Sekret (19 page)

“I know you aren’t, but I’d rather he try to scrub me than get ahold of you. You work with touch, and if he were to … grab your arm, or something—”

I nod, halfhearted, at Valentin. “Fine. Do what you have to do.”

Valentin stands. “Keep an eye on her, will you, Sergei? Take her to the upstairs lobby, maybe—away from the main hall.” Valentin’s gaze hangs on me for a moment, like he wants to say more, but then he turns and ducks through the doorway back to the atrium.

Sergei helps me stand up, then loops one of my arms over his massive shoulders. “What the hell were you doing with that weirdo?” he hisses, as we climb toward the darkened second floor.

“It was just a dance,” I say. “What do you care?”

“Listen.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, checking that we are more or less alone. “I know he’s got this moody, broody artist act down, and some girls go for that. Oh, look at the sad puppy. But it gets to be a drag, you know?”

“Not really,” I say stiffly.

“And believe me, it’s just an act. There’s a monster under there. He’s got the same sickness as Rostov and this American. He may mean well, but people still end up hurt around him.” Sergei’s upper lip curls back, menacing. His missing tooth doesn’t look so cute now. “You don’t know who he is. What he’s up to.”

I tug away from Sergei’s grasp and settle into a dusty chair along the shadowed hallway. “Yes, apparently all of us are keeping secrets from all the rest. Go ahead and spit it out. I’m so tired of everyone’s games.”

His music storms around him as he kneels in front of me, fists solid at his side. “You want to know? Fine. If he won’t have the courage to tell you himself—”

“Get on with it,” I snap.

“Valya’s hunting for your father, Yulia.”

My ribcage constricts; I sink deep into the chair. The pain in my head twists tighter, like a vise closing in. “No.”

“Rostov forced him into it after he tried to run away.” Sergei’s face is dark, his usual charm wiped away, leaving only a sadness behind.

“I don’t…” I shake my head. “But how?” This fuzziness coursing through me isn’t the alcohol anymore; that’s long gone, and with it, the panic at encountering the scrubber. I reach out for Sergei’s hand, propped before me on his knee. If I don’t hold on to something, I’ll shake uncontrollably until I’m no longer human, and all that’s left is this vibrating, agonized mess.

“I don’t understand it entirely. Rostov shows up at the mansion at night, after everyone’s in bed, and then I think they slip into your thoughts while you’re sleeping.”

The dreams. The ones that feel like memories on the verge of being lost forever. I lick my lips and slowly, carefully open my mouth to speak. “I’ve been having these dreams,” I say, “of my parents. My father, in particular.” I cradle each word like it’ll shatter if I let it go too soon.

Sergei nods, squeezing my fingers. “That’s how scrubbers work. And the better he learns your emotions and memories, the easier they are for him to manipulate—”

“They’re memories I didn’t know I had,” I say. “I’m not even sure that they’re real.”

“They’re looking for clues to your father’s whereabouts. He was part of your mother’s research, after all.” His hand lowers, clenching mine. “You deserve to know. Valya’s only doing it to protect himself.”

I clench my teeth until they ache. What a fool I am. When I thought he was the only person truly on my side, he was betraying me like the rest. “Just—stop. No more. I don’t want any part of this madness.”

Sergei leans toward me, shadows obscuring one side of his face; the other half is mottled with golden light, like at afternoon’s end. “I’m so sorry, Yulia.” He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a warm trail on my skin. “I should have told you earlier.” His forehead comes to rest against mine, throwing him into shadows completely.

I feel nothing; I am nothing. Sergei weaves his fingers into my hair. I don’t meet his eyes; I close mine, weighing the momentum that’s bringing his face toward mine against the emptiness in me that wants to shrink away from it all.

Then his lips are warm, directly on mine, and a little sticky from the champagne, though I’m sure mine are, too. His lips part as he kisses me again, digging for me this time. No. Too late, my brain finishes its sloppy calculation. I don’t want this. I push away, squirming further into the chair, shoving at him with arms that don’t work, answering with thoughts that don’t come from my throbbing brain.

“Stop, Sergei. No—”

He pulls away immediately. But I’m spinning, whirling like a gear in a machine, and no one can stop me. Not Sergei, for sure. I wade my way out of the chair and stand. He backs up to give me space.

“If you knew, you shouldn’t have kept it from me.” I wrap my arms tight around me as I suck down sharp, panicky breaths. Sergei tasted of warm wheat bread and dangerous fires; I suddenly yearn to feel cold. “And you—it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.”

“I’m only looking out for you. I want you to be safe.”

The wall is cool and firm against my back. I turn away from him and press my cheek into the tiles, exhaling slowly. I don’t want Sergei’s taste on my lips. His eyes watching me from another room, another building. I don’t want Rostov, Valentin, or the American scrubber in my head. I want my flesh and bone and thought and life to be mine, mine, mine alone. I’m on fire and I need an ice storm.

“Maybe it isn’t your job,” I say. “I certainly never asked for your protection.” I’ve had to take care of myself since the day Papa left, wearing whatever guise was required to protect those I love. Sister, daughter, thief, spy, teacher, student, cook, ration rat. Valentin said he liked me best when I didn’t wear any masks, but he must be mistaken. There’s no room for the real Yulia under all of that.

Sergei’s face looms too close at my shoulder. “You think you don’t need protection? Then you’re only fooling yourself.”

I duck under his arm and slip into the shadows that chase the balcony. I run deeper into the conservatory, alongside the locked entrances to box seats. Even with my spider-guard behind me, I’m alone.

CHAPTER 24

I HOLD UP THE NEXT PHOTOGRAPH
for Larissa, and her eyes flutter closed as she sinks into her visions. I don’t need to speak for our wildling-hunting sessions. I ignored Valentin’s offer of breakfast in the ballroom, which seemed to surprise him, and Sergei’s apologetic grin, which didn’t surprise him much. I do not talk to Misha and Masha, now or ever, and I have nothing to say to pimply Ivan who only ever wants to talk about himself anyway. I’m lucky to have pried Larissa away from him this afternoon after the ball, since she usually spends the afternoons surgically grafted onto Ivan’s lap.

After not speaking all day, I’m finding myself more and more like Zhenya: whistling, humming, mumbling to myself, repeating the same strand of thoughts over and over in my head until they feel just right. I smooth them like sea-tossed stones:

Valentin is out for himself and can’t be trusted.

Sergei is out for me for all the wrong reasons and can’t be trusted.

I did not like Sergei kissing me.

I liked dancing with Valentin.

I do not like who I become when I drink Soviet champagne.

None of it matters because I am out for myself and can’t be trusted, and Larissa and I are keeping tabs on the wildlings so we can use the KGB to protect them from a greater evil, all so I can have a glimpse of my brother someday and keep at least one soul off my conscience.

Larissa’s eyes open with a gasp. “Running. One of the outer neighborhoods of Moscow—Zelenograd, maybe, or Khimki. Yes, they’re passing a war monument. They know someone’s chasing them.”

“Is this happening right now?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Sometime soon—maybe in eight, ten hours. No, wait—they’re not running on foot now. They’ve taken the express bus. The pursuer is following them by car.” She flinches. “No, that’s not right, either…”

I tighten one hand, nails biting into my palm, and take a deep breath. It’s not her fault, I tell myself. She’s doing the best she can. But I can’t bear to think of another wildling evaporating under the American scrubber’s gaze. “How does it work?” I ask. “Your gift. Maybe if I understand it better…”

“It’s like I’m looking at trees, right?” She splays her fingers. “A whole forest of possibilities. But I have to focus on the one tree in question. So I follow it up its trunk, okay, but then it splits. One of the branches is easier to follow than the rest—that’s the most likely outcome at the given moment, but this is constantly shifting as people consider different choices. So I try to find the branch with the end point you want, the juicy apple, but it’s tangled in all the other branches, and sometimes I have to guess which one will be the most likely path…”

“Wow.” I whistle under my breath. “That sounds really complicated.”

“It’s not so bad. I see what’s coming, so I never bother to look back.”

Major Kruzenko charges into the room, still wearing her snow-dappled coat, a cardboard box clutched to her chest. “Hello, my little dears!” she sings, depositing the box before us. “Any progress on tracking the wildlings?”

Larissa updates her on Artyom, the one she’d been predicting, while I eye the box suspiciously. “Did the surveillance teams find something for us?” I ask, when Larissa’s done.

Kruzenko’s gaze darts between Larissa and me. “Yes,” she says, dangling the word out like it’s a piece of garbage. “Larissa, do you mind excusing us?”

Larissa pulls herself out of the lumpy sofa. “Sure, I’ll go watch
KVN
.”

“Isn’t it reruns?” I ask. “I swear, you laugh harder at the jokes on the old episodes than when they were new to you.”

“Nothing’s new to me.” She smiles at me sideways, pausing by the doorway. “I just get better at pretending to be surprised.”

Major Kruzenko shuts the double doors behind Larissa, then shrugs out of her coat, melted snow flinging everywhere. “I do hope you are feeling better after your ordeal last night. We had nothing to indicate the Americans would be in attendance, or I would have provided more security for you.”

Why bother? She doesn’t protect us from the scrubber on our side. But I say nothing.

“I know such people are difficult to see clearly when they don’t wish to be read, but did you see anything that might help us identify him?” She flips the spigot on the samovar and watches the steaming tea fill her oversized mug.

“It was so noisy already, and his face, it’s…” I stare down at my hands as she slides into the chair opposite me, resting her mug on the empty table between us. “I got a decent look at another CIA team member when Valentin and I went to Kutuzovsky. I’m afraid we’re better off tracking him instead.”

“We already have operatives working on it, but we require your assistance for other matters.” She gestures to the box.

A long silence drifts between us. She looks out the grimy second-floor window, and I look at the nicked black-and-white chessboard squares painted on the tabletop. I hold my breath and gather up the words I’d been planning to say, then finally release them in one gush.

“I’ve been working very hard on this case, and Rostov promised me I could see my brother soon if I did.”

Her lips round into a surprised little O and she exhales. “Yes.” She traces the rim of her mug. “Yes, he did.” Shostakovich bounces through my head like a hockey puck let loose while I wait for her to continue. “But we must ensure the safety of these wildlings first.”

She pulls two items from the box and places them on the chess table—a worn leather glove and a rubber mallet. “We recovered these items from the factories you pinpointed as possible job sites for some of the wildlings. I would like you to tell me if they are, indeed, psychic.”

And there’s the difference between why I’m searching for the wildlings, and why Kruzenko is. I want to protect them from the Americans; she wants to abduct them for the KGB’s purposes, just like she did me. After feeling the scrubber so close against my thoughts, grinding into them like broken glass, I can see how Sergei might be inclined to choose the lesser evil of keeping me under lock and key. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

My face hardens. I am a Soviet mural of the Worker as She Grimly Commits Vile Acts for the Greater Good. I slip my hand into the leather glove.

A hot, tangy smell like blood floods through me. No—not blood. Molten pig iron. I’m in the slag works of a factory, handling a pair of tongs, moving a sun-bright rod from the oven to a cooling vat. Where are my thoughts?—Here, a concern over the next factory Soviet meeting—the Party representatives are keeping secrets from me. There, a date with Katia.

So much uncertainty; such ignorant bliss.

I peel off the glove. “No,” I say. “This man doesn’t have the ability. He should be safe from the Americans.”

Kruzenko jots down a note in her folder, then pushes the mallet toward me.

I pick up the mallet and suddenly I’m placing it on the top shelf of my locker. My eyes itch from too little sleep; my nerves are dulled with exhaustion. All my life, I’ve heard little things, things I shouldn’t. But the sounds following me the last few nights, like air-raid sirens, scare me more than anything I’ve heard before.

I let go. I don’t like the way this boy’s fear pricks into my skin like an injection, over and over. Major Kruzenko watches me with eyebrows raised.

“Is that a yes?” she asks.

“Which one is this?” I ask, checking the chalkboard of profiles. “When did the team retrieve this? Have they found this mallet’s owner?”

“We know which factory it came from. We’ll contact the operations bureau and send plainclothes officers to track him down.” She stands, snapping her folder shut. “Your assistance is much appreciated—”

“I want to see my brother.” I slam my hand onto her folder, and she jumps back. “I’m not waiting any longer.”

“I will pass your request to Colonel Rostov and see that he carries it further up the chain of command. It is the most I can offer you right now.”

My knuckles are white around the table’s edge; I feel bloated with too many emotions, both mine and the wildling’s, swirling around and frothing up. “I have behaved impeccably since my return, have I not? Over a month with no complaint. I’ve been a perfect little spy, tracking the scrubber’s targets, monitoring the
Veter 1
team. All I want is to see my brother. You
owe
me that.”