Sekret (18 page)

“We’ll see,” I say.

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.”

Masha flicks her head to one side with a flawless swoosh of hair. “Our work has no end. Not until the workers of the world are united. We have to protect Russia from these monsters who would kill us for what we are.”

Brilliant pinks, blues, reds spin across the dance floor before us, and thoughts and smells spiral away in the dancers’ wake: sweat, eagerness, acrid perfume, regret. One thought is faint, but unmistakable to me—the hum of a brain that’s encountered a scrubber. My stomach churns. Who is this poor person, who has no idea what’s being done to his brain …

Valentin catches my eye from over by the bandstand. He must have sensed it, too. He marches toward us with tightened fists. “Yulia. You’re looking lovely as ever. Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”

“Could be better.” I sip my champagne, fighting back the blush on my cheeks. When did I get another glass? Is this my third or fourth? I’m losing track.

“How about a dance? I can’t promise to make your night better.” A dark, false smile tweaks his lips as he looks at the twins. “But it can’t make it worse.”

Masha glares at him for a minute, then shrugs her shoulders. “Your loss.” She slinks off toward the buffet table, Misha trotting after her like a puppy.

I hold my hand out to Valentin. He clasps me gingerly in his arms, and we start the dance steps, slow and careful at first. “I don’t suppose you’re here to say ‘told you so’ about my escape attempt as well.”

“Actually,” he says, “I’ve been dying all evening to do this.” He tips me backward as the music spikes, then pulls me back up against him.

My dark curls bounce around my face as we whirl along the dance floor, thankfully concealing the rush of blood to my head. We dovetail together nicely; I can feel his chest rising and falling. Normally I’d fend him off with a snippy comment, but with a horrible sinking in my gut, I realize I don’t
want
to fend him off.

“Unfortunately,” he says, “we also have some investigating to do.” He steers us into the throng of dancers, and we fit seamlessly into the gears of the dance.

A fresh number begins—a folk song, the kind where the tune starts slowly, but then repeats, growing more and more frantic with each round, coiling up like a spring until it snaps and everyone collapses, unable to keep up. Valentin establishes our steps early, simple enough that we should be able to stay in the game for several rounds while searching for the person with the scrubber-touched thoughts. Those who aren’t dancing circle the floor, pinning us in, clapping in rhythm with the song.

Valentin’s lips lower to my ear, and a thrill shoots up my spine, unbidden. “There are things I feel I must tell you,” he murmurs, “but this isn’t the right place for it.”

I pull my head back a fraction from his. My skin is bubbly, but his breath smells curiously sober. “Seems as good a time as any.”

“Are you still looking for a way out?” he asks.

I can barely hear him in the frantic music—surely I’ve misheard. I untangle my feet just in time to avoid crashing. “Are you asking me what I think you are?”

“The side project I’ve been doing for Rostov. Some new information has come to light.” He whirls me under his arm, and my skirt flares wide. “But I’ll need your help to make sense of it.”

The music clicks up in tempo; our feet fly beneath us. “I’m afraid I’m not as good at playing these Soviet games as I used to be,” I say. But I like the idea of being a confidant, a co-conspirator. I’ve been fighting alone for so long, and this inscrutable, sobering boy … In one dangerous instant, I think I could share a secret with him.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Valentin looks at me sidelong before he swings me away, then catches me in his arms. When I face him again, the whites of his eyes gleam—is he afraid? “I like you when you’re Yulia—the real Yulia.” He looks away. “Not the battle-hardened mask you usually wear.”

I want to smile, but my head is too much like a cotton ball, soaking up everything, without a brain to make sense of it. Do I want him to say these things? It takes every ounce of my dwindling sobriety to process my thoughts about Valentin. He sends me into another twirl. Before I have a chance to stop myself, I slide a quick kiss onto his cheek, natural as breathing, as the music steps up the pace again.

Valentin continues through the steps, but with a stunned look on his face. The clapping around us turns violent, frantic to keep up with the music as it zips along. My feet turn to rubber. “What?” I ask, squeezing his hands. “Did I do something wrong?”

First, my foot lands on top of his; then my knee tangles into his thigh. The heel of my shoe threatens to snap. Valentin tumbles toward me. As my tailbone strikes the marble floor, he throws his arms wide, so even though he lands on top of me, we scarcely touch.

The dance floor rolls with laughter as the musicians let the song deteriorate for comic effect. Several other couples have collapsed as well. Some of the older men stoop down to help us to our feet.

“I’m sorry.” I suppress a hiccup. “I couldn’t keep up—”

“It wasn’t you.” Valentin’s hand is still closed around mine and squeezing tighter. “The
Veter
team member you thought had been talking with the scrubber. I think it’s more than just—”

I catch a flash of lightning in the crowd—feel it more than see it, ripping through my mind. I spot a dark-haired woman I recognize from our briefings on the
Veter 1
team. According to the records, she and Natalya Gruzova were close friends. Is her mind so thoroughly scrubbed that she stings like this? But then I try to look at the man she’d been dancing with and he sets my eyes on fire—

I double over, nearly falling again. Valentin holds me firm and turns me away from the dance floor. “Don’t look at him.”

I force my eyes shut but the man’s brilliance is reverberating in my brain, it’s ricocheting like a bullet, it’s throbbing through my veins. Waves of white light crash across my eyelids. I try to reach out with my thoughts to sense him, but he sends my mind scattering. Logic and words peel off of me.

“Come with me.” Valentin swallows loudly. “If that—that
thing
 … is the American scrubber … Well, he makes Rostov look weak.” Valentin’s face is pale under a veil of sweat. “And Yulia?”

“You saw something,” I whisper.

Valentin drags me off the dance floor, shoving through the drunken crowd. “He’s not here just to work on Natalya’s friend.” He pulls me into a stairwell and licked his chapped lips. “He’s searching for
you
.”

CHAPTER 23

PAVEL, MY GUARD
, hovers over me. Watching him is like hearing an echo; his face trails behind his movements, and his words dot his face like breath in the winter air. The American sunshine man radiates somewhere over my shoulder; my bared back is already peeling with a burn.

“Get her out of here.” Pavel’s voice dances before me. “Don’t let her back into the main room. I’ll alert the others.”

Someone’s hand closes tight on my arm and faces swirl before me like little galaxies, exploding into balls of nothingness and radiation. “Too much Shampanskoye,” another guard says from the end of a comet’s tail. We’re orbiting the party like a
Sputnik
satellite, snapping little spy photographs.

“Please, Yulia, you have to shake it off.” Valentin helps me sit on the stone steps; we’re facing a massive painting of Tchaikovsky, surrounded by Karl Marx, Stalin, Lenin, and a sea of faceless farmers harvesting wheat as rays of sunshine and music soar overhead. They fly through the cosmos with me, shrouded by a planet’s umbra, safe from the scrubber’s glow. “Focus on your mental shield—try to keep it in your head—”

“What’s going on?” Footsteps pound down the staircase toward us. I flop backward against the sharp stairs and see Sergei from upside down. Shostakovich cinches around my thoughts.

“The scrubber’s here with one of Gruzova’s co-workers.” Valentin’s voice turns stony. “I think he hurt Yulia.”

“I’m
fine
,” I say.

Sergei pushes his hand under my shoulder blades and props me back up. “Scrubbers are dangerous. She should steer clear of them. All of them.” There’s an edge to his voice, cutting through the haze.

Valentin’s cheeks burn darkly. “I would never do that to her.”

“But you could. Maybe you did it by accident.” Sergei crouches down on my other side and snaps his fingers in front of me. “Yulia? Null, one, two. Follow the sound of my voice.”

There is no galaxy, no blinding sun. My head throbs and the marble is too firm against my hipbones, and I’m sinking back down to earth. I smack Sergei’s hand out of my face. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy, is all.” I nestle into Shostakovich’s sawing strings section. “I didn’t even get a good look at the guy.”

“As well you didn’t. If he was targeting you…” Valentin grimaces.

“Don’t scare her.” Sergei won’t take his hand off my shoulder. It weighs on me like lead. “Bad enough she had to dance with you, flatfoot.”

Valentin sets his lips in a straight line. “I’d better get back. I want to help our guards hunt him down.”

“I’m not some weak thing you have to protect.” I rub my temples. Now that my adrenaline has faded, there’s a sharp pain rooting around in my skull. It treads a familiar path through constricted blood vessels, though I can’t recall ever feeling this pain before.