Nastya Ivanov stared at her reflection in the mirror. The black tile in the background contrasted the golden aura emanating from the globe lights above the sink, casting her pale face in a corona of warmth. Gray eyes peered at her through heavily mascaraed lashes, scrutinizing her appearance as she practiced some of her mannerisms. She applied another layer of lipstick and stepped back. Her silver dress shimmered in the dimly lit room, reflecting dots of light like the scales of a fish. It was something that Sarah Artinian wouldn’t have worn, but it suited her just fine.
The momentary thought of that name caused the corner of her mouth to twitch. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes.
Я – это я she repeated to herself, finding the sounds in the back of her throat instead of her nose. She forced the image of the woman that she was to the surface, drowning any hint of the woman that came before her. She straightened her spine until she was practically leaning back. Eventually the voice that came from her mouth flattened into its Russian accent and cadence. When she was certain she would open her eyes and see herself, she did.
Standing before her was a dead woman.
The past five months had changed Nastya Ivanov. It had faded her brown hair to a straw blonde, and her eyes had lost their vibrant green in favor of a pale gray. Her breasts had gone down by a size, while her ass had gained as much. Her feet hadn’t needed to change sizes, which was good. To do so would have required too much time for recovery. There was no room for error, not with this disguise. Nastya was an influential celebrity and would be recognized by almost anyone in the nation. Now, all that remained was the memory of a tiny brown dog, a photograph of a brick Victorian house in Boston, a microchip embedded in between the joints of her right big toe, the mission, a key to a car in a parking garage five blocks away, and a plane ticket in the glove box.
Tonight was Nastya’s last night on Earth.
***
When she reentered the dining room, the conversation had lifted considerably. The food had been removed. A shot of vodka sat perched on a red napkin. Approaching, she watched as the eyes of the gentlemen seated around the table turned towards her, aware of the yoyo action that so many men think women oblivious to. Sergei Sokolov, Russian diplomat, ex-KGB, her lover, ogled her hungrily and offered her his stubbled cheek, which she kissed. She rounded the head of the table, to the chair on his left. A pair of gloved hands swept around her and pulled the chair away from the white slab of marble Sergei lovingly referred to as his torture table.
“Here, I can obtain whatever I desire. Power. Information. Women,” he’d told her once, drunk on Sbiten, hands fumbling for the buttons of her silk blouse. Nastya took him upstairs, and there used another piece of furniture for a similar deed. Men were susceptible to sharing secrets when their pants were removed. It was in these moments post-coiatus that she’d learned the names of double agents within the U.S. intelligence network, dates of potential mortar strikes, even petty blackmail. But tonight was to be her biggest score.
That was the date, time, and method of the assassination of a western diplomat.
Nastya took a seat. Sergei stood, raising his shot glass. The others at the table did the same. Nastya took it in her left hand, despite the predisposition of the woman she’d been before.
“To terrible deeds,” he spoke in Russian, “and the good they bring to this world.”
“за нас!” To us! came the response.
Nastya had met herself only once in a past life, at a red carpet event that her former agency had sent her to. The women had talked briefly. In that time Nastya observed some of the miniscule ticks the model had had that weren’t prevalent in her Tik-Tok videos and interviews: the way she pursed her lips after words ending in a “r” sound, her habit of biting her thumb when she was nervous.
“We are through talking business, yes?” grumbled Dima Petrov, waving his sausage-like fingers. This was the transition Nastya had heard Sergei discussing on their way back from dinner two nights previously, the phrase that dictated that the night was shifting from banter into one of action and decision making.
“Politics are exhausting. Every solution is the beginning to another problem,” agreed Abrasha Belov, an oil baron who Natsya had met only once, but whose temper and cocaine use were notorious.
“Let us begin with a celebration then,” Sergei snapped his fingers and a man with a bottle on a silver platter appeared. He poured himself another shot of vodka, and then took Nastya’s glass and filled it.
The bottle traveled around the room, each man pouring himself a full shot. The liquid dispersed, Sergei raised a toast.
“To my beautiful daughter, Elizaveta, and her upcoming birthday!”
Glasses crested and fell in the dim light. The vodka was smooth and clean. As she swallowed, Nastya flipped through briefings in her mind. The diplomat did have a daughter from a previous marriage. She was a bit younger than Nastya, who had been 24 when she died.
“Your daughter is becoming a woman this December if I’m not mistaken,” Dima recalled, massaging his jowled chin. Natsya noted the young woman’s age as 18. And so, she thought, we have a date.
“She is. I will not be able to fight off these young men for much longer.”
“Perhaps it will not be the young men you must watch out for, is that not true Nastya?” a gentleman named Lenya who Natsya had not met until this night spoke. She didn’t like the way he studied her. Sergei stiffened in his seat.
“Well if young men took my Sergei for example and used their mouths for more than just talking, I would have more interest in them,” she replied. Sergei’s hand found her knee and gently moved the slit of her dress so he could caress her bare flesh.
“Your accent is curious,” Lenya stated. “Where did you say you were from?”
“Kologriv,” she stated without thinking.
Lenya looked at her suspiciously. “You speak like a woman I knew from Tambov. I am fascinated why you speak like a southern girl.”
Nastya was aware that the focus of the room had shifted from her lover to her. Kicking herself, she made a quick correction to implement Оканье to her vowel structure. “I have been to many places here and abroad. Forgive me if my tongue sometimes… slips.” She reached down and slid Sergei’s hand further up her leg in an attempt to draw his attention elsewhere. “Where do you plan to take her to celebrate, my love?”
“I hear bird watching is quite pleasant this time of year,” spoke Dima. “Perhaps a trip to the country. Robins in the snow have always been a striking image.”
Sergei was silent.
“I disagree. I always find myself searching the skies for a golden eagle, something more majestic to instill within myself a feeling of power,” suggested Abrasha.
Again, Sergei said nothing. Nastya made a note of these two birds, and their national origin.
“My Elizaveta is a strong girl, not prone to stillness or idle time. She desires to make with her own hands. No, a turkey is what she wants to hunt and prepare for her feast.”
The room was silent. Sergei’s eyes shifted to each of the gentlemen, their faces cast into shadows by the low light.
So… the target is American. Nastya thought to herself.
“Sir, I agree that turkey is a fine beast, but is it in season?”
“It is the right season.” Sergei Sokolov’s voice shifted, losing its bright and boisterous timbre. It was a tone she’d never had directed at herself, for she was compliant to his wishes and he was a gentleman towards her. But during late night phone calls, before the disappearances of revolutionaries, yes, she had heard it.
“Which turkey, my friend?” asked Dima slowly, his hands moving only to take the bottle of vodka from the center of the table so that he could pour another shot. Again, the bottle orbited the table. When it reached Nastya she looked to the diplomat next to her. Sergei nodded and she filled both their glasses. Nastya was known for her late night Instagram posts in which she outdrank celebrities and artists, but as she tipped the glass back she worried about the fog that was building in the back of her mind.
“The biggest one she can find,” Sergei dismissed this comment with a wave of his hand. There was an uncertainty settling within the men around her, Nastya noted.
Abrasha was the first to speak. He sniffed and slapped his hands together. The men perked up, as if drawn from an impending slumber.
“Wonderful, and is this for lunch, or dinner?”
“Dinner, I think,” Sergei replied. “She wishes to prepare it, but it is the dessert I want to be a gift.”
Nastya’s mind raced. Was this part of the code or a deflection?
“Cake perhaps?” shrugged Kolya.
The man named Lenya shook his head. “A cake is not dense enough for a girl with such… refined taste. Perhaps a truffle?”
“It should be rich enough for her, yes,” Sergei agreed. He placed a hand on his stomach. “But as you know, such decadent treats make me sick.”
She studied the large man on her right. Everything he said had to mean something. Every gesture, every word was meant to be vague but pointed enough for the orders to be carried out. Glancing at the others at the table, she saw them nodding along. The words were muddled in translation, but she tried to work through them.
“But I am afraid the woman who is my chef, she is not strong with these sorts of things. Her pastries, divine, but her sweets leave much to be desired. One of you perhaps?”
Dima Petrov looked particularly discomforted. His fat fingers rolled around each other like hot dogs at a United States gas station, something Nastya couldn’t believe she longed to see. Abrasha opened his mouth but hesitated.
It was Lenya who rose from his chair. “My cousin is a chef, studying in France. He is good at his trade but his wallet does not agree with his…” he paused. His eyes turned to Nastya, “lavish lifestyle. I believe an opportunity to prove his skill might earn him a seat in this house.”
Sergei’s head bobbed up and down.“I do agree, friend. If he can be convinced to make this dessert for my daughter, and it satisfies her, he would find a space in my kitchen.”
Lenya finished the rest of his shot, and strode to the head of the table. He took Sergei’s hand and turned to the woman on his left. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady Ivanov. I have spent hours admiring you. To see you in person…Forgive me, you have a different appearance.” His eyes darted from one to the other. “More beautiful than I remember.”
He released the politician’s hand, bid the rest of the room “Доброй ночи,” and disappeared into the gloom. The others turned from the departing man back to the table and Nastya became acutely aware of three things.
- The man named Lenya knew she was not Nastya Ivanov
- She had two minutes before he would be calling a gray cellphone in the top right drawer of Sergei’s desk
- Sergei Ivanov planned to have the President of the United States assassinated on December 18th by poisoning him after dinner.
The bottle floated around the table a second time and this time it was Abrasha Belov who rose from his chair. “A toast to your daughter’s birthday. We wish her a successful hunt, a marvelous dinner, and the richest life in the years to come. За успех!”
The bottle reached her. She put up a hand and passed it to her lover. When Sergei caught her eye she closed her lids slightly, swayed in her seat, and shook her hand, a trace of mimicked lust on her lips. He winked at her.
“За успех!” The words echoed around the table. The deed was sealed. Nastya rose and kissed Sergei.
“Ложитесь спать,” Come to bed she whispered the same way she had in many perfume commercials. Turning, she walked towards the hallway. She hoped the sound of her footsteps masked the thundering of her heart in her chest. The corridor was miles long, the richness of the red carpet and mahogany wood creating a coffin-like sensation as she approached the rooms at the end. There, she turned left into the politician’s office instead of right, to the bedroom.
The door had not even closed when a soft hum vibrated through the gloom of the office. The desk was illuminated only by the harvest moon yellow of the streetlamp outside. She crept towards it and, removing one of the bobby pins in her hair, fumbled with the lock of the drawer. It was open within seconds. She picked up the phone. Somewhere down the hall, Russian laughter rolled thick and lush, and she nearly dropped the device. There was one missed call, a name she’d never heard or seen.
Taking the phone to buy more time, she pried the window open. The air was sharp and biting. It cut through the material of her dress. She pulled off the silver gown and flipped it inside out. It became something new. Within the material were buttons to give the impression of an overcoat, and fabric that had been tucked down the back elongated into sleeves. She pulled it back over her head and slunk out the window, pulling it closed. Her movements were quick, but controlled. The pins fell from her hair and loose curls tumbled down her shoulders. A napkin removed the bright red shade from her lips. Tonight, Sergei would begin the search for her. A month later a body would be dumped from an unmarked van into the Yenesei river. A badly decomposed, water logged Nastya Ivanov would appear. There would be no signs of foul play, just the lingering traces of heavy narcotics use that had, unfortunately, led to her actual demise. Sometime, a month later, an assassination attempt on the President would be thwarted. No one but Sergei and his men would know.
And somewhere in Boston, a woman named Sarah Artinian would be drinking chai tea with a book in her hand and a small dog on her lap.
That is, if Nastya could make it to the airport before word of her disappearance caught her.
Genre: Spy
Event: Mimcry
Character: A Stickler
The Word and The Song 