Authors: Lindsay Smith
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I repeat the English phrases to myself: Work hard. Work smart. Work together. I glance at Donna and Marylou out of the corner of my eye; though I’m sure they’ve heard this speech before, they’re leaning forward, eyes fixed on Cindy as they listen. Donna in particular, I notice, strains to mirror Cindy: her smile, her tilted head, her prim smoothing of her skirt.
Cindy drums her nails against the side of her glass tumbler. “Glad to hear it. Now, I understand you’ve been briefed on the current situation with the deceased, Yulia?”
“The … the bodies?” I ask. “I’ve seen the pictures.”
Cindy nods. “Gruesome business. My instinct tells me they must be all working toward a shared goal.” She presses two fingers against her lips. “But what are they working toward? Marylou, any thoughts?”
“Um.” Marylou looks at her lap. “Well, they aren’t working together. It’s all spread out.”
“Spread out—by time and location, both. Maybe one is intended to pick up where the previous one left off,” Cindy says.
“Like a relay race,” Donna volunteers.
“Precisely,” Cindy says. Donna eases back with a huge grin. “I ran a similar operation in Saigon not so long ago—if one of my operatives realized they were compromised, they left their task unfinished, and the next operative moved in to pick up where they left off.”
“But what are they working toward?” I ask.
Cindy takes a slow sip of her drink. “That is the question, isn’t it?” She turns to the others. “Ladies? Let’s teach Yulia about our ‘competing hypotheses’ technique, shall we?”
Donna turns toward me with a broad grin slathered on her face. “It’s when we explore a variety of possible scenarios, no matter how unlikely they seem.”
“Precisely,” Cindy says. “Once we’ve examined each of them, we sometimes find what we thought was a certainty is actually not that likely, and what seemed ridiculous is actually pretty reasonable. So! Let’s put ourselves in General Rostov’s head. What does he want?”
My chest aches like I’m breathing exhaust fumes. Rostov’s spent quite enough time in my head—I don’t care to step into his. The other girls’ eyes shine with the thrill of a new challenge, however; Donna sits up even straighter as she answers. “He wants the Soviet Union and the forces of communism to win a decisive victory over the West.”
“And what are some of the ways he can accomplish it?” Cindy looks at Marylou.
Marylou shrugs. “Open warfare, I guess. But then Russia might look like a bully. So he could goad the US into attacking Russia instead.”
“Are there any other possibilities?” Cindy asks.
I feel like I’m watching a hockey match—the three of them taking turns leading the conversation, passing it effortlessly back and forth. We were never asked our opinion in the KGB; Rostov never once regarded us as intellectual equals, or as anything but lackeys to be ordered about.
“What if…” Donna fingers her pearl necklace as her eyes dart around in thought. “What if he were being sneakier? Using guerilla tactics—like the Viet Cong. He could be waiting for us to be distracted by something else. Then he’d have the element of surprise on his side. He wouldn’t need a large-scale battle.”
“That would be classic
maskirovka
—the Soviet art of denial and deception.” Cindy tilts her head to one side, like a curious bird. “What sort of distraction?”
“Like these psychics invading different Western cities. Would that be a big enough distraction?” Marylou asks.
“If it … takes up our time…” I gesture around me to indicate the PsyOps team. “Then we might miss another attack.”
Donna and Marylou twist around to look at me, the fake leather couch squealing underneath us. Cindy arches one flawless brow.
“Well, then,” Cindy says. “I guess we’d better keep our eyes and ears and sixth senses peeled for something other than a direct attack, shouldn’t we?”
She gestures to a tidy stack of folders sitting on the left-hand side of the coffee table, each cover bearing a cheerful barbershop striping on its border and a giant stamp: TOP SECRET. An additional code of jumbled letters beneath restricts distribution to even narrower channels. Winnie explained the main ones to me, though I’m brimming with so much language and culture that I immediately forgot them. I’m sure we had similar data restriction rules in the KGB, but they were a bit plainer in their interpretation: keep this confidential or be executed for treason.
“Each morning, I like for us to keep our minds limber by looking through new intelligence, even if it’s not directly related to our current cases. After we’re warmed up, then I’ll run you through a series of exercises to keep your psychic skills sharp. If we have ongoing missions to work, we’ll pursue them at that time, as well. Then, in the afternoons, we work joint operations with the gentlemen.” Cindy blinks, once. “Any questions?”
I shake my head. I understood her about as well as I’m going to. The Americans seem to have this down to a science; I worry that I’m too clunky for this well-oiled machine.
“All right, ladies, let’s see what the analysts brought us.”
Donna and Marylou roll forward to hunch over the coffee table in front of us and start pawing through the folders like they’re records in the bargain bin at Woodward & Lothrop’s. “North Korea’s so boring.” “I’ve already questioned that Cuban defector.” “Ooh, can I see the surveillance notes?” They swap the folders back and forth, photographs and typed dossiers spilling from them like entrails, while Cindy retidies their discard heap, her patient smile never wavering.
I reach tentatively toward the pile, half afraid I’ll pull my arm back with nothing but a nub. One folder feels fattened in the middle with a stack of photographs—perfect. Not a lot of text for me to struggle through. I flip open the cover, stamped “EYES ONLY: Cindy Conrad,” and cycle through the stack of photographs.
They’re awful quality. Black and white, with a dearth of gray shades in between, taken through a lens that’s distended like a fisheye. Each one is framed in a black ring, like they’ve been shot through a peephole. The photographs feature the same woman in a variety of settings. Here she’s hurrying down a bridge, a fur stole suppressing her face—is that the Lomonosov Bridge in Leningrad? And in the next shot, she’s peeling hair from her face in a park. The washed-out colors render her a ghost—only a vague hint of eyes on a vast white visage.
Miss Conrad lurches over the coffee table and yanks the folder from my hands, her blues music blunted and angry as we make contact. The loose pictures spray facedown across the table, but she scoops them up in an instant. “That’s not for you. Didn’t you see the marking?” She jabs her finger at the stamp on the folder’s cover. “EYES ONLY. Unless I give it to you directly, you don’t look at it.”
“It’s okay, Cindy.” Donna cups a hand around my shoulder. Her musical shield is soothing, but too sweet, like a thick syrup. It rings a little too false. “She’s new. She doesn’t understand.”
But I barely hear her. The woman hangs in my mind, like a shadow skimmed from the ground and hung out to dry. I know her.
Even under a layer of exhaustion and Party-quality cosmetics caked onto her like a guilty mask I’d know those high cheekbones anywhere.
They’re the same ones that stare back at me every morning in the mirror.
I LOCK THE RESTROOM DOOR
behind me, not caring who I inconvenience, and park myself before one of the angled mirrors. I study the flash of freckles that marches from one high cheekbone, across my flat nose, to the other cheek. I trace the hollow under my cheeks; it’s hardly the cavernous pit it was eight months ago, when Mama and I were in hiding, sharing two food rations with five people. No, I am not the leaf stripped down to its stem that I was then, but I barely resemble the well-fed, doted-upon Party member in those photographs, restored to her former high-ranking glory.
Why are they keeping those pictures from me? I know my mother is part of the enemy’s machinery. I have accepted this—am trying to accept it, at least, though I cling to the belief that Mama must have some greater plan at work. If the Americans are going to make me a member of their team, then they must treat me as part of the team. I thought Cindy was showing us trust earlier, asking us our opinions, letting us build our own cases. I thought she was respecting us. While I know they’re spying directly on Mama, the fact that they’re keeping it from me sets my rusty gears of paranoia churning once more.
Do they have a good reason? Or am I right to be concerned? Competing hypotheses, comparing the possible scenarios—this is a problem my scientist’s mind can solve, like sifting through equations and formulae. The Americans know more about Mama’s situation right now than I do, I’m sure of that, but I don’t know why they’re keeping it from me. Do they not trust me, or am I the one who should be on my guard?
Someone pounds on the bathroom door. “One minute, please,” I shout.
The obvious hypothesis: Mama is working freely with Rostov. She will do whatever he asks.
“The door’s not supposed to be locked.” The woman on the other side hesitates. “I’ll have to get security.”
“Please, I only need a minute.”
A counter-hypothesis: Mama is sabotaging Rostov’s work from the inside. If this is what she’s doing, and the Americans don’t realize it, will their meddling ruin her plans? Does she need my help?
The woman rattles the door handle again. I scrunch my eyes shut, struggling to find a quiet space in my mind where these thoughts and emotions can’t overwhelm me—
I must help them. I must earn their trust. If I am to keep Mama safe, it will be easiest if I do so from the inside—while following the rules. I am not merely a weapon, after all.
Like an army knife, I have many uses.
I splash cold water on my face. For one moment, I imagine myself as the ghostly Mama in the pictures, all of the life bleached out of me. For one moment, I am stripped down to the monster inside of me, hungering for a new goal. For one moment, I am not afraid to be me.
I open the door to a security guard, hand raised, trailing a jailer’s ring of keys.
“Sorry,” I say, eyes cast down sheepishly and cheeks red. “There was a…” What was the word Winnie taught me?
Accident, occurrence, disaster
—they are all one euphemistic word in Russian. “Emergency.”
My new plan pulses through me like a dangerous bass line under my shield melody as I return to our psychedelic psychic’s den. Some trippy record oozes through the room, thickening the air around me. I’m swimming through the watery music—a Hammond organ shimmers against a rollicking drumbeat and sitar chords pierce the air like rays of sunlight. I force my way through the maze of curtains until I finally reach the far corner.
Cindy and Donna huddle together on a pile of pillows, talking in liquid tones. Donna’s skirt spreads around her in a perfect circle, knees tucked demurely to one side, while Cindy’s wiry knees nestle under her chin. I stare at Cindy through the lens of an operative. I want to know what she knows. I need her trust. I need to be a part of whatever she’s involved in.
“… But surely they asked you to,” Donna’s saying, her lashes fluttering. “That’s what powerful men do.”
“That’s not for me to tell,” Cindy says. But then her thoughts chime against the watery organ chords, completely unshielded, so loud that even I can hear them through the rug we’re both touching:
Once or twice. Thibadeaux …
Then her musical shield slams down. They both twist toward me. “Yulia!” Cindy pulls herself to her feet.
“Hi,
Jules
,” Donna says. “Mind if I call you that?” But she looks to Cindy while she says it, like her permission would outweigh mine.
“What are you people doing?” I ask.
Guys
, I chide myself.
What are you
guys
doing.
Donna stares at me, like it’s the first time anyone’s ever ignored her. “We’re practicing my skill. Cindy turns off her musical shield, and I ask her all kinds of uncomfortable questions.”
“Not
all
kinds,” Cindy says sharply. “There’s still plenty you’ll never learn, young lady.”
“Someday, I’ll get your real name out of you.” Donna grins.
But Cindy’s studying my expression. “Donna, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our exercise later. I’d like to work with Yulia privately for now.”
Donna’s face twists, but she smoothes it out by the time Cindy looks back at her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll just … go watch Marylou practice, or something.”
Cindy beckons me to follow her through the maze of curtains. “Feeling better?” she asks, as we wind through the path.
The room feels pressurized, closing in on me. My breath buzzes in my lungs as I search for the right words. “Um,” I say. I have mastered this English stalling technique, at least. “First, I must say something. I know you did not want me to see the photographs in that folder.”
“No,” Cindy says, voice clipped. “I didn’t.” Her eyes keep darting back to the shoebox, as if she’s eager to end this discussion and resume our work.
“But this is a problem.” I swallow through my tightly clenched throat. “In Russia, I could not trust my handlers, you see.”
She taps her heel against the linoleum. Her smile is easing away, but she says nothing.
“I do not want that life here. I want to be able to trust you. I want to work
with
you.” I look away. “Is this something we can do?”
“I’m not trying to keep secrets from you.” Cindy holds her palm up like she’s shielding herself. “Our chief doesn’t want you to work directly on your mother’s case. He thinks it will be … easier for you, that way.”
“But—but I want to help. Is this because of what I said in my hearing? That I’m not willing to hurt her.”
“Honestly?” Cindy smiles. “Yes, that’s a part of it. It tells me two things about you. The first is that you have a compass in you still—some dividing line between right and wrong. That the KGB didn’t break that part of you.” She tilts her head as if she’s trying to see me from a better angle. “Though I already knew that about you.”