Dragonfly Girl

by Marti Leimbach

  The camera zooms in on the carrier. I bet that’s Cornelius and his brothers in there. Perhaps in the chaos of Will’s announcement about my “defection,” April made sure to “lose” the laboratory notes about Cornelius.

  Now comes footage from school. I see Greevy, sitting at his office desk, saying he is surprised and sorrowed by the news. But he doesn’t look sorrowed. He looks harassed. I see kids who barely know me saying I am a loner, a geek, a loser, a “total brain.” There’s Mike, acting like he’s freaked out because he’s been in school with a traitor to the country. Someone else says it’s gross that I touch dead people. One girl a few grades down from me says she’s glad I can bring back the dead. “Doesn’t this help people?” she asks reasonably.

  She’s sharp. You can tell. I bet she’s good at science.

  The interviews continue. They find signs of treason and conspiracy in everything about me. Someone tracks down Lauren, way out in the hills of California at her internship. She’s very clear on the subject (me). She stands with her hip angled toward the camera, staring over her sunglasses at the reporter with contempt. “Do I have a comment?” she says. “Yeah, like, have you heard of trial by media?”

  You have to hand it to her.

  Most painful is watching my mother barricading herself behind the closed door of our house, trying to shoo away the reporters. I tense up, rising out of the bed until the restraint at my wrist pulls me back, watching her as she asks them politely to leave her be. My mother looks exhausted. She looks ill. Then she’s gone.

  I want to stick my head under the pillow, blocking out any more of this, but on comes a new clip and I can’t turn away. It’s Rik.

  He seems nervous and self-aware; I’ve never seen him like that. He’s always so confident. When we walked through Stockholm, or danced on the ship, or held each other’s gaze across the chilly water in the stone pool, I’d been the nervous one. Not him. But right now, he looks as though he hasn’t slept in days.

  “What are your thoughts on Kira Adams?” they ask him.

  He shakes his head, his eyes down, as though they are talking about a dead person. “No comment,” he says.

  “Were you personal friends with Miss Adams?”

  “Not really,” he states.

  Not really?

  I want to reach through the television and tell him that none of this is my fault. How can he possibly believe what Will is saying about me? He knows I’d never betray Mellin.

  But maybe he doesn’t know that. And I remember, too, how he helped me prepare my statement for the SFOF committee. That was kind of him, but he was under instructions from Munn. Maybe he’s still under instructions from Munn. Say nothing. Deny knowledge. Pretend you hardly know her.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. His allegiance to Munn is steadfast.

  But nothing explains Will. He looked after me on the train. He soothed me when I had nightmares, made me laugh as we waited out the long hours. He promised we’d stick together. I can’t imagine what would have made him turn against me.

  It hurts more than it ought to.

  “What did you tell Will to convince him to go out there and lie?” I say fiercely.

  Vasiliev is nonplussed. “What lie?” he says.

  “Did you threaten to kill him? Because he certainly knows I didn’t come here by choice to hand you information belonging to the US government.”

  He shrugs. “Are you not here in Moscow now, surrounded by Russian scientists?”

  “You forced me!” I say.

  He makes a face, then snorts. “You don’t know force,” he says slowly.

  Oh, but I do.

  Another clip, this one of the chairman of the Science for Our Future committee, Dr. Biruk. His bald head shines darkly under the television lights as he describes how I misled the SFOF judges about having a PhD. He comes across as being very sorry to have to say this, very sorry indeed. His statement is made worse by how likable he is.

  “Turn it off,” I say. But Vasiliev doesn’t move.

  “I’d have thought a clever girl like you would have more friends,” he says.

  I look away. I can’t let Vasiliev see how much all this affects me, how it destroys me. I stare at the grubby wall beside me and try my damnedest not to cry.

  But then I hear a voice. I turn back to the television and see Mellin’s grand glass front once again on the screen. There’s someone standing at the entrance, positioned exactly where Munn had been in the other clip. But this time it’s not Munn. It’s Dmitry.

  His khakis are cinched up properly with a belt so they don’t sag around his hips. His hair is more tidy than usual, his face clean-shaven. He’s not only wearing a dress shirt, he’s even wearing a tie. He takes a few steps, then stands still, a page of notes in his hand as he faces reporters.

  “I’d like to make a statement,” he says.

  He pushes his glasses up on his nose, then squares his shoulders. He looks poised, but I can see the almost imperceptible shaking of his hand as he begins to read. “I had the pleasure of working with Kira Adams for many months. She is an honest and compassionate individual. She wished always to serve those around her, to work hard and learn as much as she can for the good of science, and the good of this country—”

  I feel the emotion swell in my throat.

  Vasiliev snorts. “Only one colleague defends you, and he is Russian,” he says sourly.

  Meanwhile, Dmitry continues on screen. “If she is now in Russia, then she was taken against her will. The criminal you seek is not Kira Adams, but whatever brutish group the Russian government is allowing to act. The Russian government tolerates almost any form of criminal activity in order to bait the United States and has been punishing scientists or killing them outright since before the time of Stalin—”

  Vasiliev swears, then reaches down and yanks the cord of the television from the wall. The room falls silent. If I didn’t have the restraint on me I swear I’d wrestle Vasiliev for that cord, because I desperately want to hear the rest of what Dmitry says.

  Or maybe just his voice. I wish I could tell him what it means to me to know that he believes in me.

  The boy with the dark hair knocks at the door, then enters the room carrying a shopping bag.

  “Your clothes,” says Vasiliev. “Get dressed and we will talk.”

  “I can’t put them on if you don’t unshackle me,” I say.

  “Shackles,” he says, making a tut-tut sound as he unfastens my wrist. “Such babies, you Americans.”

  He pats the pocket on his lab coat and comes up with an envelope, which he drops onto the bed. “From Volkov,” he says, and disappears out of the room so I can dress.

  I look at the envelope. It has already been opened, undoubtedly by Vasiliev, who doesn’t concern himself with matters of privacy or decency. Inside is a card with a picture of the Moscow skyline in a rainbow of watercolors. The message is in Volkov’s own hand. It reads:

  Dearest Kira,

  When the world turns against you please remember Uncle Misha. My house you visited is on Krivoarbatsky Lane. All the taxi drivers know it. Come directly from Vasiliev. It will be far better for you that way.

  Mikhail

  And there it is, not a clue, but an answer.

  I see that I’ve walked straight into his trap. And the realization of what has happened stops my breath.

  Volkov had asked me what prevented me from staying in Moscow. It is only right that you tell me . . . he’d said.

  My answer was that I wanted to return to my country because I love my country. He couldn’t argue with such sentiment. So he did what he could do: turn the country against me. I can love America all I want, but from what I see on the news, it doesn’t love me. If I show up at the embassy now, I’ll be placed under arrest for divulging government secrets. Even if I’m not ultimately convicted of a crime, nobody will ever trust me again in America. There will be no job at Mellin. No job at any laboratory. This is why Vasiliev said that soon I would not wa
nt to go home. Home means jail or blacklisting.

  No doubt this is what Vasiliev’s “talk” will be about.

  Well, to hell with that.

  I grab the shopping bag, pull out the dress, and hold it up. The dragonflies have seen better days, that’s for sure. But the dress is still beautiful. I take the shoes from the bag and am shocked to discover at the bottom, wrapped in tissue, the pink watch that Lauren gave me. I handle it carefully, as though it’s a live thing, admiring all over again the beautiful watch face that catches the light. I hadn’t wanted to accept it because it was too expensive. Now I see the price tag is irrelevant. Its value comes from something else entirely.

  By the time Vasiliev returns I’m dressed. A formal gown is the silliest thing to wear under such circumstances, but Vasiliev can see me in a werewolf costume for all I care. I hold my wrist up to show him the watch and say, “Volkov made you give this back to me, didn’t he? I’m surprised one of your henchmen hadn’t already sold it.”

  His pale face registers no emotion. He takes a chair from the corner, scraping it across the floor, then drops heavily onto the seat.

  “Volkov’s laboratories are the best in the world,” he says. He leans back in his chair, his lashless eyelids drooping as though the effort of keeping me prisoner has exhausted him. “There are other young people.”

  “Why on earth would I work for you?”

  “We work for Volkov. Perhaps you have learned it is better not to cross him.”

  “You mean, if I’d agreed to stay in the first place he wouldn’t have turned my country against me?”

  “Your country,” he sneers. “You know Twitter?” he says, pronouncing it tweeter. He gets out his phone, showing me the little blue bird along with a list of trending hash tags, including #KiraAdams, #Traitorscientist, and #securitythreat.

  There is talk of criminal charges, long sentences in federal prison, the importance of making me an example. Apparently, I’m not too young to be executed for treason.

  How can the #military do its job with #nationaltraitors like #KiraAdams running free? #lockherup #executespies

  As for post-death recovery itself, some think it sounds great. You see #Liveforever and #CheatDeath in their tweets. But many find it creepy. I’m called an offense to God, a sick child, a quack, and a criminal. Always, it comes back to that.

  “How much of this nonsense did you generate with your own troll factories?” I say, pulling on my shoes. My head is still hammering and my balance feels wrong.

  “You work for Volkov or you are arrested. Not by the Russians, but by the Americans. Your CIA. Already, they are looking for you. We can help them find you faster, of course.”

  “Nobody ever got in trouble for telling the truth,” I say, sounding braver than I feel.

  He looks at me like I’m really very stupid, then says, “You will go to Volkov. He will give you the protection you need. United States will not be able to harm you.”

  I’m wondering how much more he knows that he isn’t telling me. He’s impossible to read, appearing either angry or depressed. Perhaps he’s failed with me in some way I don’t understand. Or perhaps he just doesn’t care. He works for a tyrant who uses scientists like slaves. He’s a tyrant himself.

  He plucks Volkov’s note from my hand, puts it in the pocket of his lab coat, and says, “Volkov is expecting you. You will go directly from this location to his house—”

  “No!” I interrupt.

  But he carries on, indifferently. “I suggest you show gratitude. Not to me. I don’t care. But to Volkov. He is very powerful, very . . .” He taps his temple with a forefinger. “But you probably think you are clever enough to fool everyone. I assure you this is not the case.”

  He heaves himself from the chair, as though he’s been working too many hours. “We will leave shortly.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He looks at me for a long minute, then says, “What is the message you wish to communicate to Volkov?”

  I have plenty of messages I’d like to relay to Volkov, none of them flattering. But I recall something Volkov himself said to me, as we sat in the palace of his house. He said, Little girls grow up. They leave their homes and make their way in new places.

  “Tell him the little girl has grown up,” I say.

  Vasiliev takes that in. “You wish to sound brave,” he scoffs, as though this amuses him and disgusts him in equal measure.

  He shakes his head, then leaves the room.

  I watch him leave, expecting the door to lock behind him. But the door remains open. I stare into the empty threshold, waiting for the men to arrive, Vasiliev’s little posse of armed guards. But none come. No guns or threats or that awful constant feeling of being watched. I look around and realize there isn’t even a camera on me. At least, none that I can see.

  It seems that without any great announcement, I’ve just been released. I remove my shoes again and step soundlessly into the hall. It feels so odd to be able to do this, to walk out of a room on my own, to move freely once again.

  But now I see the dark-haired boy who had been in the room earlier. He’s coming toward me, holding a box of supplies. He freezes when he sees me. I begin to run, but I hear him call out, “Don’t go yet! They can still find you!”

  It isn’t just that he speaks great English, but that his accent is exactly like that of so many people who live near me, literally in my neighborhood. It stops me in my tracks.

  I turn to face him. He’s smaller than I am. He may even be younger. “Where are you from?” I ask.

  He looks down, saying nothing.

  “You’re American?”

  After a moment he says, “Mexican. But I lived in America.”

  “Why are you here?” I say.

  No answer. He stares at the floor, unmoving. I walk toward him. He’s wearing a white lab coat, just like the one Vasiliev wears, and his hands are pushed deep in his pockets. When I get nearer I see that in one of them he is clasping a deck of playing cards, thumbing through them like they are worry beads.

  Munn found him living on the streets selling card tricks for a dollar.

  “Arturo?” I whisper. “Is that you?”

  He raises his head and meets my gaze. He has huge brown eyes, a young boyish face. “Tracker,” he says, and points at my leg.

  “Where?” I say.

  He licks his lips, glancing over his shoulder. “Here,” he says, and points around my hip to the back of my thigh.

  We return to the room and rifle through the set of drawers near my bed, finding bandages, syringes, antiseptic wipes, latex gloves, then finally the thing we need: a small scalpel blade. I douse it in alcohol, then hand it to Arturo.

  “Be careful,” I say, pulling my dress up.

  Arturo nods, blushing crimson.

  The tracker is tiny, but getting it out is bloody and painful. I have to lie on the floor with my leg in the air like a tumbled ballerina while a boy I don’t know stares right into my underwear.

  Arturo keeps apologizing and I keep telling him “Just get it out,” until, at last, he leans back on his heels, and presents a tiny black cylinder to me, balancing it on the end of a forefinger.

  I say, “I’ll remove yours now. Then you can come with me.”

  “No,” he says.

  “But I can’t leave you,” I say.

  He starts shaking, then saying, “No! No!” louder and louder. “Go!” he says finally, then backs up away from me and, to my astonishment, turns and runs.

  26

  I DON’T CHASE after Arturo. Instead, I race from the building into a glorious day, the wet air of late spring all around. Slipping off my shoes, I step barefoot across the grass. The moment of freedom is so exquisite I forget all about the pain in my thigh. I have no idea where I’m going or how I’ll navigate the city, but for a single hard-won moment I think only of the sun on my face and the cool grass between my toes.

  I follow the sidewalk, heading God knows where. Heading out. The
sky is cloudless and blue. I see a gathering of sparrows at a bus stop and watch them for a full minute, amazed at how much I’ve missed the small details of living. A dog passes on a leash and I want to drop to my knees and hug it. I have no money, not a cent, but at least I’m no longer locked in a room.

  The tracking device is in my hand, still bloody from where Arturo fished it out. I wish Arturo were here with me instead of back in that monstrous disused laboratory with its rotting structure, but I can’t think about him just yet. I have to think of where to put the tracker so that Volkov’s people don’t realize I’ve ditched it. The answer comes by way of a city bike, wedged among a bank of others. I stick the tracker under the seat. It’ll ride for miles, I imagine.

  I hop buses, evading the drivers because I don’t have fare. Amazingly, I only get kicked off once. Did the driver swear at me? Who knows? I can’t understand a word he says anyway.

  I should go straight to the embassy, if I knew where that was. But I’m not ready to answer questions or to be locked up again, if that is what is going to happen. I may only have a few hours of freedom.

  I travel by bus to Red Square, vast and full of tourists standing in line to get into the museums, talking among each other in all languages, taking pictures. I stare up at the grand clock on Spasskaya Tower, above which sails a single red star. I marvel at the colors of St. Basil’s Cathedral. All around are restaurants and bars and kiosks. The smell of food is overwhelming, and suddenly the only thing on my mind is that I’m starving. But a sandwich costs money that I just don’t have.

  I don’t want to turn myself in, but I’ve got no money and nowhere to stay tonight. There’s no other choice.

  But then I think, What would Lauren do if she were here? Would she waltz up to the embassy and say, Hi, I’m the agent working for a foreign power who you’ve been looking for? Would she turn herself in?

  I can almost hear her now, that brassy confidence, that fantastic sense of fun. She’d say, If they want me they can come and get me!

  So I channel up some Lauren, and before I know it, I’m feeling like I did back in Stockholm, back when I was sipping champagne. In the dragonfly dress I was able to fool people. And while, to my mind, the dress has evolved into my prison clothes, it still says money to everyone else, as does Lauren’s watch.