I wonder if I will ever walk this path, or any other, with Zhenya again.
Kruzenko strides past me, low heels slapping on the wood, and ruffles the hair of the rat-faced blond boy, Ivan, beside Larissa. “Ivan and Misha are strongest at hearing others’ thoughts and getting them to focus on thinking about the information we want so we can pry it from their heads.”
I look at Valentin. A black curl obscures his forehead, and his knees bounce up and down with restless rhythm. “What about you?” I ask him.
Major Kruzenko smiles in a way that twists into my gut. “Valentin … he is best at changing the very stream of someone’s thoughts—altering their memories, or creating a new reality around them.”
I draw my knees up under my chin. Valentin keeps fidgeting like he doesn’t hear us, but I hear him: a frantic saxophone bouncing up and down a scale and drums goading it along. I must be extra careful around Valentin. I pull Shostakovich tight around me like a shroud.
“So!” Kruzenko clasps her hands together. “We are a well-rounded team. Just as in hockey, we cannot all play the same position—we need goalies, defenders, scorers. We must practice as a team and learn to trust one another’s movements. If Sergei has the puck to pass, then he has to trust that Mikhail will be there to pick it up. Are we understood?”
Subdued heads bob all around me. I nod, eager to get her gaze off of me.
“Excellent. Sergei, Maria, let us proceed with the training exercise.”
Masha bounces to her feet; Sergei stands slower, looking at me as if in apology, like this is his crazy family and I’m just his guest. Major Kruzenko shepherds them into two nicked wooden chairs. Masha’s glossy hair moves as one solid curtain along her shoulders as she perches on the chair. She looks like a porcelain doll, too pretty to play with, that must sit on the shelf and stare out with superior eyes. Her knees press perfectly together and she smoothes the hem of her skirt. Sergei slumps beside her, knees wide, arms crossed; his blond hair scatters across his brow.
“In this exercise, we are hunting an escaped spy who has stolen important documents from the Ministry of Finance. In today’s session, we have tracked him to the Ukraina Hotel. We must recover the documents and find him before he meets with a British agent.” Kruzenko’s lips curl into a thin smile. “And with our remote viewers, we can find him without even leaving the mansion. Children, place yourselves on the street. You should have it memorized from out last field trip.”
“Should,” Sergei says, with his naughty-boy smirk. Kruzenko raps him on the hand; there’s something familiar and playful in the way she does it, as though this is a well-trod routine between them. “Yeah, yeah, I remember it. Big boulevard, trees, one of the Seven Sisters towers.”
Kruzenko strides to the desk at the far end of the room and snatches the telephone. “Begin,” she says. The Russian word is harsh, three-syllabled; it sounds like sandpaper rubbing back and forth.
Sergei takes a deep breath, like he’s going to plunge underwater, and screws his eyes shut. Kruzenko paces behind them. Masha is deep in thought, eyes closed, her head slumping toward her chest. Drool glimmers on her lower lip.
“Latch on to the details you remember. Let them guide you to the places you haven’t been.”
“Marble floors,” Masha cries sharply. Her slim figure contorts as if she’s possessed. “I’ve stepped through the doorway. I can see the chandelier—”
“There’s no chandelier,” Sergei says. “Just a mural on the ceiling.”
“No—I’m already way past that, inside the restaurant. There’s a chandelier there.”
“Whatever you say.” Sergei sighs.
Masha wrinkles her nose in his direction. “Stop distracting me. There’s a table by the window…”
Valentin’s fidgeting brings his knee to rest against mine. I start to pull away—but his frantic jazz music ebbs and two words slip off of him onto me, like a drop of sweat.
Let’s talk.
Our eyes meet. His are a burned shade of brown, smoldering like the last winter log. I’m thankful he wears glasses because I feel like I need shielding from his intense stare. I drop my gaze and slowly peel the thrumming bass of Shostakovich away from my thoughts. What do you want to talk about? We aren’t making physical contact now, but if he’s capable of what Kruzenko claims …
I know you’re scared—hurting, perhaps. You have good reason for it. I can’t blame you for wanting to run.
Great. Does everyone know about my plan? I bury my head between my knees. Major Kruzenko is still talking through the restaurant’s description with Sergei and Masha. “The drapes!” Masha cries. Her hand clamps onto Sergei’s. “They’re blue!” Like she wants to impress Kruzenko so badly it’s hurting her.
Yeah, I hear Valentin say, she likes this too much.