Vika, Viktoriya

As Viktoriya Mikhailova neared the entrance of the mustard yellow and white presidential palace, a guard recognized her. Mikhailova was a regular visitor and knew most of the guards there. "Zdrastvuyte," he greeted her, while proceeding to carry out the routine checks. To his beed, there was always some mistrust to be taken in everyone. Just then, the first of the presidential motorcade arrived. The protection had increased threefold since the last time she saw it. The very people who nearly killed her had also put a price on the man's head. How much was it again? Two million US dollars. That's it? It was almost an insult.

Mikhailova's steel-blue eyes which glistened with the luster of melting ice, followed the black Mercedes limousines as they rolled towards the opening gate. She knew that the president was in one of them and that he had seen her standing there, wondering why she was so early for the appointment with him.

***

"She's there, that Viktoriya Mikhailova..." Sergei Ivanov gestured towards Mikhailova. Ivanov saw Vika's cold, knowing eyes gazing at them. She wasn't looking in their eyes but she knew that she was looking at them all right. Ivanov looked at his close friend, President Vladimir Putin, the one who made him head of his Security Council and allowed him to meddle in other affairs unrelated to his own department (much to the chagrin of one of the other ministers). They had studied together at the KGB school and worked together for a time in the Leningrad branch. Ivanov was close to Putin both personally and politically. He had been called everything from "Putin's closest ally" to "Vice-President".

President Putin turned away from the window. The bulletproof glass made her image appear a little wavy, kind of distorted, but her piercing eyes reached him. He hated to be stared at like that. That girl! Gave me so many problems! Damned reporters! Traitor! What has become of her? Before going to Chechnya she had lavishly praised him and gave her sincere support. What pushed her to write slanderously about him and his campaign? There were two things that made Putin angry. The first of which was stupidity--Mikhailova was not stupid, he knew--and the second was disloyalty.

***

Mikhailova shook the snow off her boots and took off her warm fur cap and overcoat and left them in the cloakroom located near the entrance. She had been practically swimming in her overcoat. In fact, most of her clothes were presently hanging on to her thin frame. The security detail found a sniper's unfired bullet in her coat--the infamous bullet everyone had seen on television. It was a "gift" from the Chechen who rewarded her with her survival. Mikhailova never forgot her friends nor her enemies. She was a victim of long, mostly painful memories. That Chechen knew how to play on that. Pressing the bullet meant for her into the palm of her hand, he released her. The bullet never left her side following her release. It was, in some savage way, precious to her. The following week, she was given plenty of media attention. Interview after interview after interview... until she nearly fell ill. Oh, the world was so intrigued with the stupid bullet! The kept asking why she had even bothered to keep it. She had her own reasons, didn't she? And she didn't have to tell them what they were!

"You can keep it for all I care," Mikhailova offered. There was no point fighting with security and it was probably a good way to get rid of it, for if he took it, she'll never give it back. And she'll never remember that Chechen as vividly as before.

The man shook his head and handed the bullet back to her. It could do no harm, he figured. Mikhailova wrapped her fingers round the cold, metallic piece of ammunition tightly. "You shall remember me," the Chechen said. Bus she did not know his name. What she remembered was his gruff, raspy voice, how he inflicted the injuries on her, and his eyes that harbored a murderous stare. she would hold him in her memory, but never in her heart.

Mikhailova waited in the reception. Putin always made her (or anybody else for that matter) wait. Normally she was patient, but not today. Anger was slowly claiming her. If he had the nerve to turn me into one of his pawns in his Kremlin vs. Chechnya game, then I should I have the patience to wait for him! Time seemed to be moving slower and slower by the second. her anger vanished slowly as her mind drifted to somehwere else... the whimpering letters written back home to her colleagues... another interview on Sunday... Mikhailova closed her eyes. Sunday, on Itogi, live. Well! Ain't that something! Doesn't Putin just hate that show?

Her daydreams ended when a sure, firm hand gripped her shoulder. She awoke from her dream but she kept her eyes shut and fingers wrapped tightly around the bullet. She knew who he was--the man she once had admired and held in high esteem.

"You're early," Putin's voice came just behind her ear. (Russian's were never punctual people.) "And you have the first slot. We can have a long talk in my office. Come inside, please." The voice seemed too gentle.

That was when Mikhailova turned and looked into his green-blue eyes. He stared back at her. There was some combination of a killer's cold stare and deep compassion in hers. For a moment, he was drawn towards them, captured by some strange power, some mystique in them. Was it her inner strength, some beauty or...

Putin turned away, "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?" She knew he wasn't ready to apologize for the ordeal he put her through but she couldn't figure what he was sorry for.

Putin remembered the last time he saw her. Back then, she had a lively mind, though she didn't jump about like a hyper reporter, he could sense an excited, energetic spirit in her. The questions she threw at him during the many press conferences and the interviews were never easy. Other reporters or journalists would have overlooked some point or something he was trying to hide. Mikhailova always seized on and dug them out, confronting him with these subtle issues. Sometimes, she embarrassed him. He remembered how he dreaded seeing her at his press conferences. When she was there, her boldness rubbed off and on the other media sharks and they become more aggressive, more unafraid. For some other reason, he also knew she could have easily been part of a Putin fan club. She was one of the biggest contributors to the unofficial fan clubs everywhere. He had never seen more elegant photographs of himself than those she took. Though he never really spotted her everywhere, she was always there nearby whenever he appeared in public. One of her photos would show up in the papers the following morning. She would lavishly praise him in some of her articles and sometimes got into minor trouble with her bosses about that. What happened to the criticisms? She turned them into praise, suggestions and words of encouragement. What the other reporters did to the same information was a different story altogether.

But when she went to Chechnya, well, that was a different story. The things she wrote... who had wrenched the pen from her hand? The devil?

"Come on, don't just stand there," he said. With a gentle shove, he lead her into his office and shut the door behind him. Mikhailova's heart skipped a beat as she was being pushed into the President's office by the man himself.

She's scared, he knew. She feels trapped. It's the door... the door I just closed. But what can I do? We can't let anyone else listen in... what can make her feel at ease? What?!

He smiled at her. She smiled back ever so slightly and seemed to appreciate his futile efforts. He told her, still holding that smile, "I'm glad you came back in one piece. I mean... thank God you held out. Come sit down. Would you like a drink, perhaps?"


Mikhailova sighed, shook her head, then fell silent as she sat down on the chair opposite the President's. Talk to me, Mikhailova. Don't keep silence. Putin went on, "There was a miscommunication somewhere along the chain of command. I never intended to hand you over to the Checheans..." That was partly a lie. Putin went on to explain in further detail until he realised that she wasn't listening. "Do you have anything to say, Mikhailova?"

Mikhailova looked at him in the eye. "Tovarisch Prezidyent, I am disappointed with you. You let me down..." and she meant it because he really did. then she let loose, telling him in no uncertain terms about her days in Chechen hell--every detail, every thought and every little disappointment. Then she rose to full height, nearly shouting, "You evil creature! You were sorry about your public image, sorry about what the media thinks of you, sorry about yourself--you, yours, yourself! Have you ever spared a thought for me?"

"Tishe!" Quiet! Putin growled. Mikhailova knew that growl. She stopped talking at his command. She'd just given him hell. Dammit, he thought. Now we're both mad a teach other. "Tovarishch Prezidyent, I'm disappointed with you..." Tovarisch. Comrade. Somehow, something didn't fit. What?Putin searched his brain for answers. He started to mentally trace the history of Viktoriya Mikhailova.

First of all, Viktoriya Mikhailova wasn't really her name. It was a Russian version of her real name, Victoria Michaels. Secondly, she wasn't a Russian citizen (though she had a slight trace of Russian blood in her). She held American citizenship. Thirdly, she hated communists, or anyway, she was supposed to hate them. She was brought up by her adoptive parents who hated Russia in her Soviet glory-days. And they lived in the Old Days until the day they died. As far as he knew she was always rebelling against them. So why was he Tovarishch Prezidyent to her? Just simply a rebellion against her dead parents? Russian nostalgia? Or was she just trying to spite him?

Not unless she's keeping some other secret. We all have our secret worlds, Viktoriya. We all do. Yes. Perhaps someday I shall find out... Vika Viktoriya...

"Continue. Go on. Take it all out on me. I'm listening," he tried a soft voice. Bad choice.

Mikhailova looked as though she was going to hit him.

Putin saw it all. He saw it all in her eyes. Back off! He warned himself. But he said otherwise, "It's okay. Say what you want. Nothing will be recorded." Mikhailova gritted her teeth, clenched her fists--she was getting ready to strike. Putin sprung into action. He leapt from hi seat and caught her wrists with his strong hands just as she was about to strike a blow. I should have known... she is uncontrollable when she's angry... Putin thought as he held the struggling reporter in his grip.

Mikhailova screamed, "Let me go and don't touch me!"

"Not till you calm down. Please, Mikhailova!"

"Let go of me! Now!" she demanded as she tried to break free.

"Please! Listen to me... get a hold of yourself. Don't be rash! We can talk..." Putin begged her. Vika was starting to gain psychological superiority over the former KGB agent but she wasn't aware of it.

"I can never listen to you anymore!" Vika yelled at his face.

***

Sergei Ivanov approached his friend's office to personally ask him about something. Just ten inches from the heavy, supposedly soundproof door, he stopped dead in his tracks. What the hell? He could hear Mikhailova's voice and never had he heard so much anger conveyed in a human voice, save for Putin's "kill them (Chechen bandits) in the johns" speech. The door was flung open at such a ferocious force. Good thing the door opened inwards, or his medium built frame would have become airborne. Mikhailova was practically blind when she ran out. She rammed right into the Security Council chief. For that instant, he wanted to shove her off, but he resisted and backed away instead, letting the distressed Mikhailova run off. Something was terribly wrong, he knew.

"Volodya, what happened?" Ivanov asked his friend who had elected to keep himself planted in his chair.

"Nothing good," the president replied simply.

Ivanov sighed, entered the study and closed the door, "You want to tell me about it?"

"Nyet," Putin said simply. Even his closest friends couldn't infiltrate every part of him sometimes. Putin was hurt as well, unlike what the public and the West thought about the former KGB spy who apparently held no emotion. That was what everyone thought adn what most of them didn't know was that he was more emotional that any other ordinary man.

Ivanov went on and spoke anyway, "You know, I think it's just her disappointment that's causing her distress. She doesn't hate you. In fact, she's obsessed with you. That's why it hurts her so much."

Putin nodded, but said nothing.

"Did you apologize?" Ivanov asked.

Putin shook his head as he realized his grave mistake.

"You creep! You didn't apologize?" Ivanov rolled his eyes in disbelief. "But oh hell, at least you didn't hit her..."

But she tried to hit me. Putin didn't add.

"Now about the G-8 summit agenda... well, Igor ought to be talking to you about this but never mind..." the Security Council chief said in his monotone. He had lots of time to talk. Mikhailova had left even before her scheduled appointment was supposed to start. The whole incident put Putin in a bad mood for the rest of the day, but nobody really cared because nobody could see it. He was a KGB man, after all.

***

It finally showed the following day. Mikhailova was too much! Too dammed much! Putin kept on thinking. Then he started to sulk. And it showed. Ivanov, still faithfully hanging around Putin's office ("To meddle with The Great Leader's foreign policies," whispered an aide), noticed it. "Volodya," he confronted him, "You seem quite upset and you're showing it. It would not like the staff here to be demoralized. Don't tell me it's about that Mikhailova girl."

"It is, Sergei," Putin confessed and poured his heart out to his friend. "It is. Oh, I couldn't get her off my mind! Tell me what I've done to her during our meeting that made her behave like that... she ran off before I tried to apologize. She didn't even listen to anything I said..."

"Volodya, I told you, she's just very disappointed with you and upset about the whole Chechnya affair. Don't forget that the poor girl went through hell over there. She might even be afraid of us now. Remember when she ran into me, literally? I saw this look of fear in her face..." Ivanov sat down opposite the President.

"You seem to know her well, Sergei," Putin remarked.

"I've read all about her and her pieces, like you. But you seem blinded by all that's happening between you and her." Ivanov gave him a wry, one-sided smile. "Blinded. I knew it was something about her that made you upset. It's not working, Chief. You need to apologize to her, the sooner the better. You'll feel better and so will everybody else. And the media will love it!"

"You sound as if you're so concerned about her, yet you still think about our public image."

Putin leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to picture the Vika Mikhailova he had once knew, the one that he dreaded... the one that he liked very much.

***

Mikhailova tried in vain to sleep. Everything had gone wrong that day. But she won the conversation, didn't she? She had told him exactly how disappointed and upset she was with him. She remembered how pathetic he looked towards the end of their conversation. Please, listen to me... the tone was so weak, pleading and almost desperate. Victory for Vitoriya Mikhailova!

So?

She turned to another sleeping position. Her eyes fell on a framed, soft-focused portrait of Putin hanging on the wall across the room. His green-blue eyes, through a dream-like glaze pierced through the dusty glass and fixed on her. How many nights had she fallen asleep peacefully just by looking at the photograph? And how many night would she have to cry herself to sleep?

She didn't know, but she would have to start counting from that night on.

***

"I can never listen to you anymore!" Mikhailova's voice, like a deafening roar, echoed in Putin's ears.

"Mikhailova, I beg of you... I was driven to this decision! I was powerless..." He cried out. He was losing his grip on her. Mikhailova broke free and with her cold, frightful eyes looking straight into his, she gave him a tight slap across the face. The tears he had been holding back rolled onto his angular cheeks. It was too much of a shock for him. He lost his balance and soon he was on the floor, holding on to his cheek. He tried to stand up but could only rise to his fours.

Mikhailova was standing here, looking down at him.

"Mikhailova..." the President crawled towards her. "It was my fault... I'm sorry..."

But she started to walk away. Putin, on his hands and knees, could not reach her before she stormed out of his office. He kept calling her name and begging her to forgive him. Then his secretary appeared. Then his Chief of Staff, Voloshin, appeared. And finally, his close friend, Ivanov, entered the office. They were all staring at him. Putin never felt more humiliated than before. He wanted to disappear, right in front of their eyes...

"Volodya? Volodya!" another voice, a clear voice, came to his ears.

Putin opened his eyes and saw his wife's face before him. "Ludya?" he said.

"You were crying in your sleep." Ludya told him. "Is something upsetting you again?"

"No Ludya, it was... just a bad dream..."

Ludya kissed him on the forehead, "You poor thing."

Hungry for comfort, Putin hugged her and tried to get Mikhailova off his mind.

***

The days came and went. The public outcry had died down. Mikhailova stopped writing. Maybe some of the people already forgotten about her. Most letters written to her went unanswered. She started to attend press briefings and conferences less regularly. Then she stopped attending them altogether. Putin hardly saw her anymore. But he could not forget her. She was always haunting him in his dreams. whenever he appeared in public or to the press, he would subconsciously scan the crowd for Mikhailova's face.

The G-8 summit was to be held soon and he wondered whether Mikhailova would even care about it. He would be flying to Okinawa tomorrow. Would she be there? Putin thought as he stared at his diary. Then he glanced at his watch. It was 2130 hours. Hoping it was still early for her, he picked up the telephone, "Can you get Viktoriya Mikhailova on the line for me, please?"

"Yes, Chief," his secretary replied. Putin like to be called "Chief".

The phone rang, rang and rang. Pick up the phone... please...

"Allo? Who's speaking?" Mikhailova, in smooth Russian with a very slight hint of Moscow accent, said.

Putin recognized the voice at once, though he had not heard it for a relatively long time. "Calling fromt he Presidential office..." he got past the lump in his throat.

"What is it this time? If you're asking if I'm going to Okinawa or not, well, I'm telling you I'm not going!" she was nearly shouting. Putin was taken aback. Nobody talked to a president like that.

"It's not about the G-8 summit," he said, trying to stay calm.

"Then what is it?"

"It's about you," he said, then quickly added, "And I. It's a persoaal matter. I think you know what..."

"Oh?"

"Can we meet? Tonight?"

Mikhailova paused, than laughed. Putin blushed.

"Ha! If you really want to, the you'll have to come and get me!" she laughed as she slammed down the phone. Putin, not willing to be outdone, caled his secretary again adn asked for the address of Mikhailova's Moscow apartment.

Aleksei, his chief bodyguard, looked frazzled when he informed him that he wanted to visit Mikhailova alone, or more accurately, with only his chief bodyguard.

"Chief? You're joking right? No, security will not allow you..."

"May I remind you that security serves me and I do not serve security?" Putin countered. "Anyway, only you and I know about this last-minute plan. We shall go unnoticed. You can come." Putin trusted Aleksei.

"Shall I get us a car?" Aleksei offered.

"Please do... no, we'll go in yours--your personal car."

"Yes, Chief."

***

The road wasn't all that empty. Moscow was just as busy as any other major, modern city at night. Putin sat in the front, next to Aleksei, who drove as carefully as he could. Putin stared blankly ahead, rehearsing for the meeting mentally. They finally reached the apartment. Putin didn't object to have Aleksei escort him into Mikhailova's apartment but he warned him, even if he knew that Aleksi was one he could trust, "Remember this is a personal matter, Aleksei. I don't want you telling anyone about it."

"You have my word, as always," Aleksei promised. He sincerely hoped that the Chief knew what he was doing.

Most of Mikhailova's neighbors were in their own apartments, save for a few who were out enjoying the Moscow nightlife. Putin, with Aleksei following closely behind, went straight for the lift lobby. They got into a waiting lift, where Putin punched the button numbered "7". The doors closed just as they heard someone else come into the lift lobby. Both men hoped that they would not meet anyone along the way.

The lift stopped and announced it with a "ping". On the fifth floor. Putin and Aleksei looked at each other in dread, but it was only for a moment. Immediately, Putin leaned against the side and pulled his hat lower, trying to stay out of sight as the door slid open.

"Going down, Mister?" a young boy asked.

"Eh... nyet! Going up!" Aleksei grinned at the child as he depressed the lift button several times.

Putin let out a nervous chuckle after the door closed shut.

"Chief, please tell me this is the last time you're doing this!" Aleksei breathed. Putin was no longer a KGB field officer. He was the President of the Russian Federation! Privately, Aleksei enjoyed the excitement sometimes but not at the expense of the safety of his boss (the President!) if he could help it.

They alighted at the seventh floor and found Mikhailova's apartment. This time they didn't meet anyone along the way. Putin hoped that she would at least let them in, not make a big, noisy fuss about it and make it known to all her neighbors.

"This is it. Here we go," Putin said, mostly to himself, as he rang the doorbell.

"Kto tam?" they heard Mikhailova's voice from inside. Good, she's in.

Putin pretended not to hear and rang the bell again. Let her open the door.

The door opened. Mikhailova's face poked through the gap between the door and the doorframe. The shock on ther face was priceless. "What are you doing here? And you too, Aleksei Dimitriyevich, what are you doing here? Have the both of you gone out of your mind?" Mikhailova gasped as she quickly waved them in. (She had met Aleksei a few times and had known his name.)

The apartment was miserably-sized, but enough for a person like her, living alone, to stay. The dining area and living area were forcibly merged into one. In it, one mall couch, coffee table, dining set barely enough for two people because it was also used to store things, well-painted walls (Vika painted it herself) and on them, portraits, all lovingly framed. Portraits of the President himself, and maybe one or two of her adoptive father.

"This is totally insane, Mr. President," Mikhailova muttered and threw her hands up. "Now what do I do with the two of you? Assassins are running all over the place, trying to blow your head off! And you, Aleksei Dimitri'ch, are not doing your job to protect him!"

Putin took off hi hat and fingered the brim, "Gospasha Mikhailova, allow me to explain--"

"Explain what? You have nothing left to explain. You tried to murder me. That's the story. that's the truth," Mikhailova cut him off. "Aleksei Dimitri'ch, please take this lunatic hime. I do not wish to speak to him."

"That's enough, gospazha Mikhailova! I need to talk to you but you just wouldn't listen. Just show a little respect to a fellow Russian, please! I'm not asking you to treat me as a President!" Putin told her off. He had enough.

Mikhailova cooled down a bit. "Sorry," she said, and meant it. Yet she was unable to believe that she had such a visitor in the first place. She sank down into the couch, somewhat dazed as she buried her face in her hands, sighing deeply. She looked as though she was going to cry. Based on what she said earlier on, she obviously still cared about him, or at least, about his physical security.

"Could you give us a moment?" Putin turned to Aleksei and without waiting for his approval, he gently took Mikhailova by the elbow. Mikhailova, taking her cue, lead him into her study. Aleksei who was about to object, followed them but only to have the study door slam shut at his nose. The door was left unlocked, but Aleksei decided to leave it alone and sat down, left with the feeling of mixed anxiousness, curiosity and fascination at the human drama that was taking place.

Her study was in the same state as the living/dining area. An organized chaos. Putin found on a photo of himself--an unclouded, almost rosy image--staring down at him from the picture frame hanging above her chronically cluttered desk. The desk was an old Soviet-era piece of furniture that, if given a few more decades, might qualify as an antique. At the desk were three chairs, normally used for the occasional impromptu meetings with fellow journalists.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, I really am..." she choked on her own words. "It was so disrespectful of me to talk to you like that... forgive me, I was upset and..."

He gave her a slight, gentle smile. Mikhailova thought she was going to melt on the spot.

"Let's sit down and talk," he said. Which they did.

"The wounds and scars area still there," Mikhailova said softly. "I still can't sleep at night and most of the time I'm alone. That's when all those memories come back. I don't have a family anymore, and it's crazy for me to be in such a huge city in an even large country..." she turned and looked out of the window forlornly. Then Putin noticed that her face, the part just behind the left ear, bore a faint but visible scar that was obviously not there by accident. It ran all the way down her neck and disappeared under he collar. (The last time he saw her, her hair was covering it.)

Mikhailova turned back towards him, "Why are you doing this? Why did you come?"

"I... I wanted to apologize for..." he began in his characteristically soft voice. He saw her eyes suddenly turning moist, her lips starting to quiver.

"Please leave," she murmured her demand, but it was lost on Putin. He sat there, motionless, then with glittering eyes, he declared silently, "No, I shall stay."

Mikhailova was instantly frightened at his wordless order. She was rarely afraid of her enemies, but extremely afraid of people she loved or admired. Mikhailova still loved and admired the President.

"It was my fault, Viktoriya Ivanovicha. I was aware of it. I had deliberately handed you over. For this, I am gravely sorry. I seek your forgiveness."

"Gospadin Prezidyent... you came all the way here just to tell me?"

"Yes, I did," he admitted. Putin also noticed that she had replaced the Tovarishch with Gospazha.

"Thank you so much. I will forgive you..."

"Well then, I suppose it's time for me to leave..." he rose to his feet. "But before I go..."

Putin opened up his palm. And in it lay the sniper's bullet. "You dropped this in my office," he said.

"Get rid of it. I don't want to see that beastly thing again!" she pushed his hand away. He pocketed it, thinking he'll find something to do with it or some ingenious way to get rid of it... maybe he would give it to a young lad in the Russian army who'll then give it back to that Chechen by means of a sniper rifle...

"Alright, Mikhailova. Is there anything else?" he said, putting his hat back on as he stood up. Mikhailova rose and walked to the door.

"May I go?" he asked.

She said nothing, but smiled faintly. He reached for the door. Then she wrapped her fingers around his hand, holding it to the door handle for a moment before running her fingers up his arm to his neck. "Yes, you may," she said, looking into his eyes.

He looked back at her with that same glaze he had given to her during their encounter in the reception-- that searching glaze that lead him to find something he shouldn't be looking for. He released his grip on the door handle and encircled her waist with his arm.

"Well, goodbye then," he kissed her.

Mikhailova then stepped away from the door and released him from her study.

"Do svidaniya."