite. She should have anticipated that running into someone from her past was possible. The world was a small place. Soldiers were often drawn like magnets to each other. Who else but another combatant understood what it meant to be a soldier?

She had spent many late nights by moonlight practising a deadpan countenance in the mirror she kept under her pillow. Any sign of weakness would send her to the nearest gulag, foraging for scrapes off dirt floors. Because, if the marine made known their connection, a gulag was where Kurenkov would send her, casting her aside like damaged goods.

The blood pounding in her ears, the thumping in her chest, was from unresolved issues. They were first-day instructions at the special school Kurenkov had sent her to when she was a mere child. While Marina failed at social interactions, she succeeded at displaying a cold façade, a detached and uncaring nature.

She slowed her breathing to arrive at an alpha state of mind. As her peripheral vision observed Kurenkov, she pretended to listen to Madame Rogova. A command performance, she hoped…prayed. Madame Rogova seemed oblivious to the fact that only every third or fourth word registered. The pounding in Marina’s ears, the violins, the chatter, kept every other sound at bay.

The American stood near the far wall. He didn’t belong here. A foot soldier. Why was he present? To destroy her? Marina caught no air of recognition when he first spotted her.

Inhaling two shallow breaths, she held them while her body calmed, exhaling slowly. She would not look at the American again, and soon he would be gone. That he was alive was reason enough to forget him, just as a field surgeon would forget his last patient in a tent filled with hundreds of wounded.

Over the years, the ability to feign indifference became easier. A mirror wasn’t her only tool. At school, because she did not know how to make friends and was the smallest, an orphan, the others pointed the finger at her when mishaps occurred. To survive, she had to fight back, or be dismissed from the school and returned to Kurenkov, a failure. She first taunted the older boys, pushing them to their limits, humiliating them in front of others. One boy at a time, then two, then a group. Three days passed before they retaliated. But a single beating only fuelled her determination. Beating after beating, Marina would brush herself off, wipe the blood from her mouth, and laugh like a possessed fiend. When the meanest and oldest boy violated her in front of the others, she didn’t lay there like a victim. She jumped to her feet, blood pouring down her legs and hopped around like a gorilla playing in a tree. Their expressions, turning from amusement to puzzlement to fear had empowered her. So much so that no one ever came near her again. She graduated top of her class.

But that was then. The panic pushing at her conscience now could get her killed. Kurenkov was walking in her direction. Here came the perfect teacher. He regarded her with no discernible expression, leaned down, and spoke something in Madame Rogova’s ear. The tiny woman smiled. Then Kurenkov kissed the top of Madame’s hand, ignored Marina, and walked away.

Her ears suddenly ached. Whatever he whispered held little consequence. He needed her if his aspiration of being premier were to come true. Was he aware that the sergeant was the marine she spared in Cambodia?

Two weeks passed when Marina had finally confessed there had been a team of marines with General Vien, she made no mention of a survivor.

Forgive me for not speaking earlier, Comrade Guardian, but General Vien was with American special ops when we found him.

A full second passed before he looked up from the letter he’d been composing. You took care of the situation, Malyshka?

"Da."

Madame Kai Wu and her people cooperated?

Marina hesitated. Tell the truth or lie?

Kurenkov nodded as if she’d already answered and turned his attention back to his letter.

Marina wet her dry lips and told herself there was no reason for fear. Kurenkov hadn’t given the marine a second glance. As far as he knew, she carried out his orders and assassinated Vien under the belief that he deserved a traitor’s death. As long as Kurenkov didn’t discover she knew the real reason Vien had to die, she was safe. If he discovered her treachery, Marina had the microfilm she’d found in Cambodia. She could use it to save herself.

She rubbed her right forearm then her left, but the itching would not abate. She glimpsed Kurenkov conversing with a Soviet colonel. Foolish to worry. He couldn’t possibly know Marina was privy to his secret. He showed none of the signs of being duped.

The gentle face of the ambassador’s wife smiled up at her. She mimicked the gesture. She nodded when instinct deemed it applicable, laughed when Rozaliya did and, as her guardian strode toward the ambassador, reminded herself that due diligence would keep her alive. Marina had been stealing from targets and selling the merchandise to the Mafiya for years, and Kurenkov hadn’t found out. She knew about his agent in Washington, yet Kurenkov hadn’t found out. She would continue to be careful, and everything would be fine.

No outward movement of her chest, just slow, shallow breaths.

Kurenkov made an about-face and stared straight at her. Marina held her breath. Kurenkov slowly turned away, nodding as he did.

Cold fingers gripped her arm, tugging her. Before Marina could react, Madame Rogova hauled her off in the marine’s direction.

Sergeant Mateo Arcusa, may I present Marina Abramova. Like you, Marina’s far too young to be bored by this archaic assembly. Do an old woman a favour, enjoy yourselves. She turned to Marina and said in Russian, You speak English, yes? He seems a nice young man. He is certainly attractive. Have fun. Your guardian will be occupied, I promise.

Madame Rogova glided away from them like a child prodigy on ice-skates. After an awkward moment, the sergeant laughed. As her heart thumped, Marina smiled weakly. His good-natured laughter sounded so alien from his screams in Cambodia. She scanned his profile and tried to connect this man to that marine. She shook aside the memories. Thinking of him as anyone other than a brief encounter was foolish. Dangerous.

I could use some air, how about you? He stopped