“Come on,” Pavel says, nudging me in the back. “Lots more to examine.”
Someone yelps on the other side of the row of lockers beside us. The gasps spread like a contagion, followed by thundering footsteps. “Fire!” someone shrieks. The techs hop up and pry fire extinguishers from the wall before darting over as well, Misha hot on their heels.
My heart pounds. The fire Larissa had seen. It has to be Papa’s doing. I squash my hand against the locker, digging too deep, desperate to find his trail—
“Help them!” the familiar-looking tech shouts at Pavel, and shoves him in the direction of the panic. Then he seizes me by the wrist. “Yulia,” he says, starring right at me.
Another layer of fog sloughs off inside my mind as a three-note melody rings out. He’s Papa’s teammate—the man in the fedora who worked with Natalya Gruzova. “Where’s my father?” I whisper.
“Not now.” Another quick glance in the direction of the fire. I can smell it now—charred paper and rubbish. “Mozart Café, three blocks south of the hotel. Three o’clock this afternoon. Don’t be late. We can’t afford to wait around.”
He strides back to the cosmonauts and kneels down to buckle their boots.
After a few seconds of hissing fire extinguishers, the noise dies down and Pavel charges back toward me. “Probably some idiot throwing his cigarette in the trash,” he says. “Come on. Lots more to check.”
The American’s words simmer inside me as we finish our sweep, though I keep Shostakovich at his normal intensity around my thoughts. I’ll have to wait until we’re back at the hotel to tell Valentin. Everyone’s on high alert today. I only hope Masha and Sergei weren’t looking in remotely when the man passed his message to me.
We turn up nothing; Rostov orders us to stand guard in the observation deck, a balcony over the main control room where Comrade Secretary Nikita Khruschev and Yuri Gagarin will watch, along with a handful of Party officials. Larissa catches my arm outside the observation room and pulls me away with widened eyes.
“What is it?” I ask. I lower my voice. “Your vision with the fire—”
She laughs, brassy and bright. I think it’s the first I’ve heard her laugh since Ivan’s accident. It melts away some of my fear. “No, nothing bad has happened. But did you see Comrade Gagarin in there?” She giggles again. “Oh, Yul, he is a sight for sore eyes.”
I dig up a weak smile for her—more because I’m relieved to see her happy again. Unconcerned. But I need to ask her about her visions, find out what she sees about us meeting the CIA man. If Masha or Sergei overheard. I can’t risk it here, but as soon as the launch is over we’ll need to talk.
By late morning, we shuffle into the back of the observation room, with stadium seating and a massive plated-glass window covered by metal slats that can lock shut like blinds. I join Larissa against the back wall. On the airstrip, the Veter 1 rocket assembly lies flat on the ground, encased in metal scaffolding and hydraulic lifts ready to pull it upright once the cosmonauts are on board. They stride across the field now, carrying their kits beside them like suitcases, escorted by the medical techs. Is the American among them? I swallow hard, wondering if he went to all this trouble just to bring this message to me, or if his real purpose here is yet to come.
The cosmonauts are sealed into their capsule. At this distance, the circular window on the capsule is only a speck; the whole conical capsule is nothing compared to the swooping cylinders attached to it, ready to fling the men into space. Then the hydraulics slowly lift the capsule end, bringing the entire rocket upright.
Larissa snorts next to me. “If Ivan were here,” she says, “he’d be making a dirty joke right now.”
I glance back out the window, then cover my mouth. “That’s terrible.” I stifle a laugh. “Now I can’t unsee it.”
Valentin slinks up to us and flattens against the wall next to me. “What’s so funny, ladies?” he asks. Larissa and I look at each other and giggle again. Valentin smirks and shakes his head. “Well, it’s sure nice to see you both in good spirits.”
Masha twists around from the seat in front of us. “Real mature, girls.” Her chilly gray eyes take me in. “Not that I’d expect better from someone who lurks in men’s locker rooms.”