Parisian dark skies frame the cold grey housing block decorated in graffiti. Communal steel dumpsters overflow with putrid trash, and I see a rat feasting on the remains of a mouldy pizza box.
I scuffle my feet across scattered broken glass while checking my perimeter. The grass patches are so high they could hide any kind of trap. But my men are positioned and awaiting my order to shoot if things get out of control. Nothing looks out of the ordinary or obscured from where I stand.
Hearing a heavy-duty steel door unlock with a thump, I turn in that direction. A spike of adrenaline shoots through my veins making my palms and the back of my neck sweat, even though the air is cold. My eyes root to the opening door and I see her step out.
In my career, I’ve hunted the world’s worst war criminals. Either bringing them to justice or executing them in cold blood. I specialised in Nazis for a long time but then last year the cold war ended. A flood of intel came through helping us in our investigations against the former Soviet Union, primarily on spies and assassins.
Aurelia Petrova is a person of great interest.
For ten years we have heard the codename, ‘The Ballerina,’ used in connection with so many assassinations across the globe that we still don’t know the full body count. She or he was a ghost, we had nothing other than the codename. Eventually, it became a myth, an urban legend, a ballerina who was also an assassin. Something for us guys to fantasise about.
I’m the best investigator there is. I solve puzzles and crack codes like a complex jigsaw puzzle, fitting the pieces together until I have the full picture. I’ve found criminals who have been dead for 50 years, I have never failed to find a target and I never give up. However, until recently this, ‘ballerina,’ had evaded me.
This new intel has led me to believe that she exists and that this is her. A decade of researching and searching could now be coming to an end. Aurelia is about to give me the answers, whether she wants to or not.
Followed by two of my men they point her in my direction. She looks over, wrapping her arms around herself. One of the men gives her a none-too-gentle shove and she stumbles slightly.
Her hair hangs around her shoulders in waves of pale gold. In the pictures I have, her hair is dark, but that doesn’t mean anything, it could have been dyed or a wig.
Raising her head, she slowly begins to walk toward me. Her movements are hesitant but elegant, like a cautious cat sneaking up on a bird. Bootcut jeans hug tight to her toned thighs. Soft sneakers allow her feet to roll from the toe to the heel when walking and betraying her training as a dancer.
I’m almost expecting her to get on her toes and glide to me like a swan.
When she finally stops in front of me, I take a breath and we stand in silence looking each other over. It’s the weirdest feeling hunting someone for so long and coming face to face with them. Usually, I would at least know what they looked like. Aurelia had remained a mystery, only ever captured in her theatrical stage makeup.
Huge navy-blue eyes framed with dark lashes set against porcelain skin look up at me. She looks like a doll, one of the painted ones you see in an antique toy store, sitting on a shelf.
There is a familiarity about her though. Something I can’t quite place.
She wraps her cardigan around her body more tightly trying to disappear into the soft wool. It wouldn’t be too difficult to do as she is so thin. Her delicate fingers grasp the buttons so hard her knuckles turn white.
I stuff my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket. I have a gun in the back of my jeans, but something tells me already that I won’t be needing it. This tiny girl is as skittish as a kitten.
On a whim, I decide to speak Russian. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You are an American,’ she answers in a perfect sweet English accent.
My head dips, I thought my accent was better than it obviously is.
‘Yes, I am an American. Do you know why I’m here?’
She gives a slight shake of her head before whispering, ‘Are you going to kill me?’
I decide to answer honestly and bluntly to see what reaction I’ll get.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Her pupils dilate and her eyes widen slightly but other than that she doesn’t react.
‘How old are you, Aurelia?’
Now she reacts. A whole myriad of thoughts and emotions flicker across her face. Her shoulders drop slightly, and she loosens the grip on her buttons. It’s all very subtle but I’m trained to read these signs. Why has asking her age caused her to relax?
‘I’m 28.’
Still so young, although she looks more like 15, a child.
‘How old were you when you started dancing for the Russian ballet?’
‘I grew up dancing with them, I started about age 4.’
‘Okay, when did you start touring with them, abroad?’
‘I think I was 17, why?’
I ask her to tell me about her dancing as I watch her relax further. Then I ask about the countries she’s been to, and the people she has met.
‘I met everyone. Royalty, politicians, presidents, rich people, ones of importance.’
Her voice is a whisper, a lullaby, soft and throaty but I also hear the pride and excitement as she recounts her memories. There is no smile though and even with good eye contact, she remains very shy.
From memory, she is ticking all the boxes for me. The times, dates, locations, and people match my intel. Including the men assassinated. She gives this information so freely and innocently that I alter my line of questioning.
Who else was there at these times?
‘Everyone, I think.’ Her brow furrows then she shrugs. ‘My bodyguard was with me the most.’
‘Bodyguard?’
At no time while working on this case had any of us considered a protector or chaperone as the assassin. Aurelia was the only common factor in every death we’d uncovered. Had someone gone unnoticed all along? Had we been too focused on the ballerina and missed what or who was right next to her?
‘Yes, all the dancers had their own bodyguard to protect us just like the Olympians. We were high political targets for other countries. Also, a lot of sleazy men offered money for sex,’ she shudders. ‘They didn’t like being told no.’
As much as I felt disappointed that, ‘The Ballerina,’ wasn’t a gun-wielding sociopathic ballet dancer who could torture and dismember any man. I felt relief that this beautiful girl was innocent. I really hadn’t wanted to hurt her, imprison, or execute her.
Indicating to my men to stand down and head back to the cars, I spent another couple of hours questioning her on everything she could tell me about this bodyguard and anything else of interest.
Our conversation becomes a lot less formal, and I even get her to smile.
She is so sweet, and I felt a bit smitten.
So smitten I give her a wad of cash and tell her to find a new place to live. However, she said Paris was an improvement to Moscow and she liked being ‘French.’
By the time I wrap things up, I want to take her with us. It doesn’t seem right to leave her, but she assures me she’s happy. I watch her walk back to her apartment before making my way back to the car feeling light and excited to chase down a new lead. Boris the bodyguard.
Throwing my head back on the leather headrest I close my eyes to decompress. All I see is a girl with navy-blue eyes. Two dark pools, drawing me deeper into an abyss.
I’m almost asleep when my whole body jumps. No, this can’t be right. I know where I’ve seen those eyes before, why she looked familiar. Oh, please let me be wrong.
I frantically search through the numerous files spread over the back seat.
I find the file. Konstantin Volkov, Head of the KGB and otherwise known as the evilest man in present times. I open the cover to see the same navy eyes staring back at me.
Flipping the pages, I find a photo of him with his only child, Yelena.
There is no mistaking it. Heat prickles my whole body. Yelena is Aurelia.
Christ! He would have trained her from birth to be the perfect assassin and a master of deception.
‘I met everyone. Royalty, politicians, presidents, rich people, ones of importance.’ Her proud words come back to haunt me.
And I let her go.
This short story was part of my English Literature and Creative Writing BA degree coursework. I was awarded a 2:1 in 2023. I am now studying for an MA in Creative Writing. I think the stories should be read, rather than collecting dust in my Mac. So, for fun, I’ve posted them in their original form, unedited and imperfect. Please feel free to share your thoughts below.
Oh, and some are autobiographical, can you guess which ones?
Carolyne
