AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a re-publishing as I got a new account. For this story, I just took a moment in history that I found interesting and wrote about it. I am in no way trying to make any political statements, I was just trying to make it semi-realistic. If you don't like any sort of political talk, this story might not be for you.
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Elizabeth and Mikhail were caught in the rain, so instead of walking the half dozen blocks to the restaurant, they took refuge in a tiny bar on the corner nearest to them. They shook their wet clothes at the door and stepped into the warm, cozy space. It was nearly empty, with only an older couple at one table and a young man at another. It was perfect. This is where Elizabeth could extract more information.
"What would you like?" he asked, motioning to the bartender who had given them a small nod as they walked in.
"Whatever you're getting," she said, responding in perfect Russian, smiling at him.
Mikhail went to the bartender and came back with two strong vodka tonics.
"These were on the house," he said as he sat down, his voice low. He tapped on the military badges on the chest of his uniform with a smile.
"One of the many perks," said Elizabeth, taking the drink and putting a hand on his.
"I hope it makes up for me being away at work so often," he said. "I find myself thinking about you more than the work I'm supposed to be doing. Your name revolves through my head—Elizaveta, Elizaveta, Elizaveta, nothing but Elizaveta."
Elizaveta. That's how he knew her. Elizaveta Petrova. Sometimes he would lovingly call her just Liza. He thought she was a young girl who had left the countryside to move to the big city in Moscow and that they had met by chance at a dancehall a year ago. Sometimes, she wished that it was the real story instead of this intricately planned operation she was undergoing. Mikhail had been targeted by the CIA nearly four years ago. Then, it had taken nearly three just to get him in the right place at the right time.
He had been smitten with her. Of course, he would have been—they had backfiles of information about the perfect girl for him. Even though he was high-ranking in the KGB, he was an easy target. She had siphoned off so much information from him in the last seven months—documents, outlines, techniques that were being used against the United States. Everything she collected, she carefully left in dead drop sights around the city. This was the last week of her job, and all she needed was a final bit of information that would confirm who the Kremlin was planning to send as moles in the CIA and FBI.
And yet, as she watched him ramble on about how tired he was about the day, she found herself feeling pained that she would have to leave him. He had been so good to her, he was so handsome, and she had enjoyed the time they spent together.
"Will you have to be up early tomorrow?" she asked him.
"Not as early as usual," he said. "I'll be long gone by the time you wake up."
"Don't be so sure," she said teasingly. "I've gotten better about waking up early. I'll be working at the shoe store."
"Ah, such a simple life," he mused. "Doesn't it get lonely in that little shop with that old cordwainer?"
"He's a lovely little man," she said. "He just can't see very well anymore, and that's why I'm there." She worked to stop herself from smirking. Underneath the floorboards of that shoe store was a communication system. The old cordwainer was an American who was merely a front to hide the American agents that would get rotated in his shop.
"I think it's adorable," he said, reaching out to run the back of his hand across her chin. "I wish I could characterize my boss as a 'lovely' man. I'm dealing with a near tyrant. You know, today was horrible. He was absolutely furious. We discovered that there's a mole."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. She wasn't expecting this. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but her training had taught her to control her composure to not give herself away. "What happened?"
Mikhail leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. "We've found what they think is a dead drop location in the park."
Elizabeth's mind raced. A dead drop location. She had just visited one today to leave two envelopes, tucking them in a metal box under a rock. They contained documents that she had swiped from Mikhail. She searched his face, trying to figure out if he suspected her. "How did they find it?"
"By chance, if you can believe it," he said, shaking his head. "A mother was out with her children—two boys, not even old enough to start school yet. They were playing around on the trail and just happen to knock over some rocks along it. And underneath it, she found detailed KGB plans. It was obvious it was set out to be found by someone, so we're going to try and figure out who was mean to pick it up and get them out of the way."
Elizabeth coolly took a sip of her drink. "Your boss must have been pretty upset when he was shown those envelopes, huh?" Just as the last word escaped her mouth, she realized she had messed up. In another split second, she saw that he had realized it as well. A stony expression passed over his face, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach. They sat frozen for a second, their eyes locking, and then Elizabeth attempted to get up from the chair.
Mikhail moved faster and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard. "If you do anything stupid, I'll blow your brains out right here on this table."
Elizabeth gasped, feeling the strength of his fingers digging into her skin. She was trapped, and for the first time since the beginning of her meeting, she was terrified. "Mikhail," she said, calling him by the nickname she had given him. "It's not what you think. I'm-I'm a pawn in all this."
Mikhail said nothing, his face steely and hard. His eyes bore into her.
"Please, Mikhail," she begged again.
"You're coming with me," he said. "Now."
She wanted to resist, but she knew that it would result in death. They got up; his hand still gripped around her wrist. Mikhail tipped his hat to the bartender. The rest of the people in the bar barely raised their heads from their own drinks.
Mikhail walked briskly down the street, pulling Elizabeth behind him. She whispered out pleadings for mercy, but he said nothing as they continued down the cobblestones towards his residence. She knew where he lived, she had slept over there many times, and she didn't understand why he would be taking her there. She tried to keep her wits about her, mentally formulating a potential escape plan.
They arrived at the house, and Mikhail still said nothing as he unlocked his door and pushed Elizabeth through. He still didn't let her go, taking her through the foyer and hallway and to the kitchen in the back. The was a door on the side wall, just next to the table, and he opened it, revealing a set of rickety stairs. Elizabeth had seen that door before and tried to open it once, but it had been locked before, and she didn't have time to pick it. Now, as she walked down the stairs, she got increasingly more nervous and worried. At the bottom of the stairs, Mikhail flicked on the lights, and Elizabeth's eyes strained to adjust to the dimly illuminated room.
It seemed to be used as a storage room or something similar. There were a few stacks of wooden boxes and crates alongside the stone walls and various contraptions hanging from hooks. There was a small sofa shoved in one corner with a box underneath it. At the center of the room, there were two identical chairs. A chill ran through Elizabeth's body. She knew what he was about to do.
"Mikhail," she started again, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please...please, don't do this."
"Shut up and stand over there," was his response. He finally let go of her wrist and shoved her towards the chair. She stood in front of it, and he quickly reached into his coat and produced a pistol, pointing it directly at her. "Take off your coat and let it fall to the ground."
Elizabeth looked at him, catching his gaze, and she gingerly followed his direction. She shed her heavy trench coat, letting it fall down to the floor in a crumple around her feet. As it hit the ground, there was a small, hollow thump against the stone. Mikhail's eyes narrowed, and he lunged towards the coat, lifting it up upside-down and shaking it out. A pair of gloves fell out of the pocket—but not just any normal ones—one of them had a small pistol mountain on top of it. Mikhail picked it up and inspected it. There was no going back now.
"How could you do this to me?" he said, turning the glove over in his hand. He looked at her, his face contorted in anger. "You lied to me."
Elizabeth shook her head, trying to save herself. "I was just a pawn. This was my job, Mikhail."
"A pawn?" he repeated with a smirk, and he threw the gloves back onto her coat. "You're a spy. You knew what you were doing. What is your name?"
"E-Elizaveta," she stammered.
As soon as she said that, he stepped forward angrily and suddenly put up his hand to curl it around her neck, pressing his fingers and thumb into it. She gasped, putting up both her hands around it, trying to claw it off, but he was much stronger than she.
"Tell me what your name is," he said again, through clenched teeth. "Now."
"It's-it's Elizabeth," she choked out. He let go of her throat, leaving her coughing.
"Elizabeth," he repeated, folding the strange American name in his thick Russian accent. "You're American." He said it with disgust, but as Elizabeth watched his face, she saw strains of pain in his eyes. He stepped back, still holding up the pistol aimed at her chest. "Who are you working for?"
Elizabeth paused again, her eyes shifting. "The CIA."
