Fires of Kiev Page 5

  “You speak English?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes.” Working with the English clients at Parcera meant he was almost fluent now.

  “Your papers, please.” He handed them over to the clerk.

  “What is your name?”

  “Kostya. Kostyantin Mikhail Dychenko.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I have been living in Kiev, Ukraine.”

  The clerk flipped through his passport and looked confused.

  “There is no stamp showing your departure from the Ukraine.” The clerk wrinkled his brow. “When did you leave the Ukraine?”

  “I left yesterday morning, but I used my brother’s documents.” Kostya pulled them out of his jacket. “I feared I would be stopped from leaving and killed if I used my own papers.”

  The clerk pursed his lips to cover his surprise. He was apparently accustomed to routine questions and common answers, which Kostya couldn’t offer. Studying Kostya closely, he questioned, “Are you aware using someone else’s documents is illegal?”

  “Yes, of course, but there were extenuating circumstances,” Kostya calmly explained. “I am escaping a Novorossiyan terrorist group, Fire of Dawn. They are trying to kill me.”

  The clerk’s eyebrows rose slightly at the word ‘terrorist’. “Sure you are.” He paused and made some notes on a paper. Then, looking up, the amused clerk asked, “Now, why do you feel your life is in danger?”

  Kostya’s would have smiled at the clerk’s condescending attitude and forced expression had it not been so serious. After the last few days, he no longer had the patience. “Because I am the only person alive with the ability to stop the launch of a nuclear missile they have prepared.”

  “I see. So, how did you find yourself in possession of this information?” The clerk smirked doubtfully.

  Kostya, trying to keep his patience, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. “That is a long story I would really prefer to tell to the person who needs to hear it, which I am guessing is above your pay grade. Let me just make sure I say this: I, Kostyantin Dychenko, am requesting asylum in the United States due to the dangers I face if I return to my own country, the Ukraine.”

  The clerk stared blankly for a moment. “Asylum. Will you excuse me for a moment?” Kostya nodded, and the clerk scurried off to the back area. He spoke quietly to one person, then another, each person he passed tiptoeing or leaning to get a look at the man from Kiev. Eventually the clerk was pulled into one of the offices. Kostya waited patiently for a few minutes, quietly entertained by the stares and whispers from the workers behind the counter. The clerk reappeared and anxiously headed toward his station.

  “Mr. Dychenko, will you please follow me?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get someone above my pay grade,” the clerk quipped. They walked to the end of a hallway where a small waiting room was surrounded by cubicles enclosed by the false walls of a makeshift office. There was an oval-shaped table in the center of the space, and some metal-framed chairs stacked in the corner. “We are going to transport you to our downtown facility so you can get the help you need, however, you will have to stay overnight.” Pulling two chairs down, the clerk asked Kostya to sit, and the clerk slid in across from him.

  “All right.” He expected to be held by immigration, if he weren’t arrested. Kostya looked over a stack of papers that the clerk was putting in front of him.

  “While we wait for transport, I need you to fill out this information as thoroughly as possible, and as soon as the van comes, we’ll get you on your way.”

  The packet seemed an inch thick, and questioned him about everything from his birth to his schooling to his military service to his current job. Kostya wrote quickly but as accurately as he could, answering demographic questions, job history, education, and genealogy while the clerk watched the close captioned television mounted above them on the wall.

  Near the bottom of the stack was a form titled, “Application for Sponsorship.” Kostya read it then held it up. “Could you explain this form to me?”

  The clerk came over and squinted at the paper. “Oh, that’s just asking if there is anyone in the United States who can vouch for your identity, and who could sponsor you if you are allowed into our country under Asylum or Refugee Status.” The clerk focused on Kostya. “It can really help in some cases. Do you know anyone living in the United States who would be willing to sponsor you?”

  He closed his eyes, conjuring the memory of a narrow pedestrian bridge in Kiev and a wish sealed with a lock. Golden eyes searching his and her voice echoing, I want to believe…

  Shaking off the thought, he tried to focus on the agent. “Sponsor?” Kostya asked. “What does that require?”

  “Your sponsor would sign a form saying that they would make sure you had housing and the necessities of life until you could provide them for yourself through work after obtaining a work permit,” the clerk explained. “There are churches and humanitarian groups who do this when necessary, but in this case, it would be helpful to have a private individual sponsor you.”

  I helped her when she needed it. He remembered the old compact car, broken down on the road to his family’s home, and how desperate she was for help. My help.

  “I don’t know… She may not remember me.” Impossible. No one could forget that weekend. All the other papers completed, he stared at the form. Is it possible she would come?

  “Now’s not the time to be shy, Mr. Dychenko. If there is anyone at all, you need their help.”

  “I’m not sure where to find her.” Kostya hesitated, then brushed his hand against the key hanging from a thin leather strap around his neck. “Her name is Meri—Meredith St. Claire. She is a medical student from New Orleans. I think her father works for the government.”

  “Did you say Meredith St. Claire? From Louisiana?” The clerk’s jaw dropped.

  “Yes. Do you think you can find her?” Kostya looked up in anticipation.

  “Mmm, yeah,” he said, looking up at the television. “I don’t think finding her will be a problem.”

  Chapter 5

  The stylist whipped the chair around so Meredith could face the mirrors. “Voilá,” she announced, gesturing toward the mirror. “C’est magnifique!”

  Looking at her reflection was something of a shock—a throwback to the days of too much hairspray, leg warmers, and lace gloves with no fingers. Curled and teased, Meredith’s usually natural-looking blonde hair sported bangs that were at least six inches high.

  Treat everyone on the production staff with kindness and respect, her mother, the media queen, had reminded her that morning. You never know who might tell a bad story to the press, so don’t give them anything to write about. Surely Mom didn’t mean she’d have to go on television as part of the Hairspray Nation.

  She clenched her jaw as she struggled to say something positive. “Oh! You certainly have a talent for creating body and fullness,” Meredith offered.

  Continuing her fake French accent, the stylist whipped her back around. “Now, we should start on ze make-up.”

  “That’s fine, um…” she looked for a name tag and found it, “Fifi.” Really? Fifi? Help me not be snarky. “I prefer to do my own make-up.”

  Fifi protested, but Meredith eventually convinced her to leave the Green Room, claiming anxiety and a need to be alone before the show. Fifi harrumphed and marched out, pushing past a figure leaning up against the door to the room, his fist up to his mouth trying hard not to laugh. “Well, sis, it looks like you have things totally under control as always.” Will’s eyes, the same golden brown as Meredith’s, were hidden behind crinkles of amusement.

  “I am so glad to see you, Will,” Meredith said.

  “It looks like I might be a decade or two late,” he quipped, coughing to cover a deep laugh. “Do you need any more hairspray, Mer?” He took the can and mischievously aimed it at her.

  “It’s all fun and games until there’s a hole in the ozo
ne.” She playfully grabbed his wrist to force the can down. “Or until Dad goes down in the polls,” she said, her voice becoming serious. She replaced the can on the vanity. “How did I end up being the one on Ask It, Izzy?”

  “You know you’ve always been the sweetheart of the family, Mer. Now that you’re living in Washington, everyone is just curious about you.” Will browsed the beauty products on the vanity. “Besides, you’re much better looking than your older brother.”

  Meredith rolled her eyes and took a brush to her hair trying to tame some of the worst waves. “Mom said it’s part of being American royalty. The U.S. doesn’t have their own Prince William and Kate, so they watch the families of celebrities or politicians. I guess being the daughter of a senator qualifies me as ‘interesting’.” She put down the brush and studied her brother’s similar features in the mirror. “Can’t they watch you for a while?”

  “I guess I don’t give them what they want to see.” Will grinned and sat in the folding chair next to Meredith’s salon chair.

  “Yeah, right. You’re a successful attorney and consultant to the CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security—what wouldn’t they like?” Meredith pulled out her make-up case and started applying foundation with a round sponge. “Besides, I’m not that interesting.”

  “I beg to differ.” A voice behind them interrupted, and Will and Meredith turned. “I’m interested. I’m very interested.” Scott Jackson stood at the door, his gaze quickly finding Meredith and crossing the room. Will rose to shake his hand, but Scott made a straight line to Meredith who was brushing powder on her cheeks and nose. “Hi, babe,” he said into her ear and spun the chair around and kissed her.

  “Hey you,” Meredith said, lingering under his attention, but becoming disappointed when Scott released her and began assessing the dressing room.

  “Is this their largest dressing room?”

  “I don’t know. I forgot my tape measure.” Meredith continued to stroke her cheek with the brush.

  Scott snorted and held up the suit she was planning to wear. “Did Celeste help you pick this outfit?”

  “Would you still like it if I said no?” Meredith rolled her eyes, knowing Scott trusted her mom with anything to do with the media, but he didn’t trust her very much. Frowning, she suddenly realized Scott’s arrival was more about him and her father than about her.

  “Aw, babe. Why are you so tense?” Scott asked while peeking in the shoebox on the top of the clothing rack. “You’re going to do great.” He flashed his straight, white smile at her. “Is something wrong?”

  “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” She pressed her lips together. “Is everything all right at the Senator’s office?”

  “Yeah, I just got caught in a meeting.” Meredith watched him in the mirror as he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his messages. The mirrors around the room loved his classic features, blond wavy hair and broad shoulders. She sighed while watching him read, totally unaware of his reflection around the room. He was successful and good-looking—sometimes she couldn’t believe he was with her.

  “A meeting with Daddy? Does he know about the interview?”

  “Yes, he knows.” Scott didn’t even look up from his phone. “He’s going to have his television on at nine-thirty.”

  It might be on, but he wouldn’t be the one watching it. Meredith sighed then headed to the clothing rack on the side of the room. “Gentlemen, I need to finish dressing. If you could please…” She gestured to the door.

  “Anything for you, your highness.” Will bowed and ducked out the door. She wadded up a tissue and playfully threw it at him.

  Scott came in close behind her. Placing his hands around her waist, he kissed a line from her neck to her shoulder. “Your highness, huh? Well, milady, I can help release some of that stress if you want.” His hands wandered north of her belly.

  Does he ever think of anything else? “Maybe later. I’m kinda nervous about the interview.” She rolled out of his arms, stepping toward the garment bag holding the GOP-approved outfit of the day.

  Meredith tried to ignore Scott frowning. “Who are you saving it for, Mer?” he said under his breath, obviously frustrated.

  Choosing not to start a confrontation, Meredith concentrated on hanging the garment bag and unzipping it. “I’ll be done getting ready in just a few minutes,” she hinted, looking at the door.

  Scott sulked as he left, but Meredith was finally alone. She sighed as she sat in front of the mirror to put on her make-up. Although not a fashion plate, Meredith found the process of getting ready oddly relaxing. Maybe it was the transformation that she created, but more than that, it was something she did for herself that she had control over. She carefully applied make-up, a little heavier than normal to account for the stage lights, and she expertly pulled her too-teased hair into a thick silver barrette, keeping her hair long and full in back. Finally, she slipped into the conservative navy suit and pink blouse that had been chosen by her mother’s buyers and looped the matching scarf loosely around her neck. There—just what the press expects. She scowled at the thought of it.

  Meredith didn’t mind doing interviews or appearances for her father, but ever since she moved to Washington D.C. to do her medical residency at George Washington University, the interest the public had in her life—both professionally and personally—spiked. This interview was a good example. Society reporter Izzy Garcia, host of Ask It, Izzy, had been stalking her for an interview for months. Phone calls, emails, texts, and random chance meetings, all to pressure Meredith to appear on the show. Meredith would have said no, hell no, to ever appearing, but Scott had talked her into it.

  “Your dad needs more ties to the younger voters. An appearance with Izzy would show the nation that Senator St. Claire isn’t out of touch with the younger generation.” Scott made his case over a quick lunch at Union Station in downtown D.C.

  “But I think she’s a pest,” Meredith complained while claiming a table in the crowded bottom floor food court. “She shouldn’t be rewarded with an interview after stalking me.”

  “She’s a reporter. Reporters do crazy things to get a good story.” He ran his thumb along her knuckles and circled the back of her hand. “You’re a good story.”

  “Scott, I’m not my mother. My life is not just doing appearances in support of Senator St. Claire. I’ll have to get the day off, find something to wear, rehearse talking points…”

  He quieted her with a short kiss. “Do this for me. For your dad.”

  There was never an argument if it was for the Senator. It was just weird to have her boyfriend pulling the strings.

  A knock at the door and a call giving her a five-minute warning brought her out of her thoughts. Nothing I can do about it now. Izzy Garcia is going to get her interview. She took a deep breath while examining herself one more time in front of the full-length mirror then stepped out into the hallway and into the backstage area.

  Scott and Will were already there waiting. Will pulled her over with a hand on her shoulder and said, “Izzy just finished interviewing the founder of CellSource. She wasn’t too mean.”

  CellSource was a D.C. company that went from being basically bankrupt to having billions in assets overnight. There really wasn’t anything controversial or political about their story, it was just one of those business success stories that everyone likes to hear. “Maybe she is saving her worst for me,” Meredith muttered.

  Scott faced her and held her at her upper arms looking her squarely in the eye. “Remember the talking points—the fundraiser tomorrow, the campaign stop in Baton Rouge next week, the funding for defense and humanitarian projects—you know what to say.”

  His pep talk felt vaguely like he should end it with a slap on the ass and a “Go get ’em!” but she was too distracted to say anything about it. They were coming back from commercial.

  “Welcome back, Izzy-ites!” Izzy smiled and bowed while the obviously excited audience cheered and chanted, “Ask it! Ask
it!”—the signature phrase for her show. She gestured for the audience to settle down and began. “Thank you, thank you so much! We have a fantastic second half today. Backstage, we have Meredith St. Claire, the very successful and beautiful daughter of Senator William St. Claire from Louisiana.” There was a smattering of applause.

  “Yes. Now, we know the Senator’s name has been mentioned for a possible presidential run, and we will ask about that, but, there’s more to Miss Meredith than her father’s career, isn’t there?” Izzy was nodding while the audience clapped again and began another chorus of “Ask it! Ask it!”

  Meredith, panicked, looked at Scott. “What is she talking about? What is she going to ask me?”

  The stage manager took her arm and pulled her to the edge of the curtain, away from Scott and Will. Meredith’s heart was racing, and she had to calm down. She closed her eyes and pulled the long chain out from her blouse. At the end of the chain was a small key that she held, focusing on deep breaths, imagining a field of lavender, a blanket, and endless blue eyes focused on her. She almost heard the deep voice, “It will be fine, dushen’ka.” Smiling she assessed the show differently. What mattered wasn’t here, and Izzy Garcia wasn’t going to embarrass her.

  “Let’s welcome Meredith St. Claire.” Amid the applause, Meredith confidently walked on stage, acknowledged the audience with a stunning smile and wave, greeted Izzy warmly, and sat in the interviewee’s chair gracefully. So far, so good.

  “Meredith.” Izzy’s interviews often started friendly, and then moved to the tough questions. “Tell us what it’s like to be a senator’s daughter, I mean, some people might say that you are the royalty of the United States.”

  Meredith kept her face from cringing at that phrase being used again. She tried to be genuine and forthright as she answered. “If I’m royalty, I’m certainly not close in the line of succession.” She smiled warmly. “Maybe I’d be a lady-in-waiting or someone who works to make the world around them better.”