“Do not bother to fight, Chernina. You will not be escaping us again.”
I pry open my jaw, but my throat is too dry, too unwilling to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Natalya whimpers. “I had no choice. Trust me, I know the Americans—it’s safer for you this way—” A sob chokes off her words, and she takes another swig of vodka.
Rostov wipes the tear from Natalya’s cheek as she flinches away from him. “Well done, comrade. I am certain the Tribunal will take your cooperation into account.”
“You’ll only put one bullet through me instead of two,” she says.
Rostov chuckles, then turns back to me. Against my will, I stand up and move toward him. I’m begging my body to obey me, but I’m gliding along. “Chernina, dear Chernina. How could you think I wouldn’t find you? You’ve been planning to escape since you first arrived. Why do you bother? We know everything.”
“You didn’t know about the CIA team. That they have psychics, too.” Every word is a struggle, though I don’t think for a moment I could speak if Rostov wasn’t allowing me to.
“You barely know them, what they’re capable of. Who knows what they would have done to you? You are much safer with us.” He flicks his hand back to the soldiers. Then he looks up, at no one in particular. “Thank you, Sergei, that will be enough.”
My stomach lurches like the floor’s dropped out from under me. Sergei. I fight the urge to vomit. Hot shame, molten shame flushes my face as the soldiers clamp shackles around my wrists. My mouth tastes coppery, like I’ve bitten my tongue. This body is not my own. It marches along behind the soldiers, Rostov behind me, guiding my moves, his steel-wool confidence chafing at what’s left of my mind.
CHAPTER 19
NATALYA’S SCREAMS KEEP ME awake all night. Our cells are side by side, and the walls are too flimsy to keep anything out: noise, rats, smell, thoughts. My cot is pressed against the shared wall, so every fingernail they pull from her sends her agony shooting my way. Rostov drills into her brain with his powers, but her head is already Swiss cheese. There’s nothing left for him to find.
He is looking for the names and descriptions of the CIA team and their scrubber. He is looking for any accomplices she may have on the Veter team, who might have helped her steal the documents. He is looking for the names and faces the Americans sent her to find—other psychics they wanted to hunt down.
But the scrubber anticipated this. Despite his apparent wish to kill us, I almost admire his thoroughness. She is perfectly censored, perfectly blanked out. A perfect Soviet citizen.
Somehow, I succumb to exhaustion, and when I wake, the cell next to me is silent. No thoughts, no whimpers, no scrubbing, bleaching noise. I won’t ask why. Rostov is coming for me next, I’m sure. I won’t scream for him like Natalya did. I won’t mourn the loss of a finger, my kneecaps. I will tell him everything. I won’t fight it.
The KGB will kill me if I stay, and the CIA will kill me if I leave. I’d rather sink into that grave now, than wonder if I’ll stumble into it with every next step.
All I will ask is that he set Mama and Zhenya free.
*
My cell door opens.
It’s not Rostov, but another man, with fish eyes that refuse to settle on me. He’s been trained to shield his thoughts. “You are wanted this way.” He takes me by the arm—not as gently as he could, but not as rough as I expected—and pulls me from the cell.
They’re going to execute me. I’m certain of it. No questions, no second chances. I will stand against the wall and crumple. Clean, quick. I welcome it. A small mercy.
He pushes me into a room and locks the door behind us. “You have five minutes,” he says, and he melts into the dark corner.
I turn to my left. The room is divided in half by a partition wall, the top half made of Plexiglass. A woman steps forward to speak through slots cut into the glass, right at mouth level. “My Yulia.”
My heart plummets. “Mama.” Her eyes are black holes, but her wispy frame looks softer, all the jagged angles of starvation smudged away. She has pulled her black hair into a bun, showing off her perfect clavicles peeking above her sweater. Cashmere. “Mama. Where have you been? I thought you were—”
She smiles—a tired, well-fed smile. I’d never seen those dimples in her cheeks before. They used to be just divots.
“I am fine. Better than fine. We’re getting Zhenya the treatment he needs. I’ve been working with a wonderful doctor from the old clinic, and we have developed new methods—no more electroshock therapy or sedatives.”