Sekret (27 page)

“So they knew what I was when I was nine. But…”

I stop myself, that thought chewing at me like acid. But I didn’t start experiencing my powers until I was about twelve. No. There’s something else missing, something Kruzenko isn’t telling me.

“What happened to the program, then?” I ask. “You make it sound like Stalin recruited dozens.”

“Just over a hundred, actually. But the Great Patriotic War was a very messy thing, you see. Only a few dozen survived. And of those—some could not cope with various aspects of their condition. Some took their own lives, others lost their hold on reality. Some, like your parents, could not cope with the requirements of the program itself, and had to be…” She shrugs. “Dealt with accordingly.”

“Is that why my parents went into hiding?” I ask. “You were threatening them to come back?”

“Rostov approached them about it, yes. The program is so small now, and yet the threat we face from the Americans is so great. We are continuing to search for wildlings, naturally, but we were shrinking every year. Now that your mother has returned to us, however, she has restarted her research.”

“You’re monsters. All of you.” I am shaking; it’s the only outlet for all this emotion humming inside me.

She smiles at me, unfazed. “And always we need new test subjects, too. We encourage the fraternization, by the way—that is why Larissa and Ivan were never a problem to me.” She arches one brow. “I suspect you have a fondness for Valentin. He would not be my choice for you, personally, but if it will produce results—”

I can’t disconnect anymore. The dam bursts; my rage is drowning me.

“You crazy bitch. You monster—treating us like your laboratory rats.” My heart hammers frantically in my chest. I stand up and lunge over the desk, hands reaching for her throat. “I swear, I will kill you before I let you use me like some show pony to be bred—”

A heated blade twists into my skull, jarring my thoughts, splitting them apart and sending me to my knees. She stands over me with a laser-guided glower.

“I think you forget too easily, Yulia Andreevna, that this is not a summer camp. A fancy academy. You are the property of the Soviet Union, and when I tell you these things, when I permit you to see your family, it is a
privilege
and not a right.” Her weepy-gypsy song scrapes me raw like a dull razor. “Remember your place. Who you are speaking to. Remember your purpose.” She laughs, more to herself than me. “Because there are far worse things you could endure.”

*   *   *

We are not permitted to access the third-floor observation deck, mostly because it is too dilapidated and dangerous, but tonight is New Year’s Eve and I don’t want to drink champagne and vodka downstairs with the rest. Valentin and the twins are on a mission for Rostov at one of the Party celebrations; Larissa is still in mourning; and I can’t bear the blear of disappointment in Sergei’s eyes because I don’t long for the same Russian life as him. I would rather fall through the ceiling or freeze to death than endure all of that.

The air out on the observation deck is prickly on my cheeks; heavy winter clouds in the night sky are green and black like a bruise, bloated with the reflection of city lights. The Moskva is solid ice below the cliffs, and weeks-old snow crowns the buildings in the distance, mottled and dirty. Filth and squalor. I tuck my knees under my chin and the centuries-old plaster under me creaks.

Nineteen sixty-four is dawning. We are throwing men and metal at the stars and placing nuclear missiles around the globe. Soon, we’ll head to Berlin to witness the launch of the
Veter 1
, on its way to circle the moon, while we try to stop the American spies from stealing its secrets for themselves. And I will attempt one last time to run—toward what, I’ll have to see.

I should be welcoming the new year, but looking out at Moscow feels like a goodbye. I want to never again look at the skyline and see Stalin and Lenin looking back, standing atop the backs of the workers who made them gods.

Fireworks erupt over the Kremlin, illuminating its star-crowned towers with red and gold. In Novodevichy Monastery to my left, a solemn bell clangs. But the rest of the city, the city of workers and laborers, stays silent. For them, tomorrow is just another day.

Yulias of the world, unite. It’s time to set you free.

CHAPTER 35

LARISSA GROANS FROM UNDER
her hibernation nest of blankets on the cot. “Yeah, I’ve been to the vault. What about it?”

“Valya needs your help with something,” I say.

She unravels her nest enough to stare at me for a few moments, blue eyes searching. Then she burrows back down. “It won’t work.”

I grit my teeth. “Is that just your guess, or a vision you had?”

“It’s me trying to be left alone.”

“Lara! This is serious.” I swat at her thick swaddling. “What was it you told me? No point in looking at the past, might as well move forward? You’ve been looking in the past for weeks now.”

The blankets quiver as she groans. “Next time I feel like giving you sage advice, I’ll look ahead to see if you’re going to use it against me.”

“Just think about it,” I tell her. “You know where I’ll be.”

*   *   *

Valentin’s new jazz record trickles down the path to the vault—Miles Davis, the album sleeve says. The music is slow, but creeping, like at any moment it might jump out at you. It’s a good sort of uncomfortable. I want to stay on edge.

“No Larissa?” Valentin asks. “It would’ve been nice to have her help. But I suppose it’s one less person who could slip up.”

“I’m not sure I can keep the secret myself.” I settle next to him on the floor. Heat blooms across my arms so close to his, but I try to ignore it. There’ll be plenty of time to run my fingers along his skin when we’re free. Plenty of time to taste and hear my Valentin with no one to tell us what to do or to turn us against each other, against our fellow Russians for daring to aspire toward more …

“Valya, I need to ask you something.” I trace a circle on the top of his hand. “A favor for me, once we’re free.”

He tilts his head to one side. “Of course. Anything.”

“I think there are gaps in my memory.” I wince and pull my hand back from him. Without meaning to, the crackly sounds of his scrubber ability is humming along his skin. “I don’t know if it’s something Rostov has done to me, or…”

Valya’s eyes tighten behind his glasses. “You want me to try to restore whatever you’re missing.” He draws his shoulders inward, curling into the rising jazz melody. “Yul, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I wouldn’t feel right tinkering with your brain—I mean, what if I did something wrong? I’d never forgive myself—”

“Please.” I close my eyes. “I want to understand who I really am.”

Again that deluge of emotion is threatening to drag me under, and I have to disconnect. There has to be some kind of release valve for all these feelings. Some way for me to get rid of it. I thought I’d done it, once. I don’t want to drown in it like Anastasia did.

“You won’t be able to change it, even if I can restore your memories,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s worth the risk…”

Wood clatters at the other end of the vault hallway—someone moving back the panel to enter. I sit up straight, and Valya reaches for the volume knob on his record player.

Larissa slips in, hair tangled around her shoulders, still in her pajamas. I relax; Valya leans back from the record player. “Feel better now that you’re up and moving?” I ask.

She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Turns out you lunatics are going to need my help after all.” She sits down across from us, but her gaze is all over, drinking in the musty vault like it’s a fresh spring day. “Yul, you were right, by the way. It’s best to keep looking ahead.”

Valentin looks at me with a smirk. “Funny, I was just telling Yulia the same thing.” He swaps to a nice loud Mussorgsky record,
Night on Bald Mountain
. “All right, Larissa. It’s good to have you on our side.”

The strings swirl around like wind whipping against a mountain’s face; low horns announce a demon’s arrival. Papa told me stories of Chernobog, the black god of ancient Russia who lived within the mountainside. Old gods like that were made to crush such men as Rostov and Comrade Secretary Khruschev. We could certainly use that power on our side.

“So. Have any of us ever been to East Germany?” Valya asks. Larissa and I shake our heads. “Me, neither. So we’ll have to improvise.”

He opens a yellowed, smelly book I recognize from the house library:
Capitalist Aggression in Post-War Germany
. It’s old, probably from right after the Patriotic War, but there is a map of Berlin, complete with a demarcation line where now a concrete wall exists.

“We saw the maps of the actual launch site,” he says, “but unfortunately, it’s located about twenty kilometers from the wall, on a heavily guarded military installation. So I think our best chance will be when we are in Berlin proper.” He circles a point on the map. “Most of the Party officials attending the launch will be staying at the Hotel Kepler, only a kilometer from the eastern side of the wall.”

A new melody slinks around in my head, weaving between the demonic dances of Bald Mountain. I have heard it before, but I can’t place the tune; it presses against the side of my skull.

“Rostov will put us there as well. He’ll want us keeping tabs on the
nomenklatura
. If so, the CIA team is sure to be close by.”

Larissa rubs her arms, like she’s staving off a chill. “I really don’t trust him, Yul. I know he didn’t hurt you at Gorky Park, but you’ve seen what he can do to…” She trails off. “Others.”

A way out.
The words rise up from the noise inside my head. I can’t explain the certainty I feel about our plans or even its source, but I know it’s there. “This is different. I’m sure of it.”

Larissa chews her lip without any emotion showing on her face, which makes me nervous. I wonder if she’s seeing something now, if her tree of possibilities is charting out all the factors. But she doesn’t say anything either way.

I gesture to the map. “Look—this checkpoint near the hotel might be our best chance. I don’t know if the American soldiers working it are trained to repel psychic attacks, but I’m pretty sure our enlisted men aren’t.”

“It’s promising, at least,” Valya agrees. “You’ll have to learn the guards’ routes and look for paths that they may not know about. Feel out the scenery for us. And Lara, we’ll need your help to choose wisely along the way.”

“You’ll be acting as our smoke screen for anyone who tries to stop us?” Larissa asks.

Valya winces. “I’ll do my best, yes. I don’t know, though, if I’m strong enough to stop Rostov. My biggest fear is if he brings the Hound…”

I look at him sideways. “That thing Rostov sent after you when you tried to escape?”

Valentin nods as the frantic devil’s dance of string and cymbals crashes around us. “That was him. Another sick experiment of Rostov’s. The poor creature’s deaf, blind, mute. He gets around entirely on psychic ability—and more often than not, Rostov’s explicit orders. Like a big, monstrous puppet.”

I frown. “But what’s the purpose? He’s just exceptionally strong?”

Larissa shakes her head. “He’s a tracker, for starters. You know how we can only use our powers at short distances? Not him. He can follow any psychic’s signature across any distance.”

“Then why hasn’t Rostov brought him out before?” I ask.

“Because he also acts like an amplifier for any psychics around him. The time I encountered him, I nearly scrubbed myself.” Valentin sighs. “Rostov wants us just powerful enough to be useful, but not powerful enough that we can overwhelm him.”

Larissa snorts. “And he has to be careful about using him in crowded areas. There are some strange things that even Russians won’t ignore.”

“Rostov would rather use the Hound to track us than protect us. Ever had a belonging go missing from the house? That’s Rostov, training the Hound on our psychic ‘scent,’ so to speak,” Valya says.

The music reaches its peak. Dawn creeps around Bald Mountain as the church bells chime, too quiet now to cover up our conversation. Valya searches through his stack of records for the next concealing track.

Someone steps into the ring of candlelight behind Larissa, blocking out a row of candles.

“What is this?” Sergei asks, looming over us like Chernobog. “The Secret Psychic Record Club?”

“Something like that,” Valya mutters. “Care to join us for some Johnny Cash?”

“Cash? Sounds like a money-grubbing capitalist swine.” He smiles as if to show he’s making a joke, but there’s no humor in his darkened eyes. Valentin shoves his glasses up on his nose and keeps his head bowed, not answering him.

“Did you need something, Sergei?” Larissa asks. Her fingers tap against the floor, each strike sending a little shockwave of nervous psychic energy my way.

Sergei crosses his arms, still towering. “I was looking for Yulia. I, uh … wanted to show her something.”

“I’m right here,” I say, remaining seated. If he has something to say to me, he can do it here; I’m anxious to get back to our plans.

Sergei takes a step backward. His thoughts are ironclad with Tchaikovsky, but his eyes dart to Valya, and the space—the very minimal space—between our shoulders. “It can wait.”

Sergei stalks out of the vault. I let out my breath, not realizing I’d been holding it; Larissa flops onto her elbows with a sigh. Finally, she is frowning. Not exactly the emotion I’d hoped she’d show.

“Only one thing is clear to me right now,” she says. “Sergei is going to be a problem for our plans.”

CHAPTER 36

BYELORUSSKY TRAIN TERMINAL
is a castle in mint green, from the last days of the tsars when everything was slathered in pastel shades and tipped in gold. But the crowd flowing through the doors would disappoint those bustled and corseted dukes and countesses (if they weren’t too busy throwing themselves in front of trains, like Tolstoy heroines). The glass and steel vestibule is massive, cathedral-like. Kruzenko and our flock of KaGeBeznik protectors guide us to a middle platform, where a substantial black iron train waits.