Authors: Lindsay Smith
Donna’s eyes narrow. “Why does the KGB care what we do in North Vietnam?”
North Vietnam. I breathe in.
Ideology can often prompt espionage—a communist sympathizer can be persuaded that their acts will serve the cause.
She wants to help Carlos and Rostov and all the other members of his faction. I let the emotion fill me up: a conviction that telling us will not prevent her goals from being reached. Breathe out.
Anna studies her nails—her once-flawless manicure now chipped and ragged. “Silly girl. They’re going to push you warmongers into a war you can’t win.”
The folder slips out of Donna’s hands. “It’s true, then? Rostov
wants
America to attack one of Russia’s allies?”
“Yes. He wants you pigs nice and distracted with the Viet Cong, huh? Throw some slop in the trough,
oink oink
, piggy doesn’t even see farmer coming up with the ax.” She cackles. “Then we come in, and—
crunch
.”
Donna and I flinch as one. We look at each other, and in a wordless, soundless, thoughtless agreement, we push onward.
Ego
. Anna’s got it in spades. I fill her up with confidence, and she brags about how she never had to break into Saxton’s classified files; she just added her own false documents to them, like the microfiche Carlos had given her. She doesn’t say the details out loud, but Donna’s sparkling eyes say it all—what Anna isn’t saying, she’s reading from her mind.
Revenge.
For Senator Saxton’s complete lack of respect for her—though she admits other secretaries in the Senate Office building have it far worse. For the treatment her mother received when she first brought them to New York from Cuba, and how they had to hide their true identity after Castro’s coup.
“Really,” Anna admits, once Donna and I are sagging a bit in our seats and Anna’s voice is turning dry, “I had plenty of reasons to go along. I just—I didn’t agree with them about everything. There were things they wanted me to do that I just couldn’t agree with.”
“Like what?” Donna asks, chewing on her pen’s nib.
“Well, once your teacher or whoever she is made the appointment with Senator Saxton, they told me I should try to inject one of you kids instead.”
My stomach fills with chill dread.
“And I just didn’t think that was right. I mean, I’d seen what the serum was doing to Carlos, after all. I didn’t think it was fair to do that to a
kid
. And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna use it on myself.”
I slump back against the wall. Breathe in. Breathe out. The wall’s chill seeps into my back, freezing the terror that wants to run rampant in me. I can’t afford to let it. Not right now.
“So it’s the exact same thing,” Donna says. “The serum isn’t just the power. It’s what kills them, too.”
I don’t meet Donna’s eyes. I don’t need to. She knows without looking at the expression on my face. The poison spreading like fire in my thoughts. That the exhaustion in Carlos’s bones, the sickness on his face, must be what’s coursing through Valentin right now.
That the serum is whatever killed Carlos in his apartment, blood gushing from his ears.
“What’s the serum supposed to do?” My voice is shredded and raw. I don’t have to work to summon up the requisite amount of fear and rage to push onto Anna Montalban. It comes all too readily.
Anna drops her cigarette onto her lap, and brushes it out with a yelp. “It’s—it’s supposed to be some sort of mind control serum, okay? I thought they were pullin’ my leg, really I did, but after seeing how Carlos acted, I wasn’t so sure. They’ve got some guy—this Rostov guy you mentioned, I think that’s him—and he’s supposed to be able to, I don’t know, use the person you inject like some kinda marionette.” She coughs. “Sounds like horseshit, right? If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it a bit.”
Dimly, I can hear Donna asking follow-up questions. But my mind is elsewhere, spinning a web, drawing lines from point to point. Mama’s army of scrubbers for General Rostov. Their hasty deaths. Al Sterling’s abrupt change. They’re being used as beacons for Rostov to reach across vast distances and manipulate others’ minds.
Valentin. He’s turned Valentin into his puppet.
Frank Tuttelbaum’s voice roars from outside the door. We’ve just run out of time. But revenge is a filament burning hot and bright inside me. I need vengeance. To make sense of the deaths of countless people killed in Rostov’s quest for power. To give purpose to the purposelessness of this shadowy war. But most of all, I need the sweet revenge of hot blood on my hands and devastating emotions freshly ripped from my veins. I need revenge for whatever toxins are running through my Valentin.
“How is Rostov going to accomplish this?” My grip on Anna’s shoulder tightens. “What is he pushing the scrubbers toward?”
“He’s trying to get the American decision makers under his thumb. It’s why he wanted Saxton—wanted to make him his little puppet to get NATO into the war. Now I think it’s the convention,” Anna continues. “This Pathway for Peace summit. They want to push America into war with Vietnam at it. Make a big scene, cause a scandal. Start an—an
international incident
.” She snorts with laughter. “Crazy, right?”
I think of Nikita Khruschev reciting nuclear launch codes into the telephone, dancing like a puppet on Rostov’s strings. A war—a hot war, not our current feints and back-alley feuds—is just the thing Rostov craves to assert Russia’s supremacy once and for all. “Not to a man like Rostov.”
The door flies open, revealing Frank Tuttelbaum’s scarlet face. “Donna. Yulia. Out.
Now.
”
Donna’s face is shining brighter than her California tan, and she can barely keep from squealing until we’re out of the room. “That was awesome, Yulia! You and me—it was like we were dancing, we played her so well together!”
But there is a thick wall of insulation padding me from her and all the rest. Everyone is muffled; the only clear sound I have is my own breath, drawing in, spilling out. I no longer need this rage, this fear. They dissipate around me; they crackle and fade. My mind is mine alone. I am just a vessel for these feelings. Nothing good nor bad can cling to me.
Cindy Conrad says, “Well done,” but looks away quickly, like she’s ashamed by our success. Or ashamed of what she knows will come next.
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you how much trouble you’re in. All of you.” Frank’s voice is as thin as razor wire. “And you understand, Yul, what this means for Valentin.”
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
“We’re gonna have to quarantine him. Lock him up somewhere safe.” He grinds his teeth. “Don’t give me a reason to lock you up, too.”
My eyes are scanning the safe house. My feet carry me away from the prisoner’s quarters into the front part of the house, the part that still looks like a proper house if you’re peeking in the windows. I search Valentin’s face. Dark circles under his eyes—but why shouldn’t there be? It’s been a long day. Days. Something in between. Time, washing away from us, eroding what time we have left. It’s all too soon.
“Yulia.” He stands and wraps me up in his arms, his heavy eyes pleading with mine. “I love you. Please don’t forget that.”
“Valya—”
But Frank’s guards are prying him out of my arms. I think I am scratching at someone as I try to hold him close; though I am empty of all emotion, my body is still reacting off instinct, a fierce determination to protect my own.
I think I might be screaming. My throat burns and burns. They are dragging him down the hall; he’s leaning away from them, trying to hold onto my gaze until the very last second.
“I love you, Yulia!” he screams.
And then they are gone.
And I am sinking to the bottom of the Black Sea, blissful emptiness taking over me despite the fire I feel inside.
WINNIE IS DRIVING ME HOME
in the Austin Healey. I wish she’d keep her eyes on the road, but they keep sliding over toward me, gleaming in the moonlight, like she’s expecting me to disappear if she doesn’t keep a constant vigil. As we cross the Potomac River, she clears her throat. Nothing good ever comes from someone clearing their throat. It’s always bad news, a lecture, an unpleasant truth. I gird myself with emptiness.
“You got through that whole interrogation without having to rely on me a single time,” she says.
I uncross my arms. At least she’s not going to give me some half-baked platitude about loving and losing. “Donna did most of the talking.”
“Still. It makes it easier.” She drums her fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m not going to be around anymore.”
I momentarily lose my hold on the void, and panic starts to seep in. The spring air turns muggy and heavy, pressing me down against the seat. “What? Why not?” I clench one hand into a fist. “You can’t just—leave me.”
“Trust me, Yul. You’ll be just fine without me. I have faith in you.”
“But why are you leaving?” I ask.
She presses her lips into a thin line. “Lots of reasons. I used to think the Air Force was the way for me, but I’ve got to accept—a colored girl isn’t going to make Master Chief anytime soon, no matter how many waves Doctor King makes. I’m taking a job with the Urban League.”
“But our work is important,” I say, fully aware of the absurdity of the statement. For all our effort, we haven’t prevented anything. We’re always a step—or more—behind.
Winnie pats me on the knee. “Let me tell you a little secret, Yulia. My leaving has nothing to do with you. You’ve been a pleasure to work with.”
I lower my eyes. “But it has something to do with someone else.”
She nods. “That’s a part of it, yeah. Your father is…” She whistles out her breath. “He’s a challenging man. A great man, but…”
“I know he goes out on the town with you sometimes.” I stare into the dark fingerling trees as they crowd along the riverbank. Winnie drives much slower than Papa; I can see each branch as it flies past. “Is that the thing you were surprised he hadn’t told me?”
“Look, Yul, we go out on the town together, but that’s all we do—Scout’s honor.” She holds up three fingers with a sad grin. “He and your mama … It’s just too complicated. It’s not right. Something needs to be resolved there, and I’m not wading into any of that.” She swallows again. “Is that honest enough for you?”
I shake my head, too numb to know whether I’d be laughing or crying right now if I allowed myself to feel—so many emotions ready and eager to fill me up. Much better not to let a single one inside. “At least I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand what’s happened between them.”
“If there’s a single soul in this world your papa ought to trust,” Winnie says, “it’s you.”
* * *
Papa meets us on the front lawn. “Excellent! Fancy a nightcap, Sergeant Davis?” He extends his hand to collect the keys from Winnie, and he leans in to peck her on the cheek, but she ducks away.
“No, I think you two need some father-daughter time.” She spins on her heel. “G’night, Yul. Andrei.”
“Sure,” he says, eyes fluttering. He whistles as he follows me up the walk, but the notes are tighter, shorter now. “I think I’ll have a drink. How about you, buttercup?”
“I’m good.” I round on him as soon as he shuts the front door and slip into Russian—cruel, guttural, harsh. “Mama created whatever’s inside Valentin right now, and it’ll kill him. If he doesn’t kill himself first, like Al did.”
He scratches the stubble along his jaw. “It would appear that way.”
“When we find Mama—the CIA is going to hurt her. They’re going to want her to pay for creating all these monsters. They’re going to say she’s partly responsible for all the attacks. It won’t be like the way they treated you or me, Papa.” I lean in close. “I need to know what’s going on. Does Mama have a plan? Because I want to think she wouldn’t go along with Rostov, but I’m having a hard time believing it right now.”
I watch his eyes, but they’re staring past me. He could be absorbing everything I’m saying, or he could be measuring out a new cocktail recipe in his head. Nothing on his face gives me the slightest clue which it might be.
“Don’t you feel anything?” I cry. Frustration creeps into me on Shostakovich’s sliding strings; anger pounds like a drum. I trick myself into thinking that letting myself feel a little more can’t hurt. “Aren’t you scared for Mama? Are you
glad
they’re going to hurt her? Damn it, Papa, just tell me you feel
some
thing!”
Papa’s gaze drops to meet mine. He studies me for a moment like he’s just now cluing into the conversation—like he’s replaying the past few seconds in his head, trying to remember what I’ve said. Then he slumps back against the door and sinks down onto his heels.
“An empty mind is a safe mind,” he tells me, in the miserable voice of a scolded boy.
I bash my fist against the door. This rage filling me feels so
good
. I want to let it burn and burn. I don’t need to disconnect from this because it can’t hurt me. It can only make me stronger. I am my own weapon, and I will turn my rage against Rostov. Against anyone and everyone responsible for this mess. Except for Mama—I’ll save her for the very last. I’ll give her one chance to undo this hell she’s wrought.
And if she won’t clean up her own mess, I’ll turn it on her, too.
“I’ve forgotten,” Papa says. His voice bobs like a toy boat in the ocean. As much as I don’t want it to, it erases some of the rage from me. “I’ve forgotten what she looks like.”
I stagger back from him. The blind anger crashes in on itself like a wave; I’m dragged under by its weight. Breathe in, breathe out. My vision softens. I glance down at Papa, at his hands tucked between his knees; a single bulging tear runs down one cheek. “Mama?” I ask him. “How could you forget?”
“Easy.” He laughs; more tears start to flow. “I erased every memory of her.”
“What? Why?” I manage to say.
“It was the only way to do what needed to be done.” He tilts his head back, looking up at the grand chandelier dangling down into the foyer.
I drop to the floor in front of him. I’m empty now. No match for gravity. I open my mouth, but it’s too dry to speak; the rage has burned through me and left nothing but ash. I shake my head. “No. There had to be some other way.”