Venice
Bill lit himself another cigarette and sipped his coffee. He seemed either deep in thought or on the cusp of extreme fatigue. Either way, he gave no indication that he found my story necessarily riveting.
"I struggled a lot with what to do after that night."
"You mean, whether you should report your contact with her or not?"
"Yes."
"Why was it such a struggle?"
"Well, there was still a part of me that thought that maybe I could keep seeing her in secret."
"But in the end, you reported her."
"Yes. Because I knew the longer I stayed with her, the messier it would've gotten, and someone eventually would have found out. Besides that, I still wasn't sure if she wasn't just trying to recruit me. ""Most likely, she was."
Bill nodded.
"So that's when you met Carolyn."
"Yes, that's right."
"Did you know him prior to that?"
"I had seen him around. ""I just didn't know what it was he did."
"That she was a CIA case officer."
"Yeah. It was unexpected. ""In retrospect, I guess I should have suspected."
"Tell me about your first meeting with him."
"I talked to the security office first. Standard protocol. I filled out a questionnaire, and she asked me some questions. I told the truth. And that was that. Or so I thought. Carolyn called me on my home phone right when I got home. She asked me to meet her."
The case officer
Carolyn arranged our meeting in the most peculiar spot: a sunny picnic table in a large meadow at Prater Park. The location made it difficult for casual eavesdropping. It sat alone in a field of tall, golden grass, far from any shade and from any prying ears or eyes. She was just like I imagined. recently crossed the final line of middle age. Dressed in linen, she is truly unbeatable against the risks of the world. With her rapid-fire Boston accent, she came across as imposing, haughty, and cheerful, and she conveyed a sense of confidence and competence that put me at ease. My eyes scanned the tree line suspiciously as he spoke, looking for any Russians wearing fedoras and trenchcoats. My stomach fluttered at the anxious notion that Villanelle might discover this meeting. But Carolyn seemed perfectly comfortable with the chosen location.
"Do you know what a dangle is, Eve?"
I shook my head. Carolyn rested on her elbows.
"A dangle is someone in possession of or with access to sensitive information who pretends to be interested in jumping ship." A fake double agent "You get me?"
"Sure. I think."
"Great."
She paused. studied me, seeming to try to gauge something about me. I shuffled in my seat awkwardly, subliminally aware that there was a reason he was telling me this.
"I'll get right to the point, Eve."
"If Oksana is KGB, we don't have her on our radar. So, I am very interested in getting to know her."
"To be honest, I don't feel comfortable giving you her phone number, address, or anything else."
"No, no, no... nothing like that. Believe me, that's the last thing we want. Here's what I'm getting at: I want you to keep meeting her."
"Sorry?"
"I want you to keep meeting her," she repeated. Her thumb twiddling had stopped.
"You mean..."
"I mean, call her up, hang out. Do girl stuff with her or whatever. Get close to her. Build rapport."
"And what if I don't want to?"
"You don't have to. "But I would like you to."
"What if she doesn't want to?"
He shrugged and gave a cheerful laugh. "She doesn't have to either. But I bet you she will."
I looked around, over my shoulders, thinking it had to be a trick. Should I refuse? Was that the response she was waiting for?
Seeing my worried confusion, she explained, "She's looking for a contact at the US Embassy." Given how young she is, it's likely she's a rookie. Her Rezident most likely had you in mind to train her on. "Low-stakes stuff, you know what I mean?"
"I'm low stakes."
"Yes, you're low stakes. But don't be so glum. You're a young foreign service officer showing a lot of promise. She'll be looking to cultivate a long-term relationship, hoping that you'll have a long and fruitful career. One day you'll get to be someone important, and that's when she'll get to squeeze you for what you're really worth. Think of yourself as a long-term investment. You're golden."
"What would you have me do?"
"Remember what I just told you about dangles?"
"Yes."
"When the time is right and she's comfortable enough with you, she will ask for information. When she does, I want you to put me in touch with her. Tell her I'm interested in sharing information. Dangle me in front of her face. Let's see if she bites. "You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean."
"So, you'll do it?"
The easy answer was "no." All I had to say was "no. He had given it to me. I'd be free and clear. But then I wouldn't ever see Oksana again. She'd be gone from my life. On the other hand, if I said "yes," then I'd get to see her again. I'll get to be with her.
"She told me she was KGB. Why?"
"It's a gambit to gain your trust. ""This is a more common tactic than you think."
"Did she not think I would tell someone?"
"She was betting that you wouldn't."
"She trusts me too easily."
"The Russians are desperate these days. What can I say? "Do you want to see her again?"
"Yes."
"Did you, in any way, express this to her?"
I thought of our moment in the river. The kiss. the intimate touching. The gaze into each other's eyes felt nothing less than authentic. The sex...
"Perhaps."
"Well then..."
"What if it's a honeytrap?"
"Let us worry about that. She won't hurt you, if that's what you're worried about. You're a State Department civil servant. ""Hurting you is a red line for the KGB."
"What if I don't like being deceptive?"
"Look. You don't have to if you don't want to. not that big of a deal. But plenty of relationships are built on deception. Just ask my ex-husband"
"It's not the same thing."
"You're right. It's not. In this case, you'd be performing a great service to your country."
"Why should I?"
"Why do it?"
"I'm already serving my country. Why do this? ""Why do you need me to dangle... or whatever?"
"Simple, really. ""It's an opportunity to keep tabs on an illegal activity. ""It's nothing out of the ordinary. ""They do the same to us."
"An illegal?"
"A KGB operative working without diplomatic cover. ""That's Oksana or Villanelle, if what you tell me is accurate."
"Aren't you worried she'll suspect me of dangling?"
"I'm sure it'll occur to her."
"And you're sure she's not dangerous?"
Carolyn shook her head. "Do you want me to swear on my mother's grave?"
She watched me, still waiting for me to say "yes" or "no" to the offer to be his fake double agent. Or was it just a double agent?
The image of Villanelle holding her pistol with steady confidence toward the two men in her bedroom flashed in my mind. She must be deadly with a gun. That ought to frighten me, regardless of Carolyn's assurance. I told myself to be frightened by it. But I'm not really frightened by it. I recalled the way she looked when she asked me for a kiss. How tender. how happy she seemed to be with me. This was my chance to see her again. Courtesy of the US Government
"Ok. "Tell me what I need to do."
Venice
The next week, I called her on Carolyn's instructions.
"Hi Villanelle."
a silent pause on the line. Then a tentative, "Hello Eve. It's nice to hear from you."
"Hey, Villanelle. I'm sorry about how I acted last weekend. I wanted to make it up to you. "Can we meet?"
"Sure. You know I would be happy to see you again."
"How about this weekend?"
"I'm going to Venice this weekend."
"Oh...ok. Sounds fun."
"Would you like to come?"
My answer was immediate and automatic. "Yes, I would like to come. "I won't be a bother, will I?"
"No, of course not. I would love for you to come. I was going by myself. Now it will be just us two. "I'm going to my family villa."
"You have a family villa in Venice?"
"Yes."
"Ok. That's wild."
I called Carolyn immediately after on a pay phone, per his instructions.
"She has a villa in Venice," I said when he picked me up.
"Very nice."
"Is it normal for a KGB spy to have a villa in Venice?" I asked her, completely in awe
"Usually, they settle for a dacha on the outskirts of Moscow. "She must be well connected."
"She invited me. I said yes."
"Good. If she asks you for any "favours," let me know. Otherwise, have a blast." With her permission, I'm excited to explore the possibilities this experience can bring
I met Oksana at the Südbahnhof, a major train station in Favoriten, in the evening, as the sun dipped just below the edge of the Vienna skyline. The sunset painted the clouds in hues of rose and vanilla. I recognised her because of her stunning outfit. She looked like a fashionista straight out of a magazine, and I was taken aback by her presence
When she saw me, she came over and gave me a strong hug and kissed me emphatically on the cheek.
"You look like you're ready to go everywhere," I remarked.
"What about a ball game?"
"Like baseball."
"Ah, I see." She laughed and pretended to swing a baseball bat. "I'd love to see a baseball game. It seems like such an event. "Won't you take me to one?"
"Sure. ""I don't know if they have baseball in Vienna."
"In America then."
"I'm not sure how easy that would be given that you are a Russian spy." However, if I were a Russian spy, I could certainly find ways to be active and enjoy playing baseball in America
She took the dig in stride. She winked and said, "It won't be as hard as you imagine." Despite the tongue-in-cheek comment, she was confident that it wouldn't be difficult to blend into American society
She kissed me on the lips and said, "Anyways, I'm glad you could come. ""We'll have the villa all to ourselves, with no distractions. ""Come, let's go to our train cabin."
I was a bit taken aback by the sudden kiss, but she was right about one thing: it would be a perfect weekend.
The cabin, which contained as much as half a car, had wood mouldings gilded in gold. Thick green velvet curtains covered the windows, giving the sense that we were in a luxurious garden suitable for Hapsburg royalty. In the centre of the cabin, on a small mahogany dining table, a chilled bottle of Mot Champagne sat in a pewter ice bucket. Two crystal champagne flutes sat ready to be filled.
Villanelle grabbed my suitcase and tossed it into the closet, then went to open the champagne.
"This is incredible." I thought to myself, watching Villanelle expertly pop the cork and pour the bubbly liquid into our glasses
"Perks of having a rich father," she said as a matter of fact.
"You're like royalty."
"An heiress to communism, as if to a kingdom." We both laughed as we clinked glasses, and I reflected on the irony of the situation
I was impressed by her cynical and cheerfully honest joke about her role in Russian society, but I quickly remembered that her goal was to soften me up and get me on her side, so maybe she was putting on the charm because I'm an American and like to be liked She shrugged off the joke and reminded me that she wasn't in a position of power, but rather her only real claim to fame was her inherited wealth from her family .
Villanelle giggled, filled the flutes, and handed me one.
"It's not exactly a short train ride to Venice," she said, "so we'll have to at least make it enjoyable."
The train would travel to Graz first before crossing into Italy and winding its way through the gentle Alps that ran along Italy's and Slovenia's borders.
. The next day, we would finally stop in Mestre, an industrial commune just across from the islands of Venice on the mainland side, from where, she explained, we would take a boat straight to her villa on the Grand Canal. She promised the full Venice experience. I had always dreamed of visiting Venice, so the promise of such an exquisite experience excited me immensely. If this was how she planned to soften me up, it would work. Good thing that was also my plan all along, because I was determined to take her up on her offer
As we drank, I went on the offensive, pelting her with probing questions. As she swirled her champagne, Villanelle responded enthusiastically and candidly. I learned, for example, about her rich and diverse lineage. She was descended from a peculiar Venetian nobility.
"Spying is in my blood, you know. Rumor has it, my ancestors were spies for the Consiglio dei Dieci—the Council of Ten—and I may very well be related to Casanova himself."
"That would explain a lot."
The Venice villa had been in her family for centuries. For aristocratic Russians, the family tree is bent strangely by history. I could see the tinge of Italian in her face now. There was a soft elegance, not a Slavic sharpness, to her cheeks; romance in her eyes, not piercing toughness; and her smile warmed whatever room she entered.
I learned much more about Oksana as we plied our second champagne bottle. She was briefly married to a Czech poet and novelist, much against the wishes of her father. Quickly into the marriage, she begrudgingly accepted that her father's suspicions were accurate. "I swore off love after the divorce," she said. "It was a very depressing time for me."
Her mother died in a car crash in 1969. She was fourteen at the time. That too seemed to affect her greatly, but she spoke only briefly and vaguely about the tragedy.
She was disarming with her intimacy, ready to share any private detail about her own life without asking for reciprocation. But this was, as Carolyn had warned, a common espionage tactic. Even if the things she told me were true, they may well be craftily useless information or otherwise strategic misdirection, as a magician might use them against her audience. I must be ready to accept that her divorce and the death of her mother were fabrications. In any case, I was enamoured by her, still on a cresting high from our sexual encounter last week, so I accepted these stories into my heart unconsciously and without further scrutiny.
By dinner, the sun had dipped far below the rugged jigsaws of the southern Austrian Alps. We ate a three-course meal in a glamorous dining car and watched glittering alpine villages pass us slowly by in the moonlit twilight as the train made its winding way through the valleys between the grand peaks. By this point, I was deeply and pleasantly buzzed, not just from the champagne but also from the Italian white wine, a Vitovska, fresh seafood, and a wonderful risotto.
Villanelle fed me in luxury. But nothing about her behaviour was predatory. She was gracious, lively, and carefree. I secretly hoped that her confession of being a spy was nothing more than a playful ruse or a quirky fantasy, and that maybe she was in fact simply an upper-crust Soviet girl making the most of her youth in the hedonistic West.
After dinner, we went back to the cabin and lay in bed without getting out of our clothes, laying atop the bedsheets to continue our meandering conversations that had nothing to do with spycraft and everything to do with two women falling in love with each other.
Through the glass ceiling above us, we could see the night sky, countless stars, and silver clouds that hung in whirls like glowing nebulae. Only a gloomy orange glow from a single table light illuminated the cabin after she had dimmed the cabin lights. She was a snuggly silhouette as she lay next to me. She was breathing, and I could smell a light perfume on her neck. similar to newly cut roses. She moved toward me. I moved toward her. We watched each other in the dark, alone, with silent, undivided attention that was higher than any conversation or lovemaking. We gradually drifted off to sleep as the train's gentle rumble cradled her fingers in mine.
We arrived at the Mestre train station in the golden hour. Morning sunlight strung through the sticky sea mist, hurrying the mist into the shadows. Two porters helped us carry our luggage to a taxi, which took us to the nearby marina. Villanelle walked over to a tarp covered boat on the floating pier and yanked the tarp off to reveal a sleek boat of glistening rosewood.
"That's yours?"
"Yep." "Well, my father's."
"You can drive it?"
"Since I was ten."
"Well, of course. "I should have guessed."
She crumpled the tarp up into a tight ball and tossed it into the bow cabin, then held her hand out to me to lead me onto the boat. The porters placed our luggage in the stern, and she started the engine, deftly unmoored us, and drove us out into the wide Venice lagoon. She punched the throttle, and soon we were skimming effortlessly across the flat, artichoke green water.
Boatmen in flat bottomed boats pulled on never-ending gillnets dotted with tiny flashing jewels of fish, piling the wet nets into their boat. Men stood waist deep in the shallow water, in black rubber aprons, collecting oysters or mussels from sunken crates. Though it was only nine in the morning, the sun was already bearing down oppressively. The thin fishermen's skin oxidised to a golden brown leather. Watching their backbreaking work exhausted me. But the Adriatic breeze was pleasant. My loose hair flapped wildly while we jetted towards the old city.
She pointed out all the landmark features of the islands: large domed cathedrals and palazzos that stood tall among the salmon red and whitewashed buildings, and the small ristorantes and cafes she most enjoyed. The terrazzas were filled with people lounging in cool, colourful summer clothes and straw sun hats. On the right side was Giudecca, an island full of shipyards and dockyards, and a prominent but abandoned building, the Molina Sticky, a flour mill and pasta factory.
We passed a dock near the Basilica di Santa Maria and the Ponte dell'Accademia where black and white striped gondoliers sat at the backs of their boats and joked and chatted loudly with one another while waiting for tourist clients in the bleach-bright sun as we entered the Gran Canale. She turned abruptly right and slipped into a single slip in front of a beautiful rust-red building.
After tying up the boat, I unlocked an iron gate and swung it open to reveal a spacious, sunny courtyard blushing with lemon trees, gnarled olive trees, and weather-smoothed marble statues. Sparrows in birth baths chirped cheerfully.
The villa itself was aesthetically a charming, chaotic mess, full of dusty and crooked artwork, vases, and marble statues. The marble floor was cracked in places and worn smooth. The disarray seemed to be preserved as if cleaning or organising any of it would be sacrilege. The same could be said for the rest of the city. It was all a beautiful ruin.
Villanelle pulled back the thick red curtains and opened the tall veranda windows. The outside freshness sucked the dusty air out of the spacious room.
"This is magnificent," I remarked.
"Come, there's not a minute to lose," Villanelle said. "I have a lot to show you. Let's put your stuff in your room, and then we'll have breakfast at San Marco. Then, the beach!"
"What about seeing the rest of the city?" I protested.
"We'll see it after the beach." "I promise, you'll get to experience all of Venice before the weekend is over."
Villanelle put on a thin cotton dress that showed through to her sharp V-shaped and neon pink bikini, a floppy wide-brimmed sun hat, and a pair of wayfarers. I tried matching her in her stylish comfort. a short, flowery skirt; a white halter top She took out her Nikon. snapped a photo of me.
"Are you going to lug that around everywhere?"
"Of course," she said, "I want photos to remember you by." She beamed with joy as she viewed the pictures on the back of her camera
We went at once back to the boat. She used the mooring line against the bollard and pulled the boat out into the canal, while simultaneously spinning the helm of the boat to spin us out parallel to the flow of traffic. She tossed the line aside, then gunned the throttle and merged us into the slow line of barges and the public vaporetti taxis.
"The water is your natural habitat."
"Yes, quite so," Villanelle replied.
She continued to prove it, expertly weaving in and out between the slower moving water taxis and buses, past the wooden Ponte dell'Accademia, past the pearl grey Basilica, and into a mooring near the Piazza di San Marco, near the Campanile, a tall red and white bell tower with a green patina roof.
The waiter, an old man in a white tuxedo, seemed to know Oksana. He came to her abruptly, gave her two kisses on the cheek, spoke a rapid, excited Italian, and squeezed her cheeks.
"He's been here as long as I remember," she explained. He looked at her like a grandfather does at his grandchild. He brought us flaky cornetti with apricot jam and cappuccino. He lingered while we ate, talking with Villanelle, presumably catching up on life since the last time she'd been in Venice. As they talked, I couldn't help but marvel at the simplicity of the moment and the beauty of our surroundings
When we were finished with our breakfast, we went back out on the lagoon. Villanelle is at the helm, confidently making her way through the channel buoys toward Lido. Magnificent, gleaming sailing and motor yachts dotted the lagoon. Vaporetti and fishing boats chugged slowly along their routes.
Lido di Venezia is a long, thin island full of grand hotels and baths built mostly in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It was the outermost island and acted as a protective barrier for the city against the sea. On the seaward side, a stretch of golden sand beach littered with parasols and beach chairs is where people come to sun themselves and escape the summer heat of the city.