Name: Jordan McCollum
Email: jordan at jordanmccollum dot com
Pitch: To protect the world's tenuous peace after WWII, a dyed-in-the-wool Soviet must choose between love and loyalty.
As a Soviet living in Paris, and a woman, I had multiple fronts to defend. But the most devastating attack would come from a quarter I'd never anticipated. I would remember everything except the blast.
Though my father must have considered how accepting a favor from the Americans would affect the treaty negotiations, he'd done the political calculus and apparently this was his answer. I couldn't muster the same confidence, nor could I stop worrying my ring's rounded edge as I followed Papa across the broad court to the waiting maroon Packard.
For now, I had to help my father maintain the political balance for the duration of the ride as best we could. None of us could afford another war.
I stopped my restless hands and stepped into the Packard. The two Americans in the backseat nodded at me. The Secretary of State touched his gray homburg's brim. I settled onto the collapsible seat in front of him, but even the familiar, faint scent of cigarette smoke and leather couldn't make me comfortable.
"His Excellency James Byrnes," my father introduced the silver-haired man.
The slight American held up a hand. "Titles aren't necessary." He certainly didn't look like a capitalist, but then, they never did.
My father set his briefcase with the others at my feet and climbed into the seat by me. "My daughter, Yekaterina Korneyevna Mikhailova," he continued in his slight accent. "Our cultural attaché."
"Mikhailov," the fat American next to Byrnes addressed my father. "Who'd've thought? [. . .]"