The Spy Who Loved Me

Chapter 8

His heart pounded against his chest like a clock ticking. A lapse in concentration wasn't possible, for his very life would be in danger. Each word, he analyzed with detail, replacing them with four digit numbers. Then, he meticulously shifted the digits...one from the first grouping, two from the second, and so on. He did it with such concentration, his brow furrowed and his jaw ticking. These documents were so very precious, containing the secrets that would compromise one's security forever. He couldn't make a mistake.

The job was far from over. He still had yet to consult the time pad, do the arithmetic, and convert them back into letter groups. It was a tedious job, which he had already spent two entire days on. It was still taking longer than usual...he was thinking about her.

He yanked his bow tie from his neck and unbuttoned his shirt. He was slightly bothered and puzzled. No woman had ever controlled his thoughts as she did. When he first met Ethel, he had mistaken her for one that would be shy and naive; easy to lead astray. But she was far from any assumption he had made. He was the one who had things to hide. His story of being the All-American son of a farmer, was not completely true.

He sunk into his plush chair by the fireplace and poured himself a large glass of scotch. He stared at the deep caramel color of the smooth liquid, twirling it around in the glass. The words of his boss, Igor Yevtushenko, ran through his head.

"Be wary of who you allow in your life and who you trust. Am I understood?"

Women were his weakness, and that was a fact. However, he never allowed them to interfere with his feelings, nor did he entertain the idea of long term relationships. It was too risky. Yet, Ethel was different. He felt that he just had to have her. He had never felt disdain towards of his work until the moment he met Ethel Wallace. He had only known her for a few meager weeks, and was already enamored by her existence. He believed it to be lust at first, believing the feelings towards her would pass once he made love to her. They didn't though, in fact, they only became stronger. He hadn't seen her since that evening they spent together, she had left in haste.

Michael wiped his mouth and sighed. Running his fingers through his hair, he reflected on his complicated past. He was an American citizen, that was a fact. Born as Mikhail Malakhov, he was raised in a farming community in Georgetown, Wisconsin, he was the son of Slavic immigrants. 

He parents believed that coming to America was the answer to fixing all their difficulties in life, and they had been determined to achieve the American Dream for their family. Life was difficult America. They still faced poverty and discrimination, working in factories that barely paid them enough to live on. When the Great Depression came, it impacted Michael's family heavily. The financial burden and stress became to difficult to carry,and they made the decision to move to Moscow, in hopes of finding better fortune. Michael had been eighteen at the time.

Life in Moscow was good for his family. Michael's parents became successful farmers in Moscow, not Wisconsin as he told. He attended university to study Literature and Mathematics. While studying, he became increasingly drawn into the Communist ideology. He studied the writings of Lenin and Marx, soon experiencing a political epiphany and calling. His allegiance was no longer to America, but the Communist Party. Catching the attention of the Soviet Intelligence Directorate, he was recruited as a special trainee to become an espionage agent. He specialized in targeting and infiltrating the popular sentiment of an opposing country. In other words, he was to infiltrate the everyday life of Americans, planting seeds of Communism in the most significant aspect of their life: The rise of the mass entertainment. That was his mission when he was selected as one of eight spies to be sent overseas to the United States.

He remembered Igor's instructions as if it were yesterday...

"Your mission is to infiltrate American society. You will go in like a wolf in sheep's clothing, and you will become one of them. As agents, it is our job to determine the weaknesses and strengths in their society and government. Your mission will have impact on how we analyze their foreign policy, military strategy, and politics. This is a life-long mission. We have planned for you to be stationed you in the GRU cells in New York City and Los Angeles. We have arranged for you to arrive in Los Angeles first. From there, you will fly to New York assuming your position. I'm sure you'll remember how to act American, seeing that you were raised there most of your life."

"It will be of no problem"

"Good...very good" he said in his strong Russian accent. "Getting the information that we want shouldn't be hard at all. Americans are stupid enough to walk into our traps. Besides, the corruption runs deep in their government....half of Truman's cabinet are Communists." He threw the sliver of his cigarette butt to the concrete floor. "I expect success."

Michael vividly remembered the night he first arrived at the Port of Los Angeles. He had endured the laborious journey on an oil tanker, and suffered an acute case of sea sickness. He didn't stay in Los Angeles for more than five hours before his was on his way to his next destination, New York. There, he was met by Paval Kolchinov, the station chief of the GRU cell. Paval informed Michael that he would receive immediate employment as an assistant and eventual partner with Vince Anderson, an executive producer for Paramount Pictures. Vince was the ultimate Judas, the master of calculated betrayal and deception. Obtaining such a high position in Los Angeles, gave Vince exclusive access to the elite. He had ties with powerful politicians, giving him special insight on American government's most classified secrets, strategies, and policies. He seemed to most like the most loyal, patriotic citizen of America, but it was all a terrible lie. He was a member of the American Communist Party, and he worked closely with Soviet Spies. Michael laughed to himself quietly; Paval had been right all along: Americans were too stupid to realize the corruption of their capitalist foundation. As a Soviet informant, and it would be through Mikhail that Vince would work. Whatever information gathered by Mikhail from Vince, would be sent directly to Paval, who would then pass it to the GRU headquarters in Moscow.

Mikhail was to play the part of an American Hollywood Golden Boy, and the GRU would fund his believable facade. He was given plush residences in both Brooklyn and New York, with a comfortable monthly allowance of $500 (equivalent to $5,500 today; this was considered a fortune back then). To prevent any form of suspicion, he Americanized his name, Mikhail Malakhov, to Michael Morrison.

He had now been in the U.S. for seven years, since his departure from Moscow.

No one suspected him.

He had melded seamlessly with the image of the successful American man, and had a growing group of unsuspecting acquaintances. He was the perfect image of the American Dream. His connection to the famous allowed him to mingle with the elite, the politicians, the entertainers, and the every day citizen, he had touched and experienced every basis of the American world. People enjoyed his charm, therefore, he faced little suspicion. For all he knew, reaching the citizens was the key to spreading seeds of Communism.  And he did his job well. He was a con artist with no remorse.

Although He had infiltrated American society with a sense of normalcy, he undeniably stood out from others due to his profile as a screenwriter. His sophisticated grace always seemed to draw attention. With his rare striking features, he had minimal issues when it came to his women. He had learned how to keep them unsuspecting and at a distance as he played the ever so romantic lover, for in reality he had no interest in going an further than a quick rendezvous. All in all, Mikhail Malakhov had unsuspectingly become a respected member of society, loved by most.

He took a long sip, and stared at the shadows that floated against the ceiling of his apartment. His thoughts wandered back to Ethel. Had he made a mistake by inviting her into his life so easily? He thought of her cropped curls that stopped just below her chin, her wide brown eyes, and her lovely shaped lips. Her waist was ever so shapely, accentuating the bow of her hips and the slight curve of her beautiful chest. The soft Southern lilt in her voice was music to his ears. He convinced himself that he was still  only lusting after her. He did not believe in the idea of 'love at first sight'.

"It's just not feasible" he whispered to himself. He let a restless sleep overtake his eyes.