Sekret (5 page)

The melody rises in my mind, and Yevtushenko’s words guide it along.
No monument stands over Babi Yar. A steep cliff only, like the crudest of headstones.
My gaze drifts down the cliffs to the Moskva River below us.

“Interesting choice,” Kruzenko says.

I lurch forward, startled by her voice, and the melody falters, slipping through my thoughts as if it’s turned to sand. I try to catch it, but the farther away it goes, the more thoughts pop up in my head. Everything I wouldn’t want Kruzenko—or anyone—to know. How long until my next period. Where Mama hid our rubles. The more I reach for the melody, the more absurd my thoughts turn. Sergei’s luscious muscles. Cleaning up after Zhenya when he’s been too lost in his own world to visit the toilet. Valentin skewering me like a reindeer kabob with that gaze of his. How I’m already memorizing the patrol routes of all our guards. The time I walked in on Cousin Denis kissing his best friend Timofei—

“I am not judging you for your thoughts,” Kruzenko says. “Empty your mind, and let only the music in.”

The horns sound in the distance, mournful; the drums hint at soldiers on the march. A banal thought trickles through the trees—hunger. Yes, the buckwheat porridge at the KGB holding cell was not enough to last me through the day. But Yevtushenko’s voice booms over the stray thought, bouncing off the shadowy snow. When will we be eating? As the violins slide in to have their say, I suspect I will be stuck here for far too long. No, I must focus: the sawing cello matches my pounding heart, until there is nothing more.

“And just like that, I cannot hear your thoughts.” Kruzenko smirks. “Well—you are no longer broadcasting them to the whole world, at least. You must keep practicing. Any time you feel it falter, call up the melody again.”

I open my mouth to speak, but the music stutters. Two tries, three—around the seventh try I think I can manage it. “I—I think I understand.”

She nods. “Eventually, it will be as natural as breathing.”

I take a deep breath and gust it out. Shostakovich’s melody plays at the back of my mind, but I can fit other thoughts in my head now, too; they don’t have to drown him out. It’s a comfort to have him there, like an extra blanket in winter.

Major Kruzenko reaches into her pocket. “Now let us tame your gift—enough for you to participate in today’s class.”

Mama’s necklace spins before me. My heart lurches, but I smother it in my new music. I can’t panic.

“Admittedly, you are the first I have encountered whose powers work primarily through touch. But I understand some of it. Memories and thoughts can cling to objects like a film, and the psychic—you—must sift through the layers to find the correct memory.”

I reach for the medallion, but she pulls it out of my reach. “Gently, child. Try the lightest brush of skin, so only the most recent memory flakes away.”

I extend my index finger until it barely bumps against the medallion. Kruzenko nods at me, and I close my eyes.

Thrashing—water rushing up my nose. I suck in air but darkness floods my lungs instead. Images drift past me like bubbles: Kruzenko holding the necklace out to me in the interrogation room; Kruzenko in an office, one I’ve never seen, discussing the pendant with a uniformed man. I can’t see his face, but there’s that buzzing sound again, overwriting her gypsy song.

“Deeper now.” A bubble with Kruzenko’s voice inside punctures as it hits me. “Deeper, into the past.” I swim on.

Mama, slumped in a chair, blood trailing down her nose. I thrash again and surface in the sight. She does not look afraid—she does not
feel
afraid, a fact I am certain of, though I can’t explain how. Zhenya sits beside her, making a high-pitched whine that I might have mistaken for a fan belt had I not heard him make this noise before. I don’t need my “power” to know this sound for the very essence of his fear.

“Give her this,” Mama says, and tears the necklace free. She is not bound to the chair—not in any way that I can see. “She won’t listen to you. She’ll have to hear that I’m alive—see it—through me.”

“I hope she listens, then, for your sake,” a man’s voice says, but when I try to look at him, I fall through a white fog. No more memories lie beyond it. The balcony reforms around me, blurry with the vision’s residue.

“A respectable first attempt,” Kruzenko says. I surface back into reality, but Mama’s expression, her blood clings to my skin. My music is gone. Shostakovich, I need Shostakovich, I don’t want Kruzenko in my head. I pull the melody around me like a towel, and scrub away the thoughts of Mama, of her tired acceptance.

Surely she has not already given up. Surely she is only waiting for the right opportunity to fight.

Kruzenko pockets the medallion before I can reach for it again, and ushers me through the doors. I keep a safe distance from her as she leads me toward class. I think Shostakovich is working, but I don’t want to take any chances.

I didn’t recognize where they’re keeping Mama, so finding that out will be my next goal. It’s good that she’s with Zhenya—good that he isn’t locked up alone. But why was she so resigned? As if she—wanted it this way.

No. Focus. If Kruzenko can reach through my musical shield with some effort, then eventually, I can reach through hers and learn where Mama’s being kept. I’ve already got a lead.

Because whenever Kruzenko carries that buzzing noise, her music shield stops.

CHAPTER 7

OUR “CLASSROOM” IS
an old sitting room on the second floor of the mansion. The others huddle around a marble fireplace that spits smoke into the room, while the pet spiders lurk in the back—I count three, though they tend to blur into the shadowed alcoves. Sergei, the twins, and Valentin are there, listening to a massire old wooden radio, as well as a girl and boy I haven’t met, probably a few years younger than me, who sit practically on top of each other on the groaning floor. “Ivan and Larissa,” Sergei says to me, tilting his head toward them.

Vladimir Vysotsky’s melodramatic folk song ends, and the Soviet national anthem blares through the radio. “… morning news. Our most esteemed Comrade Yuri Gagarin, the first man ever in space, may soon beat the Americans to yet another space exploration milestone—”

“I see you all have been hard at work.” Major Kruzenko smiles as she clicks the radio off. “If we can complete our current exercise today, the colonel has some exciting news for you.”

Sergei slumps back, propped on his palms; only Misha and Masha look remotely enthused. Masha’s hand jets into the air. “Comrade Major? I’d be honored to conduct today’s exercise.”

“In a moment. We must get Yulia Andreevna properly acclimated.” Kruzenko scans us with shrewd falcon eyes, and I suspect this is how a mouse must feel as it scampers through open grass. “Though every psychic can be trained to read the unguarded thoughts of people around them, we each have our different strengths.” Her gaze settles on me before she addresses the others. “Yulia’s power works best when in contact with the person of her focus, or an object through which she can ‘see’ events.”

“Something like that.” I look away to the far side of the room. There are no windows in this part of the house; nothing to distract me. No paintings on the walls, and the floral wallpaper has faded to a mushy salmon hue.

“Larissa is best at seeing what may come to be. Predicting future events, weighing possible outcomes.” She looks at Larissa, who reddens under a tangle of dingy blond hair.

“Maria and Sergei are what the American CIA calls ‘remote viewers.’” She nods to the girl twin—Masha, or Maria—who sits up straighter. “Have you ever known a street so well that you can close your eyes and see it as vividly as if you were standing there? They can actually see such places—watch what is happening like it’s a television show.”

I have known such a street. An oak-shaded path beside our old home outside of Moscow, where Zhenya and I strolled every afternoon, even in blizzards and baking heat. In winter, we could hear deer crunching through the icy top layer of snow, just out of sight, and Zhenya would count their footsteps to guess how many there were.

I wonder if I will ever walk this path, or any other, with Zhenya again.

Kruzenko strides past me, low heels slapping on the wood, and ruffles the hair of the rat-faced blond boy, Ivan, beside Larissa. “Ivan and Misha are strongest at hearing others’ thoughts and getting them to focus on thinking about the information we want so we can pry it from their heads.”

I look at Valentin. A black curl obscures his forehead, and his knees bounce up and down with restless rhythm. “What about you?” I ask him.

Major Kruzenko smiles in a way that twists into my gut. “Valentin … he is best at changing the very stream of someone’s thoughts—altering their memories, or creating a new reality around them.”

I draw my knees up under my chin. Valentin keeps fidgeting like he doesn’t hear us, but I hear him: a frantic saxophone bouncing up and down a scale and drums goading it along. I must be extra careful around Valentin. I pull Shostakovich tight around me like a shroud.

“So!” Kruzenko clasps her hands together. “We are a well-rounded team. Just as in hockey, we cannot all play the same position—we need goalies, defenders, scorers. We must practice as a team and learn to trust one another’s movements. If Sergei has the puck to pass, then he has to trust that Mikhail will be there to pick it up. Are we understood?”

Subdued heads bob all around me. I nod, eager to get her gaze off of me.

“Excellent. Sergei, Maria, let us proceed with the training exercise.”

Masha bounces to her feet; Sergei stands slower, looking at me as if in apology, like this is his crazy family and I’m just his guest. Major Kruzenko shepherds them into two nicked wooden chairs. Masha’s glossy hair moves as one solid curtain along her shoulders as she perches on the chair. She looks like a porcelain doll, too pretty to play with, that must sit on the shelf and stare out with superior eyes. Her knees press perfectly together and she smoothes the hem of her skirt. Sergei slumps beside her, knees wide, arms crossed; his blond hair scatters across his brow.

“In this exercise, we are hunting an escaped spy who has stolen important documents from the Ministry of Finance. In today’s session, we have tracked him to the Ukraina Hotel. We must recover the documents and find him before he meets with a British agent.” Kruzenko’s lips curl into a thin smile. “And with our remote viewers, we can find him without even leaving the mansion. Children, place yourselves on the street. You should have it memorized from out last field trip.”

“Should,” Sergei says, with his naughty-boy smirk. Kruzenko raps him on the hand; there’s something familiar and playful in the way she does it, as though this is a well-trod routine between them. “Yeah, yeah, I remember it. Big boulevard, trees, one of the Seven Sisters towers.”

Kruzenko strides to the desk at the far end of the room and snatches the telephone. “Begin,” she says. The Russian word is harsh, three-syllabled; it sounds like sandpaper rubbing back and forth.

Sergei takes a deep breath, like he’s going to plunge underwater, and screws his eyes shut. Kruzenko paces behind them. Masha is deep in thought, eyes closed, her head slumping toward her chest. Drool glimmers on her lower lip.

“Latch on to the details you remember. Let them guide you to the places you haven’t been.”

“Marble floors,” Masha cries sharply. Her slim figure contorts as if she’s possessed. “I’ve stepped through the doorway. I can see the chandelier—”

“There’s no chandelier,” Sergei says. “Just a mural on the ceiling.”

“No—I’m already way past that, inside the restaurant. There’s a chandelier there.”

“Whatever you say.” Sergei sighs.

Masha wrinkles her nose in his direction. “Stop distracting me. There’s a table by the window…”

Valentin’s fidgeting brings his knee to rest against mine. I start to pull away—but his frantic jazz music ebbs and two words slip off of him onto me, like a drop of sweat.

Let’s talk
.

Our eyes meet. His are a burned shade of brown, smoldering like the last winter log. I’m thankful he wears glasses because I feel like I need shielding from his intense stare. I drop my gaze and slowly peel the thrumming bass of Shostakovich away from my thoughts.
What do you want to talk about?
We aren’t making physical contact now, but if he’s capable of what Kruzenko claims …

I know you’re scared—hurting, perhaps. You have good reason for it. I can’t blame you for wanting to run.

Great. Does everyone know about my plan? I bury my head between my knees. Major Kruzenko is still talking through the restaurant’s description with Sergei and Masha. “The drapes!” Masha cries. Her hand clamps onto Sergei’s. “They’re
blue
!” Like she wants to impress Kruzenko so badly it’s hurting her.

Yeah
, I hear Valentin say,
she likes this too much.

Anger percolates in my mind like the onset of timpani drums.
I wasn’t thinking that
at
you
.

His head hangs; he looks like a beaten dog. Outwardly, I roll my eyes, but I do feel bad. The feeling only lasts until I remember what he can do.
You were saying?

Please don’t try to run just yet. You aren’t ready. I promise, I’ll help you find a way, but you’re not strong enough yet to keep them from catching you
—

I dare to let the light of optimism flicker through my thoughts.
What do you mean, you’ll help? Do you know a way out of here?

There’s a lot you need to know, but we can’t discuss it right now.
The low bass line creeps up on his words.
We’ll talk later.

“Yulia?”

I jerk my attention back to the front of the room. Major Kruzenko watches me with one eyebrow curved. “I asked you to come up here.”

“No, thank you,” I say, pulling the strains of Shostakovich back around me. I am present and accounted for—isn’t that cooperation enough?

Misha snickers; Ivan and Larissa lean apart from each other enough that they can stare at me. Kruzenko folds her hands behind her back. “You will join us now, Yulia Andreevna.”