Larissa gives me a sad smile when I return from searching. Does she see my future? Me succeeding in my escape, or failing? I’m afraid to ask. But we talk, some, when Ivan’s not around to suck up all her attention. Under night’s blanket, she sits at the foot of my bed and tells me stories from her life at school, a normal life full of blue jumpers and white dandelion barrettes. She passes down tales from her grandmother about life under the tsars, before the Soviet Union. There were no lines to wait in, she said, but often there was no money or food to be had, either.
I’ll take that uncertainty. Uncertainty is my constant companion, the shadow always underfoot. Whether I’m safer in here than on the run. Whether my parents knew what I am all along. It’ll be worth it, I tell myself, as I sweep the mansion’s walls. But there are a few more answers I need first.
*
“Natalya Petrovna Gruzova.”
Major Kruzenko points to the black-and-white passport photograph streaming onto the wall from the slide projector. It takes me a moment to recognize the woman because her blond hair looks white and is pulled into a stern bun; her face is fuller in the picture, as if the exhausted woman who grabbed my wrist in Red Square was only her withered shadow.
“She is one of the engineers designing the secret Veter 1 capsule that will give us the first flight around the moon. If the mission is a success, then we will be sure to achieve a moon landing long before the Americans.” Kruzenko’s face tightens; her brows draw down. “Unfortunately, we believe Gruzova has been compromised by an enemy team of American psychics. In addition to stealing Veter 1 design documents for the Americans, she appears to be assisting them in hunting us.”
Natalya’s eyes in the photograph are glazed with excitement, as if she is staring beyond our world, into the stars. That yearning was gone from the woman I heard in the Square. What happened to her light? Is that what these “scrubbers” can do?
Masha’s hand shoots up. “If we know she is a traitor, why haven’t we arrested her?” If she and Misha had their way, the Siberian gulags would be fuller than the cities.
“If we arrest her now, we can learn everything she knows, but her accomplices, this scrubber who is working her, will burrow into the earth.”
“Then we should find out what she knows,” Ivan says. Larissa nods beside him.
“Very likely, she only knows one piece of the puzzle, and the scrubber has carefully controlled the contents of her head to keep her from discovering more.” Kruzenko folds her arms. “We will observe her, instead, as she plays her little game, then spread our net from there. We must find more information connecting the Americans to Gruzova, whether it’s memories or thoughts in others’ heads.”
“We’re using her as bait,” I mutter. Valentin turns toward me, but I keep looking ahead.
“But do not worry. We also have additional agents monitoring her, in case she tries to flee.” Kruzenko smirks. “So let’s begin.”
She splits us into teams again, so we can play off each other’s strengths. I’m paired with Valentin this time—I’m relieved it’s not Sergei, but terrified nonetheless. I can’t shake the knowledge of what he can do. And in case I was harboring any thoughts of escape during our mission, Pavel, my guard, is joined by the slimmer but no less imposing Lev, who wears a pair of scars across one eye like a medal of honor.
Valentin and I are shuttled to the Metro, Moscow’s underground network of trains. We ride a packed car one stop to the Kievskaya station, surrounded by exposed armpits as their owners clutch at the handles overhead. For once I’m thankful for winter and its smell of salt and radiators instead of sweat. Somehow, Valentin finds us a seat—I can’t help but suspect he’s mentally coaxed this loud man in expensive corduroy out of it—and Pavel and Lev flank us.
We have other guards. Valentin’s voice flutters against my mental shell.
I flick my gaze down the length of the car. Can’t they hear our thoughts? But Valentin taps a finger to his ear without looking at me. It takes me a moment to catch on, then I realize—Shostakovich is still going strong in my mind. A warmth spreads along my spine. He could have dived right in and grabbed the thought from me. Rostov would have. I look casually to my feet, strip away the strings section, and repeat myself, burying my words in the low tympani. Are the guards psychic?
Lev is, but the rest, definitely not. I caught Kruzenko thinking about it.
My jaw slackens. You can hear her thoughts? But her gypsy music is so loud—
Hear them, casually? No. But I can take them. In my peripheral vision, he cocks a smile on his face like a loaded gun.
I flinch and raise Shostakovich around me.
Valentin swallows audibly; the next thought he passes to me carries the warmth and the fragrance of spring. Yulia … I’d never take your thoughts without permission. Not yours or—or anyone’s, who wasn’t a Party supporter.