The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

"M-monday? We can't leave St-steven in a Russian jail all weekend. They might beat him again! There must be something else we can do. Can I speak to the Ambassador?"

"He's been fully briefed, and we have a coordinated strategy. We can't rush these things."

"T-Tom, the thugs at the airport, they told me... they s-said there was one person who could be able to arrange for Steven to be released. Yevgeny Brosaev—that man we met at the party. So, maybe if I appeal to him...? He contributed to Steven's foundation, you know."

"Hmm, Brosaev? Listen—I would strongly advise you not to contact him. Like I said, these are delicate and complex matters; a personal intervention might very well backfire."

"I can't just abandon Steven in there. I've got to try everything I can... Please—just reach out to Brosaev and see if he'd be willing to meet with me." For a long moment they stared at each other, stuck at a grim impasse. Then Tom gave way, nodding unhappily that he would make the call.

While the aide worked his contacts, Abby retreated to a chair in the hall—toe tapping, bleary eyes gazing blankly at the wall. Eventually Tom summoned her back inside. He fixed her with a somber, warning look. "Please, it's not too late to rethink this. Brosaev will still be here tomorrow. Why not just sleep on it?"

"No. I have to do something."

He sighed. "Very well. Brosaev will meet with you this afternoon at his dacha. Only you. I tried to invite myself along but his people said no. Now, look: you've got to be careful—you need to understand that this man, well, he's nice to have a chat with, but underneath he's hard as nails, and dangerous. He never gives something for nothing..." He paused, pleadingly, but her face signaled pure determination. "...However, if you're really dead-set on it, then I'll arrange a car to take you there."

A few hours later, her towncar rolled up to an iron gate, set in a vine-covered brick wall. The driver buzzed an intercom, and after a quick conversation in Russian, the gate slowly swung open. A short drive along a winding road lined by birch and ash trees brought them to the front of the oligarch's "dacha."

It had evidently been recently built—to cater to the country's bourgeoning nouveau-riche, no doubt. To call it a dacha was laughable. It was more like a palace—a fairy palace brightly painted and festooned in onion domes, and so garish as to almost seem a caricature of a medieval Orthodox church.

When they stopped, Abby leaned forward toward the driver. Although she was still agitated, she tried to enunciate very slowly and clearly. "Wait. for. me. here. I. will. pay." The man turned partway in his seat to face her, gave her a blank look, and shrugged.

She got out of the car and walked toward the front door of the mansion. Behind her, she heard the crunch of gravel under tires. Turning, she watched the black sedan vanish back down the drive. So much for keeping a lifeline!

Shoulders hunched slightly, as if against a gathering storm, she trudged up to the portico and pushed the button. Distant chimes could be heard somewhere within. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a tall, fair man in a dark suit and sunglasses. He radiated the aura of a security goon—though whether a government agent or private bodyguard she could not have said. (Was there even a difference in this God-forsaken country?)

Without a word, he gestured for her to enter the house. Closing the front door, he led her through an imposing foyer, down a long hallway, and into an outer office. Sitting behind a desk was a woman Abby recognized from the party—Brosaev's assistant, Yulia. As soon as they arrived, the woman pushed a button. A heavy door opened with a buzz, and Yulia prompted Abby to go through.

The American found herself standing in a large room, which obviously served as a study, or executive office. The ambiance was nothing like the dark, stuffy den Abby might have imagined for a Russian oligarch. Rather, it was light and airy, with almost the feel of an enclosed porch (though, of course, the materials, furniture, and décor were all first-rate). One long wall was entirely made up of plate-glass, augmented with skylights above; the other three walls were lined with light wood paneling, broken up by shelves for books and niches for artwork. The floor was also pale hardwood, enhanced by strategically placed accent rugs. Near the windows was a conversation space with delicate sofa, chairs and end-tables, all featuring exquisitely carved woodwork; in the middle of the room was a conference table; and at the far end of the room was a desk. At the desk sat Brosaev, in a navy cardigan, writing something on a piece of paper.

The door clicked shut behind her, and she picked her way cautiously toward Brosaev. When she drew near, he looked up at her and flashed a cunning smile. "Abigail Jones! What a surprise. I had understood that you and your husband would be leaving our country today." He gestured to one of the chairs before the desk. "Please, sit down. Tell me what I can do for you."

Sitting there, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed to slits, Brosaev had the air of a predator.

To be precise, a predator that has spotted defenseless prey, cut it away from the herd, and now stands poised to go in for the kill. But assuming Abby was indeed his prey, he seemed in no special hurry to administer the coup-de-grâce. His manner implied that she was cornered and would not escape—that he could afford to take his time, toy with her, wear her down. And, that he could most certainly afford to pause and appreciate the woman that he planned to defile.

Abby was visibly flustered by the turmoil of the day—hair mussed, face flushed. To Brosaev, though, this only made her all the more attractive. At the embassy dinner, she had been awkward and stressed and uncomfortable, but still firmly in control of herself. Now she was desperate, truly and utterly vulnerable, and that only whetted his appetite.

He got a kick, too, out of how she dressed the part of a preacher's wife. It was her sense of moral superiority that had rubbed him wrong in the first place. He would never have given Abby a second look if he hadn't felt such a powerful urge to fuck that air of superiority clean out of her. So really, her prim-and-proper persona would be an important part of his enjoyment of her—if she'd walked in looking like a tramp, it would have spoiled half the fun.

Not that her ensemble was lacking in appeal. True, it conveyed modesty and an old-fashioned sense of style, but it was by no means dowdy. On top she was wearing a fitted white satin blouse—high-collared and long-sleeved. Below she had on an ankle-length, black linen skirt with pleats. Much like her ballgown had been, the overall effect was slimming and attractive, and somehow all the more exciting for its conservative cut. Really, she was much more beautiful than he'd realized. It was just that she didn't flaunt it—and perhaps didn't believe it herself.

The oligarch's tongue flicked his lips. This was going to be fun.

When the man greeted her, Abby hesitated for a moment, as if intimidated or unsure of herself. Then she perched herself on the edge of the closest chair. Swallowing visibly, she spoke in a muted voice, but with an undercurrent of determination. "Mr. Brosaev,"—and immediately he interrupted her.

"Come, come, we are friends, are we not? No formalities! Call me Yevgeny."

"...um, Yevgeny," she continued, already thrown off her game, "there was some kind of terrible mixup at the airport. Steven was detained by security police, and I haven't been allowed to see him. We haven't received any information as to why he was held, or what is going on... You and I don't know each other very well, but you did donate to my husband's work, and I... I was told you might be able to help us—that with all your influence, you could find out what is happening, and maybe... maybe even get him released...?"

"Hmm... I do not wish to alarm you, dear, but I am afraid that sounds quite serious. Allow me to make a call."

He picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk and spoke to his assistant in Russian. « Yulia, just hold on the line a minute... » He turned to Abby and winked. "She's connecting me to someone in the know." Then he returned to the phone. « Hello again dear... Yes, Abigail Jones thinks I'm calling for information on her husband Steven. »

As he talked, he continued to hold the eye of the preacher's wife. She gave him a hopeful smile when she picked out her husband's and her own name from the unintelligible stream of words. He grinned back and continued talking to Yulia. « Hah, I tell you, this cunt is already in my pocket. Call my mistress, » (he thought it best to avoid using Natasha's name), « and tell her I'll be late tonight. Tell her I'll be fresh off fucking some American, so she'd better be ready to top it—that'll keep her on her toes. Now, pretend you're saying something to me... » He plastered a frown on his face and 'listened' intently. « Good, that should be enough. Oh, by the way, I'm expecting a call from Kavellin on my cell—let me know as soon as it comes in. »

Putting down the phone. he gazed at Abby with a look of concern. "I regret to say, the news is very grave. You have heard, no doubt, about the Russian national arrested last month for espionage against one of your American political parties?" She nodded. "It seems they intend to use Steven as a bargaining chip—'tit for tat,' as you say—in response to that arrest. They will plant evidence, showing that Steven helped to incite treasonous and violent acts by religious extremists in this country. These are terrorism charges which could lead to life imprisonment."

She gulped, and her breathing came shallow and fast. "But that's insane! Anyone who knows Steven knows he would never do something like that! ...So, that means there's going to be a trial? We need to get a lawyer?"

"Oh, sweetheart, you are so naïve! In this country, the truth is whatever the men in power say it is. There is no such thing as a fair trial. Your only chance is to work behind the scenes to get Steven out now, today, while it is still 'hush-hush.' Once this matter becomes public knowledge, it will be—well, pardon my French, but it will be nothing else but a 'dick-waving contest' between our two countries. You and your husband will be helpless pawns."

"But, surely it can't be that bad? Isn't this a civilized country?"

"My dear, you have heard of Gary Buchanan, the retired U.S. Marine arrested on drug charges eight years ago? All fake, I assure you; a matter of retaliation for the prosecution of some Russian hacker. Yet even now he remains in prison, in Yakutsk. It's a very cold place. I've seen some of the letters his wife and children write to our leaders—they are truly pathetic."

As she contemplated the idea of Steven spending years in a Russian prison, Abby's face contorted and she tried to stifle a sob. When she spoke, her eyes brimmed with tears, and there was a quaver in her voice. "You can help us, though, right? You're a powerful man. You could put in a good word?"

Yevgeny frowned again. "My dear, at a personal level, I would love to help you and Steven. I truly would. You are very good folk. And I'm sure that if I push the right buttons I can get Steven released." Abby perked up considerably to hear this. "But... we are people of the world, are we not? Let us be honest with each other. For an entrepreneur like me to intervene in a political case like this—it is risky, it will incur substantial debts. I am a businessman at heart, and when I give something of value, I expect to receive something of value, too. That may make me sound ruthless—but the truth is I did not get to where I am by the goodness of my heart."

Hmm, although this was crass, it did make negotiating Steven's release sound like a solvable problem. Abby wracked her brain to think what incentives she could offer the oligarch—and, being far too desperate to even think of haggling over price, she laid her chits out plainly. "I could get a cash advance on our credit card..." She realized instantly that would be no more than a pittance to such a man. "...and I know that's not very much money, but... if you could just be a little patient, I can have our savings wired to you. And I'm sure the church council would help. They could hold a special offering. And with some time we could get a second mortgage. I'm sure we could promise you... well, maybe... maybe a million dollars! Will that be enough?"

He laughed heartily. "Abigail, you are a treasure! Look around you. This is my country cottage! One of many, I should say. I probably made a million dollars while we have been sitting here chatting. Do you think I have any use for money from a darling little church mouse like you?"

"But then what could we offer you?"

"You are a beautiful, sexy woman Abigail—can you not think of something you might offer me? I have been able to think of nothing except you ever since we met last night. I would give a great deal for the chance to make love to you. And, I flatter myself that you might find me attractive, too, if you allow yourself. So, really, it is very simple. If you satisfy this little whim of mine, then that will provide me all the encouragement I need to make sure that Steven goes free."

At these words she felt herself go ice-cold, and her heart sank. Dear Lord, this man was every bit as vile and immoral as she had originally thought. It took her a moment before she was able to spit out a reply, and when she did her voice grated. "No, that's impossible. You know that I'm a Christian, a married woman. Marriage is a covenant. That means I am pledged to my husband in the sight of God, body and soul."

He snickered. "Hey, you can do what you like with your soul. I make no claim to that."

"No, it's just... it's... it's s-simply impossible. There can never be anything physical between us. Never. Not like that."

Yevgeny's fingers tapped the desk and his voice took on a harder edge. "Now I am beginning to seriously doubt how much you care about that husband of yours. Perhaps you will be happy if you and your children never see him again? Is that your little secret Abigail?"

She recoiled slightly; her face fell and her tone softened. "No, no... he's the pillar of the church, he's the breadwinner, he... he's my rock. I need him..." Then, pleading almost in a whisper, "... But surely there's some other way? Something else I—we—can do for you? Steven has friends..."

"You seem to be thick-headed, woman. I am telling you what you have to bargain with. I can give you what you want—he is sitting in Lukashenko Prison as we speak. But you have something I want. And I don't mean to offend you, my dear, but"—here he pointed at her skirt— "the thing I want is right there, between your legs."

She gasped slightly to hear him put it so bluntly. She felt drained, lost, alone... Making one last effort at resistance, she tried to rouse up feelings of faith and righteous anger, to feel the presence of God, standing beside her. "I will put my trust in the Lord," she murmured weakly. "He answers the prayers of His people. He will show me the way forward..." But she knew that it was all just words. In this dark hour, the only presence she felt in the room was Brosaev's.

The man chortled at her profession of faith, apparently genuinely amused. "Now my little church mouse knows the mind of God? Why, my dear, I have heard you American Christians say that God can use an 'imperfect vessel' to achieve his goals. So—what if I am that imperfect vessel? What if you are...? As for me, I say that God would want a holy man like Steven to go free, so that he may save souls and provide for his loving family. And who can say what instrument God might use to free him?"

She could not muster a reply or even meet his glance. Her face was red, her mouth had a grim set to it, and her downcast eyes bored stonily into the panel at the back of his desk.

After a moment Yevgeny went on. "Listen, I told you I have been following the case of Gary Buchanan with some interest. Nosing into his personal letters, if I am honest. He, too, is a God-fearing man. And for two whole years, his church took care of the family—paying the bills, buying groceries. Paying lawyers. But in time it became too much. Life went on, they needed money for other things. So, his wife, Janet, who had always kept their home and raised their children—she went to fry burgers at McDonalds. And yet despite her efforts, she still lost the house. The family went to a shelter. There was no money for those darling children to go to college. And they lacked a father figure—their son nearly died of a drug overdose. Yes, it is a very sad tale, like Tolstoy. Is that really what God wanted for that family?... Now, just think: what if Janet could have done one small thing to get her husband released? Even if it was something she found distasteful? I tell you Abigail: I think God would have wanted her to do it."

Still Abby did not say a word. Her brain was buzzing and she felt she couldn't even form a sentence.

Yevgeny sighed. "This grows tiresome. I will give you one hour to think it over. Sit there on the couch if you wish—enjoy the lake view. When I return, if you choose, I will get you a ride back to Moscow. News of Steven's terrorist connections will be on RT tomorrow morning, and your family will become a diplomatic incident. Then neither I nor anyone else will be able to help you... Or, you can indulge me this evening, and I will see to it that you and your husband are on my own private jet, flying to Berlin, before the sun rises." He rose and strolled easily from the room.

She remained seated before the empty desk. Blood pounded in her ears. She tried to breathe, tried to calm her quaking heart. From somewhere to her right she could hear a clock. Each muffled tick of the second-hand seemed to weigh on her soul, taking her one step closer to Yevgeny's dreadful deadline.

After listening to it for a while, she got up and walked robotically over to the couch. Lowering herself onto it, she looked out the window. A part of her mind admired the deep slate blue of the water, the vivid green of the woods surrounding the lake, the picturesque dotting of fishermen's rowboats and skiffs, and the occasional mansion peeking through the trees.

She was a believer and a faithful wife. Both of these things were true, and central to her personality—her self-concept. She knew that God would never send her a burden she could not carry, and that he would be beside her every step of the way. She also knew that what Yevgeny demanded was profane. Therefore, the 'correct' answer to her dilemma was plain to see: that she should stand up and walk out the door, putting her faith in the ultimate goodness of Divine Providence to show her a more virtuous solution.

But... she also knew herself well enough to know that she would never just surrender her own agency. The fact was that, platitudes aside, she had always felt in charge of managing her own destiny. Deep down, it seemed to her that God must want the people of His flock to be doers, strivers, achievers—that He preferred people who faced and overcome hardships, rather than waiting patiently for a miraculous deliverance. And so, in her modest way, this is how she had sought to conduct her own quiet life.

Oh, she'd been careful to let Steven think he was the unquestioned head of their household. When it came to the small hassles of day-to-day existence, she was happy to let him take charge more often than not. But she had no doubts that the broad outlines of her life were really of her own making. After all, it had been she who had chosen Steven. That first time she met him, during freshman year at Freedom U., and seen how devout and decent he was, she had decided that he was the man she would marry. And so she had simply made that happen. From there, she'd carefully steered his career moves, their relationship dynamics, their friendships and activities, the size and timing of their family, the way they raised their children—all the while letting him think he was the one calling the shots.