Natalia’s Game. Крейг Т. Бушар
thought long and hard about studying physics and applied to study at MIT in your country. They turned me down. It was more practical to stay close to home, so I worked my way through a Ph.D. in quantum physics in Bucharest. I understand everything you are telling me about the theories of projection and teleporting. Hearing from you that theory could be real is like catching lightning.”
She pauses for a moment, sighs, and continues, “I couldn’t afford to attend university and four years of grad school without the support of the SRI. I owe them a debt of gratitude.”
This is new news. The CIA was aware of an agent codenamed the “Queen,” but we weren’t knowledgeable of Natalia Net. The SRI had purged her records. A mole in Romania leaked her existence.
She wasn’t done. “To build strength and confidence in dealing with men, I practiced jiu-jitsu and earned a black belt. Later, the SRI trained me as a long-range sniper.
“My job description is fixing national security problems. They call me ‘the cleaner’ because I clean up their problems.”
I gauged her stress level as she speaks. She exhibits no stress. I ask her, “Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Ummm, yes.”
“More than one?”
“More than twenty.”
I’m holding the hand of a hit woman.
She casts her eyes toward me. “Do you still want to hold my hand?”
“Yes, if for no other reason than to keep you from pulling a knife or a pistol.” She laughs and lets go of my hand, diving into the water. I follow her in, grab her waist, and spin her around. I try to say something.
“Shhh,” she puts her index finger to my salty lips and then grazes them with hers. I kiss the corner of her parted lips as a cluster of stars palely glows above us. I have already decided I like this girl.
“Pure honesty is my way,” she says. “Do we still have a deal?”
Intertwined waist-deep in the water, I say, “It’s hard to believe you’ve never been in love.”
“Most men are dull. Some are egomaniacs. I like killing that type. Some lack moral fiber. Few of them are clean.”
She gazes over the lapping water, chin up, with blank eyes and a smirk. That look suggests that I can’t change her mind. I like that. She continues, “I remember my dad’s advice when I was little: ‘Natalia, all men are pigs. So the only question is, which pig will you marry?’ That moment made my transition easier. It gave me a subtle understanding of what I would deal with later – a lesson most girls never get. Men are weak. None good enough – at least so far.”
She holds onto me as the waves push us back and forth.
His accent, honesty, and how he looks at me – while listening – make him different. Thomas emphasizes important points by lowering his voice. This technique works; it makes me listen. He is subtly managing me. I know it, and I like it.
We navigate the stones below our feet, back to the sand, and continue our stroll. Is this guy real? His pulse reveals that he is telling the truth. He rarely blinks when answering a question and looks me straight in the eye, though not overtly. I notice he avoids speaking of himself unless asked a direct question. Good one. He returns my question with a question that scores answers. Tricky. He focuses on discerning my tone. Good one. He has a beautiful mind. That is attractive.
We make it another mile on the desolate sand to where the beach ends with a small cavern surrounded on each side by tall, smooth rocks – a cave designed by nature. I step inside and experience the feeling of wonder. The walls are approximately nine feet high and four feet wide at the entrance. An opening at the top allows the moonlight to glisten down moist walls. The ceiling angles lower toward the rear of what I now consider to be my place.
“This reminds me of a cathedral next to the sea,” says Thomas as we enter. “I suggest we stay here.”
We are alone in the violet shadow of these rocks, and I am comfortable.
Cathedral by the Sea
I lie on the sand, with a full moon filling the open area above. Full moons sometimes make me crazy. The light illuminates my curves. I am aware of his scent, which is sweet. There isn’t much more of my body for him to imagine. But what he can’t see, he probably wants to see.
Perhaps I should have worn more. Too late.
At this moment, I think of my dad.
“An American, Natalia?” he would no doubt say. “Do you not remember what I warned you off? Trust no one – only yourself.”
I look at Crew sideways. Will I ever be able to trust this pig? My occupation demands that I not, because things could get crazy. In an instant, my mind switches, and thoughts come faster and more robust than the lapping waves. What should I allow General Crew Thomas to do to me tonight?
Out of my mouth flies the words, “For the rest of the night, I want you as close as you can be without touching me. Can you accept this?” OMG, why did I say that?! Unfazed, Thomas says yes, and more quickly than I expected. Oh no, he’s winning!
Perhaps with another woman, I might have tested her will. Instead, I lie next to Natalia, staying within an inch – toes, hips, breasts, lips, all without a touch. “Good enough?”
“You are good.” Game on. I am not about to touch Natalia again. She rolls over onto her back, staring at the moon, arms stretched above her head, thighs and knees together, casually resting in the other direction. I try to ignore temptation.
“Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?” I ask her.
What? “Perhaps. What about you, Crew?”
“Yes, I’ve experienced O.B.E.” We watch together as a comet lights the sky above us and changes the conversation. Natalia is tired of talking, and she hasn’t pledged anything. She climbs on me and presses my shoulder blades to the ground, legs straddling my waist, her eyes intense. The top of her bikini falls to the sand – feelings as ancient as prehistoric people experienced flood my body.
His mind can’t overrule this; his pledge is history.
Waves rhythmically land a few feet outside the walls. Natalia scrapes the deepest and darkest of my needs. But I must learn more.
“There is a rumor at Langley that the Romanians have a beautiful agent code-named ‘Queen,’ one with lucid dreaming capabilities. Is that you?”
“Glad to hear that I’m being called beautiful. You did your homework. We have a mole. Yes, that is me. What are you going to do about it?”
Natalia stretches out and lays her breasts on my chest. She is about my height, so it is a comfortable fit. She kisses me again. I wonder why she is attracted to someone much older. The answer must be complex. Her life has been a daily cauldron of pressure with life-and-death consequences. She has nightmares and longs for a man she can trust – someone who can make decisions so she doesn’t have to.
I need a man who will treasure me, despite my imperfections. He attracts me in every way.
I’d read about Anna Grigorievna Snitkina, the wife of Russia’s famous author and philosopher, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and admired her. When Dostoevsky was forty-four, he fell in love with Anna, and they began living together. Anna was nineteen. Dostoevsky carried heavy burdens from his life – prison, hard labor, exile, gambling debts, and the pain of epileptic seizures. With depth and strength of character, Anna turned his life around. She committed herself to his legacy after his death at age sixty. It’s not like I’m a Lolita, but the age of Crew Thomas does matter to me. It makes him more interesting.
“Natalia, you asked me not to touch you. I’m trying my hardest here.”
“You’re