I am a spy. I really have no way of mitigating that statement. That is what I am. I was sent to the USA to infiltrate the National Rifle Association (NRA) and find Republicans, donors, who could prop the party up and get a Republican elected. I really didn’t want to go but my government insisted. My English was honed by American movies and language classes at the university.
“This isn’t the Cold War,” my instructor said. “You don’t have to pretend not to be Russian. But you must be seductive.”
Wonderful. That was not my talent. But it turns out old Republicans have a hard-on for Russians with an accent who can shoot a gun. I moved to Utah and seduced a Mormon, friends with Mitt Romney, and married with five kids. We talked about the future of the NRA and then infiltrating the government.
“Every politician must learn to be afraid of passing gun restriction laws. Every proposed law must get killed.”
“There’s a Democratic Congress,” I reminded him. Over a 100 women were just sworn in on this day to Congress. Congress is now blue.
“It is doesn’t matter,” he said. He was balding and corpulent. He repulsed me when he touched me. “We will prevail. All those criminals coming across the border…”
I was a criminal who flew in. I crossed no land border. Silly Americans don’t even know where the threat is coming from. I kept sleeping with him and told Moscow the NRA was a weak spot. It could be infiltrated. Their zealousness rivaled the revolutionaries of the Bolshevik Revolution.
“Well, then,” said Moscow. “Keep at it. Get us all the names and details. We will hack them. We will influence them. We will get America. For Stalin…I mean Lenin…I mean Kruschev…oh, it doesn’t matter. We will own the country that wanted to destroy us. We will own the country that escaped us.”
I hung up the phone and felt sick to my sick. I would have to keep sleeping with Mark Berg. A no nothing, do nothing who somehow had political influence. Crap. To use the American word. I thought being a spy was glamorous. Instead I was in Ewing, South Dakota doing gun play with a bunch of ugly Americans who thought I was hot because of my accent. This is not the life I wanted. But I suppose it was better than a poor village in the Ukraine with no future and no chance of travel. I didn’t care about Donald Trump or America and its guns. I just wanted a small taste of freedom. Who knew being a spy would lead that?
I am Katya Feodorvna. I am a spy. What else could I be?