He snatches two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Great! Good to hear it. I’ll drink to a ‘we’ll see.’” He slaps one of the glasses into my hand. “Of course, it’s Sovetskoye Shampanskoye, which tastes like stale bread, but we’ll make do.”
I eye my bubbly glass. “We’re supposed to be working. We have to find Gruzova’s co-workers.”
“And nothing loosens the thoughts like a little sip, eh? Come on, times are hard enough.” He gestures toward my gown. “You look too pretty not to enjoy yourself.”
I scrunch my face at him. When I concentrate on it, the secondhand satin feels filmy with guilt against my skin. Kruzenko said the dresses came from the KGB’s wardrobe department, which explains the sleazy details of honeypot operations—pretty KGB girls plying secrets from male targets—that occasionally sink in. I clink Sergei’s glass and down my champagne in one gulp, though I try to look none too happy about it. It’s mostly bubbles, anyway. The cottony taste is gone as quickly as it came.
“Where shall we start?” Sergei asks, weaving us around the various banquet spreads. “I’ll help you brush against some of the Veter scientists, then maybe we can slink off to a nice dark corner where you can help me … uh…” His grin spreads. “Remote view.”
Heat creeps up my face. I summon up my best indignant look for him, though the champagne fuzz in my head betrays me, and it dissolves into a stupid smile. “How about you go work on that by yourself, and we’ll meet up later.”
He holds up his hands. “All right, I had to try. Try not to miss me too much.”
“Sure thing, comrade.” I offer him a sloppy salute, even sloppier than I’d intended courtesy of the champagne, and plunge back into the crowd.
I’m trying to remember Sergei as the jerk who betrayed me, and not the well-meaning jerk who wanted to keep me safe. But it’s wearing me down, dulling my musical shield and letting every thought and memory flood in. I don’t have the energy for all this anger anymore. Just like the easy path is playing along with Rostov’s and Kruzenko’s plans, the easy thing to do is to let go of my rage.
If I have to laugh at another one of Comrade Colonel’s stupid jokes …
He always does this to me, off talking to Irina again—
I don a smile to match my strand of fake pearls, and before I know it, I’ve circled the whole atrium, and my second glass of Shampanskoye has disappeared.
“Find anything?” Masha asks, slithering up alongside me.
A moment later, Misha appears at my other side. “And we don’t mean an escape route.”
“I’m just learning my way around.” I clench a fist around my necklace. “You know. Establish a … a baseline.” I suppress a giggle. The bubbles are making me sound like a textbook, though I feel like a soft summer cloud.
“Oh. Right. We—we were doing that, too.” Masha scoops up a tiny square of bread smeared with salmon from her plate of zakuski—little bites. “But I already found one of the Veter 1 scientists hanging on some man’s arm during the last number. Irina, I think her name is.”
“What did the man look like?” I ask.
Masha doesn’t hear me. She pitches a smile over her shoulder in the direction of the band, which has been playing a blend of folk songs and jazz improvisation. Then I spot who she’s smiling at—Valentin, tapping his foot along to the music. When he notices Masha, he glares back at her like we’re ants and he’s the magnifying glass.
“Valya’s shaping up to be quite the spy,” Masha says, turning back to me with a fake flirty smile smeared on her lips. “Once he stopped trying to run away, he’s really learned to make the most of his gifts.”
“A little moody still,” Misha says. “But I think he understands now the value of our work.”
Masha shares a smirk with her brother. “Don’t worry, Yul, there’s always Sergei. Nothing on upstairs—he’s perfect for you, really. But even he has the good sense to enjoy the privilege we’ve been given.”
“You were an idiot to try to give this up,” Misha says, and Masha nods. “Look around you—isn’t this a better life? Khruschev may make concessions to the Americans now, but Colonel Rostov’s plans will return the Soviet Union to its glory. You should stop fighting it.”
“I’m not fighting anything,” I say. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Khruschev and his guard are fading out. It’s time for the Soviet Union to be great again.” Misha’s eyes focus on me—they could be carved from slate, that cold, callous pair. He’s way too close to my arm. Masha is, too, for that matter. They’re closing in on me from both sides. It’s hot in between them, in this packed room; I’m flushing like at our old dacha’s bathhouse sauna, where the only relief came from diving headfirst into the snow.
I take a step back, but the twins follow me. “I’m not interested in playing political games. I’ll fulfill my obligation and be done.”