I was going to tell her she can trust me, but it’s not something I can guarantee. If I am caught, Rostov will rip her secrets from me again.
“They came to me.” She jabs her finger at me. “I didn’t ask for this. It was obvious to me what they were. I could have reported them, but I didn’t. They could see how unhappy I was.”
I spread both hands on the table. Her thoughts frizz like there’s an electrical short in them. Every time she circles a truth, it darts away from me. What a mess she is. Does she deserve this insanity? She sold her secrets for money, for safe passage. Envious though I am, it’s a fundamentally selfish act, when she already lives better than nearly every Russian citizen and is respected and regarded for her hard work. She’s put satellites, dogs, men into space, and for the most part, reeled them back to Earth safe and sound. Why subject herself to this pain?
“So they asked you to steal design plans for the Veter 1 space capsule.” I have to keep her on track.
She tries to nod, but it sets her whole body shaking. She fumbles with a box of cigarettes. “They promised me they would get me to the West. Smuggle me out through Berlin, they said—it’s too hard to get someone out of the heart of Moscow. But then their new team member showed up.”
I lean forward. The scrubber. She can’t hold the match to her cigarette. I take it from her and wait as she puffs it to life.
“I knew him from…” She trails off, looking through me as she searches for a memory that’s no longer there. “He gave me these photographs, said they were priority targets, that he wouldn’t let me leave unless I helped him draw them out.”
“Why couldn’t he find them himself?” I ask.
She taps her temple with two fingers. “Something about his head. They could hear him? Were looking for it. I’m sure you understand better than me.”
“They. The KGB, you mean.”
“Of course. There was always this odd noise—” She taps herself again like she’s trying to break through the bone. “Like a drill—after we’d meet.”
“But what did he want with them? Us,” I correct myself.
She shakes her cigarette ash into one of the dirty glasses. “How should I know? He wants to eliminate you, I assume.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “But I could offer them information.”
“You’re not a scientist, a politician. What do you know? You stop the CIA from stealing our space technology. You turn in your comrades for thinking unsafe things. That makes you a threat, a tool with a very specific purpose.” She shrugs—a deft jab of her bony shoulders. “Who knows, maybe they could put you to work, but why would they use a man like that if not to scoop out your insides?”
The kitchen and all its filth spins around me. The plan I was so sure of an hour ago, climbing down those endless steps, feels more and more like a death wish. How could I think the Americans would help me? She’s right. My powers are poison to everyone around me, condemning them for their thoughts, their histories, and offering them up to monsters like Rostov whether I want to or not. I am a liability. At best.
“Where is he now?” I ask, suddenly drained. Sleep, I need sleep. But I have to keep moving. I have no other choice but to try my luck with the Americans. If I can convince them to take me in, and to rescue Mama and Zhenya …
“They operate out of some shops near the embassy, mostly. On Tchaikovsky Street.”
I pull off my hat; run my fingers through my hair, sticky with sweat. I’ve come this far. I can do this. “Thank you. I—I’ll find some way to repay you, someday.”
She gulps for air, gripping the table’s edge. Hold on hold on just a few more minutes her thoughts roil on themselves, a whirlpool of panic.
“It’s safer for you here,” she finally says.
“No—I have to leave. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll demand they find a way out for us both.” For my family, too, a voice in me pleads. “I’ve risked my life to come this far. We have to keep going.”
“I cannot leave!” Her voice is raspy with exhaustion. “I’m just another pawn.”
My hands contract into fists. “Pawn?” I ask, staring at her. Her eyes won’t meet mine. “I—I don’t understand.”
She stands up, knocking the chair over with an ear-shattering crack. A tear squeezes from her shut eyes as she takes one more drag on her cigarette.
“Rachmaninov,” she says—like it’s a prayer. Her head is a yawning void. No more fear. She might as well be dead.
The kitchen door crashes open on a wave of static. Colonel Rostov strides in, surrounded by a swarm of soldiers.
My blood is on fire, starting in my gut and spreading out through my veins. Every protestation in my head is cut short before it can become a full sentence. But she. But I. But why.
I lunge for the revolver, but my body isn’t listening to me. Something foreign fires the synapses in my brain now. My arms are cemented to my sides. I’m locked up like an unoiled hinge; a rising tide of noise fills my head.