Thirty-Eight #3
“Hey!” cried Chane, immediately upon seeing her. “You’re here! Awesome!”
Klaudia tried not to flinch visibly. “Did Deckard give you my room number?”
“Yeah,” Chane said. “I wanted to talk to you in private. One-on-one, for real this time. Yeah?”
Klaudia froze in the threshold. She had no experience fending off these kinds of advances, especially not from someone as relentless as Chane. And hadn’t she laid the path for this already, with her false flirtation? Utterly out of her depth, Klaudia merely stared back at him in silence.
But Chane looked undeterred. “I invited your father to the gala, you know.”
Her blood turned to ice. “What?”
“Yeah, I sent a nice little gift basket and everything. I wanted to get some business advice from the great Ivan Shimonov.”
Chane had no ability to be subtle. Quickly, Klaudia discerned the true purpose of his invitation. As much as her father loathed
the paternalism of the narrative that had been foisted upon him, the story was a valuable political tool. To have fled the
Soviet Union due to persecution was good enough—adding his identity made the tale’s propagandistic potential irresistible.
Western leaders could point to it as proof that the Soviets oppressed their ethnoreligious minorities, behavior that had no place in the free world. Klaudia had heard it all before. Russians were backward tyrants; Americans were liberators.
The truth was quite a bit murkier, but no one was interested in the gritty little realities. Chane wanted to bolster his image
as a hero of the West. And having Ivan Shimonov at his side—or his daughter on his arm—added legitimacy to the act.
“He never replied to the invitation,” Chane went on. “But I guess he’s a very busy man, isn’t he?”
Relief made Klaudia feel weak in the knees. “Yes. He is.”
“Good thing he has such a charming and beautiful daughter.”
Immediately the icy sensation in her veins returned. It was public knowledge that Chane had thirteen children, all fathered
out of wedlock, an impressive feat for a man of only thirty-eight. His various mistresses were always suing him for child
support or going on morning talk shows to air their grievances.
Chane was not exactly quiet about the fact that this was all done in an effort to further a superior bloodline. While that would make Klaudia an unlikely candidate for the position, the knowledge did not much reassure her.
When Klaudia didn’t reply, Chane said, “I have something for you.”
She remained completely still and silent as Chane reached into the pocket of his hoodie and drew out a box. It was deep scarlet
with a gold-embellished border, which Klaudia recognized immediately as Cartier.
Without waiting for her to say anything, Chane flipped it open, revealing a glittering diamond choker. Even just looking at
it, Klaudia could feel its heaviness.
“Well?” Chane prompted. “Do you like it?”
She nodded.
“Great!” Chane beamed. “Wear it for me tomorrow, okay?”
Klaudia hesitated. Then she nodded once more.
“Awesome!” Chane thrust the box into her hands. Klaudia was clumsy in taking it. “See you tomorrow night! You’re going to
look great!”
With that, he turned and clomped down the corridor. Klaudia closed her eyes, slumping against the doorframe.
Once she had ducked back inside her room and bolted the door, Klaudia lifted the necklace from the box and held it up to her
throat. It was even heavier than she had expected and the diamonds were almost blinding when they caught the light. Like everything
about Chane, it was garish. Loud.
Klaudia returned the necklace to the box, biting down hard on her lower lip. Yet even now, she questioned herself. Was her
disgust toward Chane all part of the same wrongness she had always felt? Would another girl be flattered to be courted by someone like him? Would they be preening in front of the mirror in their $300,000 necklace and $10,000 dress?
There were other questions, too, that had lurked for a long time in her subconscious. Was her resistance to killing Satow
really the product of some deep-seated loyalty to Russia? To her motherland? Klaudia hardly remembered the years she had spent there, memories blurred by time and the poor recollection of a child.
She’d had no qualms about renouncing her Soviet citizenship. After the interview the Immigration Services officer had given
her a tiny American flag, and she had kept it on her desk at home for years, the white stripes turning yellow with age. She
had known plenty of other Russian immigrants, like Mikhail, so her background had never seemed unusual to her.
Yet . . . there was always the tacit suspicion from Americans, small leading questions or subtly dubious looks. It made Klaudia
wonder if there was some latent treachery lying low within her, like a sleeper agent that could be activated at any moment.
Maybe she didn’t know herself at all.
Here was an opportunity to prove her loyalty to others and to herself. Here was an opportunity to prove that she could be
an ordinary girl, an American girl. Klaudia would wear the dress. And she would wear the necklace, too.