Stuart Kaminsky - Red Chameleon

The work space, the factory, was not enormous, but it was large enough to hold five automobiles in various states of alteration. The most striking of the vehicles was a white Chaika suspended about eight feet in the air by heavy chains attached to the front and rear bumpers.

“So, Comrade-” she had said.

Sasha had completed: “Pashkov.”

“Yes, Comrade Pashkov,” she went on, leading him past two goggled men who glanced at him with Martian eyes. “So, what do you think? Anything here you or your wealthy friends would like?”

She had paused, hands on hips, to say this, and Sasha, playing his role, had glanced at her, thinking that there was some provocation in her tone, words, attitude, but deciding that it was simply the woman’s normal tone or his imagination.

All he had to do at that point was to make some deal, any deal, not to appear too anxious, to remember to pause, even idle, and then get to a phone, for surely he had found what he had been searching for. All he had to do was play his role out for a few more minutes. He had looked over at the man called Ilya, who was uncomfortably close, his arms folded across his muscular chest, his eyes filled with suspicion.

“The Chaika,” Sasha said. “It’s just what I need. Perhaps we can make a deal for that and”-he shrugged, beginning to perspire in the closeness of the loud shop and the man and woman who wedged him in-“who knows, some additional vehicles for my friends.”

“Fifteen thousand rubles,” the man called Ilya finally said in a growl.

Sasha had looked around at the Chaika with interest and was about to agree when the woman, who had stepped very close to him, whispered with a smile, showing very white, large teeth, “Thirty thousand rubles.”

“Thirty thou-,” he began.

“Worth every ruble,” she went on with that same smile. He could smell her breath on his face.

“I’ll-” Sasha had said as Ilya picked up a very nasty looking electric tool of uncertain function, umbilically tied to the wall with a thick cord. There was anger in Ilya’s face as he pushed a button on the machine and it roared into artificial life in his hands, a metal blade whirring noisily as the machine vibrated. Something in Ilya’s look made it quite clear that he was experiencing at least antagonism and more likely hatred toward the potential customer. The source of that hatred might be resentment at Sasha’s feigned wealth, suspicion that something was not quite correct, or jealousy of Marina’s attention to him. Whatever it was, Sasha did not like the look of the whirring blade or the noise or the man or the fact that he was now effectively blocked from a clear run to the door through which they had come. He might be able to push past the woman. After all, Ilya was carrying a heavy tool in his hands, and the other two burly men seemed to be reasonably well occupied with their painting. But there were two doors to get through, either of which might have been locked behind him, and there were automobile body parts to leap over and perhaps here and there a small pool of oil on which he might slip. No, though the situation was uncomfortable, his best chance was to see it through, play the role, though he wished now that he had been better prepared for it.

“Comrade Pashkov,” she had said at that point, taking his arm quite firmly, “let’s go into the office and conclude our deal.”

The man named Ilya had flipped a switch on the machine. It shook in his hands, sending it into a louder, angrier paroxysm that seemed to amuse Marina as she led Sasha through a wooden door and into the smaller cluttered room where he immediately saw the mattress in the corner. She closed the door behind them, her back to him a moment, possibly locking the door before she turned to face him, still that look of amusement in her eyes. It was at that point Sasha became well aware of the single drop of sweat on her upper lip, her quite full upper lip. The room was hot, and he felt dizzy. Had he his gun, he would simply have pulled it out and ended the whole charade, but he had purposely left it behind in case he might be searched or the bulge seen by an experienced criminal eye. Besides, he had expected no real danger. Even at this point he told himself that it was imagination, an imagination that any policeman felt in such a situation, the fear that his frail disguise had been penetrated, a sense of guilt at being the deceiver, though he was on the side of law and they were the criminals.

“We must arrange for a place of delivery,” he said in as businesslike a manner as he could muster. “A street corner will be fine. I’ll have the cash in a small box. You can count it, and I’ll-”

It was at that point that she had begun to unbutton her tight jeans. Each metal button, shiny and silver, popped open.

“What-?” he began, but he knew just what she planned.

There was no way he could refuse without a mad story, and his failure to answer her earlier questions about his assumed family and life had already created a possible suspicion that he did not want to build upon by saying that he was impotent, ill, homosexual, or any of several possibilities that sprang to mind. As her jeans dropped to the stone floor, Sasha knew that in his heart of hearts he did not want an excuse. Not only did he have to play out this scene; he wanted to do so. His head was warm and aching. Nausea swirled within, and moments later they were on the mattress in the corner, his clothes discarded, the warm, firm body of the woman on top of him, the smell of her sweat in his face. There was no doubt from the beginning that the woman named Marina was in charge. She grunted, sweated, controlled, urged, kissed, almost smothered him in frenzy, and left him exhausted as she rose and strode across the room to retrieve her clothes.

And so now he sat naked, guilty, confused, and watched her button her American jeans.

“The delivery,” he said, looking for his clothes and trying to gain some control of the situation. The thought struck him that when they were all arrested and brought to trial, the woman would certainly tell what had happened in the room. He didn’t know if he could keep Maya from finding out. He could simply deny it had happened. The court might tell her to be quiet. Perhaps no trial would be necessary. He wished he had a towel to relieve his drenched body and clean away some of the feeling, but all that existed was a grimy sheet crumpled at the foot of the mattress.

“You have delivered,” she said, looking down at him, mocking.

“The money, the automobile,” Sasha said, now feeling at a distinct disadvantage with her dressed.

Marina smoothed her hair and shook her head slowly to indicate a negative.

“But-”Sasha began.

“There is no money, policeman,” she said, her hands back on her lips. “At least I hope you are a policeman, and not KGB. I don’t think you’re KGB. You don’t have the look, the confidence, and a KGB man would have had his background story better rehearsed, at least most KGB men. Even within the KGB there is, sadly, some incompetence.”

Sasha got up and tried indignation.

“Look,” he began, and she indeed looked, which made him stop and feel his exposure from the soles of his feet through his soul.

“I’ve always wanted to make sex with a policeman,” she said, walking to the door. He considered leaping forward, stopping her if he could, and searching for a way, though he was sure there was no way out of this room but through the door through which they had come. The only windows were small and very high on the stone walls.

“You were not bad,” she said, “though you could have participated more. You are remarkably passive for a policeman. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling the last possibility of his charade slipping away.