Again, that pain in my heart at knowing he’s right. Our family was always privileged, we always had plenty—food, soft toilet paper, clothing, holidays on the Black Sea—until the day Papa ran for help and left us to live off the streets.
“He infected your mother with these foul ideas. He would have us be like America. But why?” Rostov sneers. “We have no orphans, no mentally ill living under bridges. Everyone who wishes a job has one. Our artists are celebrated, not shunned. University education for all who wish it, food on every plate. We do not segregate our people by race, by gender. Look at the top women scientists, like your mother, unhindered by their sex. And we are winning the race to the moon! Our Sputnik satellites peer down on the Americans, where they are helpless to stop them.
“She had forgotten the importance of her work. Lost herself in his fanciful dreams. But she remembers now. We can be forgiving, when one deserves forgiveness. The Academy has forgiven her for abandoning her important work. And so I forgive you, too, for the impulsiveness of your youth.”
Forgiveness? The very word, from him, tastes like rancid meat. Maybe he’s right about Papa, about the cost we pay to live in a country like ours. Maybe, in time, I will not despise my gift and the work it has led me to.
But I will never bow to him.
“She knew,” I say. “About my ability.” I don’t expect him to answer me honestly, but even lies have a way of peeling a few layers back on the truth.
Rostov smiles like he’s savoring this moment. “They both did. We monitor all Party members’ children for the markers of psychic abilities. As scientists themselves, it appears they were able to suppress those results from reaching us, but nothing stays hidden forever.”
His words strike at a tender spot in my mind, like an old bruise. My thoughts edge around it, trying to imagine Mama and Papa keeping such a secret from me. It’s as if, because I didn’t know what I was capable of, it stayed hidden just under my skin until there was nowhere left to hide.
“Those records,” I say. “What if the CIA got access to them? And that’s why they’re hunting us now.”
Rostov nods. “It is possible. We are conducting an internal investigation on the matter. Our top priority is keeping you and your teammates safe from whatever foul plans the CIA has.”
“But it’s not just our team.” My voice sounds thick. I’d only glimpsed a few photographs, that day in Gruzova’s apartment; but perhaps Rostov has salvaged memories of the rest from her shredded brain. “There are others they’re hunting. These wildlings.” I swallow hard. “I want to protect them, too.” At least I can sense the scrubber coming for me, screaming like a tornado or a falling missile. The wildlings, with no control over their powers, don’t have that luxury.
“So you will continue your work for us?” I know it’s not a question, but he pretends it is. “We will keep you safe from this scrubber, and you may lead our efforts to protect these wildlings from the Americans. The less you fight us, the happier we are to accommodate your wishes. A place of your own, in time; visits with your brother.”
He relinquishes his physical control of me. I slump down on the bench. My rage is gone, crushed under its own weight. I think of the fire that smolders behind Valentin’s eyes. Now I understand that he has not given up, but he knows there is no other choice.
“I’ll do it,” I say, my voice rough as burlap.
Someday, I promise myself, I will be strong enough that Rostov can’t pull my strings. I can no longer despise myself for this power. I must make it my own.
CHAPTER 20
MASHA WASTES NO TIME in seeking me out to gloat. “Look at the ration rat, caught in the mousetrap again.” She flops onto the cot next to mine and crosses her arms behind her head. “You know, most rats learn not to get caught twice.”
“Most rats don’t survive the first time,” I reply.
Masha sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out, a blissful smile overtaking her face. “If only you could have seen your face when Rostov walked into Gruzova’s apartment. I bet you thought you’d been so careful. But you can’t trust a traitor, especially not one as screwed up in the head as that.”
Larissa catches my eye from the far end of the room. It hurts to look at her—I really believed she was different from Misha and Masha, and even Sergei. Masha, I’d expect to stop me at every opportunity. And Sergei—I ignore the pang in my gut. I don’t want to contemplate why he helped them. But Larissa, who must have seen my plans to seek the Americans’ help in her visions of the future, stings in an entirely new way. She has no loyalty to our captors, none that I can discern, or the slightest hint of interest in playing their games. She must have had a good reason for doing this to me. That, or she’s the most devious spy of us all.