“Nothing’s new to me.” She smiles at me sideways, pausing by the doorway. “I just get better at pretending to be surprised.”
Major Kruzenko shuts the double doors behind Larissa, then shrugs out of her coat, melted snow flinging everywhere. “I do hope you are feeling better after your ordeal last night. We had nothing to indicate the Americans would be in attendance, or I would have provided more security for you.”
Why bother? She doesn’t protect us from the scrubber on our side. But I say nothing.
“I know such people are difficult to see clearly when they don’t wish to be read, but did you see anything that might help us identify him?” She flips the spigot on the samovar and watches the steaming tea fill her oversized mug.
“It was so noisy already, and his face, it’s…” I stare down at my hands as she slides into the chair opposite me, resting her mug on the empty table between us. “I got a decent look at another CIA team member when Valentin and I went to Kutuzovsky. I’m afraid we’re better off tracking him instead.”
“We already have operatives working on it, but we require your assistance for other matters.” She gestures to the box.
A long silence drifts between us. She looks out the grimy second-floor window, and I look at the nicked black-and-white chessboard squares painted on the tabletop. I hold my breath and gather up the words I’d been planning to say, then finally release them in one gush.
“I’ve been working very hard on this case, and Rostov promised me I could see my brother soon if I did.”
Her lips round into a surprised little O and she exhales. “Yes.” She traces the rim of her mug. “Yes, he did.” Shostakovich bounces through my head like a hockey puck let loose while I wait for her to continue. “But we must ensure the safety of these wildlings first.”
She pulls two items from the box and places them on the chess table—a worn leather glove and a rubber mallet. “We recovered these items from the factories you pinpointed as possible job sites for some of the wildlings. I would like you to tell me if they are, indeed, psychic.”
And there’s the difference between why I’m searching for the wildlings, and why Kruzenko is. I want to protect them from the Americans; she wants to abduct them for the KGB’s purposes, just like she did me. After feeling the scrubber so close against my thoughts, grinding into them like broken glass, I can see how Sergei might be inclined to choose the lesser evil of keeping me under lock and key. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
My face hardens. I am a Soviet mural of the Worker as She Grimly Commits Vile Acts for the Greater Good. I slip my hand into the leather glove.
A hot, tangy smell like blood floods through me. No—not blood. Molten pig iron. I’m in the slag works of a factory, handling a pair of tongs, moving a sun-bright rod from the oven to a cooling vat. Where are my thoughts?—Here, a concern over the next factory Soviet meeting—the Party representatives are keeping secrets from me. There, a date with Katia.
So much uncertainty; such ignorant bliss.
I peel off the glove. “No,” I say. “This man doesn’t have the ability. He should be safe from the Americans.”
Kruzenko jots down a note in her folder, then pushes the mallet toward me.
I pick up the mallet and suddenly I’m placing it on the top shelf of my locker. My eyes itch from too little sleep; my nerves are dulled with exhaustion. All my life, I’ve heard little things, things I shouldn’t. But the sounds following me the last few nights, like air-raid sirens, scare me more than anything I’ve heard before.
I let go. I don’t like the way this boy’s fear pricks into my skin like an injection, over and over. Major Kruzenko watches me with eyebrows raised.
“Is that a yes?” she asks.
“Which one is this?” I ask, checking the chalkboard of profiles. “When did the team retrieve this? Have they found this mallet’s owner?”
“We know which factory it came from. We’ll contact the operations bureau and send plainclothes officers to track him down.” She stands, snapping her folder shut. “Your assistance is much appreciated—”
“I want to see my brother.” I slam my hand onto her folder, and she jumps back. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
“I will pass your request to Colonel Rostov and see that he carries it further up the chain of command. It is the most I can offer you right now.”
My knuckles are white around the table’s edge; I feel bloated with too many emotions, both mine and the wildling’s, swirling around and frothing up. “I have behaved impeccably since my return, have I not? Over a month with no complaint. I’ve been a perfect little spy, tracking the scrubber’s targets, monitoring the Veter 1 team. All I want is to see my brother. You owe me that.”