Tom and George reached the podium, and George gave Rodriguez a hard slap on the back. “Rod,” he said, pulling Tom up next to him.
“Niven,” Rodriguez replied with a smile, giving George a firm handshake. But his smile was immediately replaced by a rather wide-eyed reaction to Tom. “My God,” he said, with a bemused smile. “The resemblance really is uncanny, isn’t it?”
Tom laughed slightly and shrugged. That was all he’d ever learned to do when people had that reaction to him and Oliver, which they always did.
“So you must be ‘the brother,’” Rodriguez said, giving Tom a firm handshake.
Tom cringed a bit. The brother? I’m not “the brother”—I’m Tom. But the smile remained on his face. This was too important a meeting to blow.
“I am,” Tom replied. “Tom… the brother.” Now smile.
“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you, Tom. Your brother can’t say enough good things about you.”
Thank you, Olly.
“Well. I’ve heard a lot about you, too, sir,” Tom replied. “From Oliver, I mean.”
“Tom was my best soldier in the Green Berets, hands down,” George added.
“Is that right?” Rodriguez replied, giving Tom’s painstakingly trained physique the once-over. “Are you as skilled in the martial arts as your brother?”
Oh, man. That was the one question Tom didn’t want to hear. But of course he had his patented answer for that one, too. “Well, sir, I’m good… but I’m not that good.” It was an honest answer. Tom had never been able to beat Oliver hand to hand, and he was quite sure he never would be. Oliver was just too good.
Rodriguez smiled back, though his smile had just begun to border on condescending. Come on, Tom. Stay in this.
But then, quite suddenly, Rodriguez’s smile disappeared altogether. Two well-dressed agents with earpieces and an enviable air of efficiency had leaned in out of nowhere and whispered a barely audible message into Rodriguez’s ear. Something was wrong, Tom could tell, and he was dying to know what it was.
“Excuse me one second, Tom,” Rodriguez said, turning his back to Tom and huddling with his fellow agents. Tom looked over at George and shrugged slightly. This meeting wasn’t going at all the way Tom had hoped it would. George just rolled his eyes, suggesting with subtly outstretched hands that everything was just fine.
“KGB…” Tom heard quite clearly amidst their little whispered huddle. He was intrigued. If there was trouble, he wanted to help. If they would just let him in the door, let him inside the world of exclusive huddles and private strategy sessions, he knew he could help. If he could just know what was going on…
Tom found himself using some of his more advanced visual and auditory techniques to basically peek in on their very serious powwow. It was one thing to have the ability to observe civilians on the street. But to gather intelligence from the actual intelligence community… well, that was really the name of the game. And Tom wanted to play.
He caught a glimpse of something. A photo. It passed through the huddle at quite a rapid speed, but through Tom’s eyes, rapid speeds could be reduced to slow motion. He caught red hair. He caught a tweed jacket. And he was pretty sure he’d caught a name: Nicholas or Nikolai. But that was all he would get. The huddle broke up just as quickly as it had started, and Agent Rodriguez replaced that concerned look with an everything-is-fine smile.
“Everything… okay?” Tom asked, hoping Rodriguez might trust him with some of the details.
“Oh, everything’s just fine, Tom,” he assured him, patting him on the shoulder. There was nothing more condescending than a pat on the shoulder. “So you’re a student, are you, Tom?”
No, not the student conversation. I want to know what’s wrong. I want to help. “Yes, sir,” he replied with a smile because he had no other choice. “Columbia grad. Trying to complete my thesis in history and historiography.” Can we not talk about it, please? I’d like to know what’s happening with Nikolai…. Is he KGB? Is he on the loose right now? Does he pose a clear and present danger…? Steer the conversation, Tom. You have to steer it yourself. “But I’m getting a bit… frustrated here in school,” Tom added. “I’m really very eager to join my brother in the—”
“You look like a smart kid, Tom,” Rodriguez interrupted him. Kid? A smart kid? Oh, Jesus… “A great education is the key to a successful life, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, yes, I agree,” Tom said, slowly dying inside.
“Historiography, huh?”
“Mm-hm.” Tom smiled politely.
“Well, I might be able to help you there, Tom. Tell me, do you have the Latimore translation of The History of the Peloponnesian War?”
Books. Now they were talking about books. Agent Rodriguez didn’t seem to understand that there were plenty of people here at Columbia with whom Tom could discuss books. The last thing Tom wanted to talk about right now was Thucydides.
“No, I can’t say I do,” Tom replied.
“Well, it’s a must for you, Tom. An absolute must. I even know where you can pick up a copy in the city. One second.”
Agent Rodriguez snapped back to his two silent colleagues for a moment as he pulled out one of his business cards and jotted something down on the back. Then he quickly turned to Tom. “There you go,” he said, handing Tom the card. “They’ll have the book for sure.”
Oh, whoop-de-do, Tom wanted to say. Another book for my thesis. I sure am glad I dragged George all the way up here and got the haircut and the shave and the new tie. Because this little meeting has just paid off like gangbusters.
“I want you to go down to that store, Tom,” Rodriguez said. “I want you to go down there now, you understand me? Don’t waste another minute of your education.”
“Right,” Tom replied, trying to keep his posture as straight as possible.
“It was great to meet you, Tom,” he said finally, giving Tom another firm handshake.
“You too,” Tom replied.
“Now, you go down there right now, and you get that book.”
“I sure will,” Tom replied. And he wasn’t just humoring him. If Agent Rodriguez told him to get some book, that’s what he was going to do. If only for the sole reason that it would be something Tom might have to discuss with him if they ever met again.
“Get going!” Rodriguez called out one last time.
“Right,” Tom replied in a slight monotone, barely even masking his disappointment at this point. “I’m on my way.”
2002
It was as if she’d been roaming the desert for years, parched and starving, and she’d just happened upon this resplendent feast.
One and One
GAIA COULD SEE THE END OF THE transcript coming; she just didn’t want to believe it. There has to be something on the last page, she promised herself, feeling that anxious sense of deprivation that always came with the last few pages of a favorite book. Only this wasn’t a book she was reliving. These were her parents’ lives—their beautiful, romantic lives, lived out just as Gaia had imagined them… give or take some staggering resemblances to Gaia herself and a certain heretofore unmentioned KGB agent. But running out of pages… that was like losing them all over again.
There has to be some kind of clue or hint or something…. She couldn’t bear to see all of this exquisite history come to an end. It was as if she’d been roaming the desert for years, parched and starving, and she’d just happened upon this resplendent feast. Biting into these deliciously uncensored chunks of her past was just beginning to bring her back to life. This couldn’t possibly be all there was to eat.
But as she flipped over the last page of the transcript, there was nothing more to read. No hints or clues, no to be continued written in bold letters, nothing. A moment more and all she could hear over the headphones was air. And then the disc stopped altogether.
She stared at the back of the blue binder for another sixty seconds in denial, but eventually she had to face facts. That was it. That was all she ha
d. No more journal pages to savor and no more transcript, either. It seemed all the mystery agent had left her with was the most frustrating brand of confusion.
Please don’t let this be some kind of KGB scam, she prayed. She dug her hand all around the inside of the manila envelope, but there was nothing. She shoved her hand behind the books in every shelf, making a bit of a mess, but still nothing. She hated this part. The game part was what she didn’t have time for. But he’d set the rules in stone, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
All right, think. Where do you go next? But a moment later Gaia realized… the question wasn’t where she would go next. The question would always be, where were they going next? Of course.
She picked up Nikolai’s note again and remembered that her mother had written the address of her show on the title page of her father’s book. And sure enough! That illegible scribble Gaia had seen at the bottom of his note. It wasn’t a scribble it all. It had just been written quickly, and it had been upside down on the page:
The Bitter End, 8:30.—Katia
Gaia crammed everything she had into her knapsack and took off out of the Waverly Bookshop at maximum speed. That little trip down memory lane was over, and hopefully the next one was about to begin. She knew where she was headed next. And it was actually only a few blocks away.
Memo
From: KS
To: L
Security breach confirmed. Several security level 1 dossiers missing from HQ. Missing entire files for subject, Enigma, Loki, and civilian file 48-DG Katia Moore. N has gone missing and has not filed reports for forty hours. Attempts at correspondence have yielded no results. Please advise.
Memo
From: L
To: KS
Issue APB on N to all affiliates. Initiate immediate and widespread search-and-destroy operation. We must regain those files ASAP. Permission to terminate at will. Report immediately on location of subject.
Memo
From: KS
To: L
Subject has been spotted on Bleecker Street, west of La Guardia. Entering the Bitter End nightclub.
2002
Gaia’s heart jumped as she knelt down, practically placing herself nose to nose with her mother, who was suddenly only two years older than she.
Tragic Groupies
THE DOOR TO THE BITTER END WAS wide open, propped with a crushed beer can to stay that way. They’d probably been using the same beer can to prop that door open since the late seventies. This club had seen everything. Full-fledged folkies in the seventies, new wave freaks in the eighties, and all the imitations of folkies and new wave groups in the nineties.
There was already a band setting up for a show tonight. Maybe even more than one. People seemed to be hustling in and out of the black-walled club nonstop, dragging in their amps and their guitars and various pieces of drum equipment. The place was crawling with dudes in black sleeveless T-shirts and dyed black hair who, if you looked a little more closely, were just way too old to be wearing black sleeveless T-shirts and dying their hair black. Not to mention their chicks, who were all just way too young to realize that their boyfriends were way too old for them.
But this was perfect. Gaia could blend right in with the tragic groupies and no one would ask her a damn thing.
She simply had no idea what to look for. His next clue could be anywhere in the place. It could be backstage, for all she knew. Or it could even not be here at all. The Bitter End was still just a guess on Gaia’s part, and given her complete absence of patience at this point, she couldn’t predict what she might do if a clue didn’t present itself pretty damn quick.
One of the band dudes stopped in front of her, right inside the door, and tacked up a flyer for his band’s upcoming show on the large bulletin board. There were so many of those flyers on the board that anyone advertising for their show would only be covering up an advertisement for someone else’s show. Gaia stared at the gigantic collage of flyers on the board, every one of them trying to outdo the other with its cyber fonts and its super-annoying band names and its in-your-face imagery. In fact, as Gaia scanned across all the flyers, she realized that there was really only one flyer that seemed at all genuine to her—subdued and actually cool in its simplicity. It was just a stark black-and-white picture of a woman’s face, with the time and place for the show in the lower corner.
Wait a minute. That’s her. That’s my mother… just… younger.
Gaia’s heart jumped as she knelt down, practically placing herself nose to nose with her mother, who was suddenly only two years older than she. Which was, just as her father had said, a whole other level of beauty.
Gaia glimpsed the few words in the corner. Katia, February 16th, 8:30 P.M.
Yes. This was it. Here amidst all these modern flyers was this amazing photo relic from 1983, a copy of the very flyer her father had ripped from the brick wall that day—if not the actual flyer itself, given the kind of stuff Nikolai seemed to have access to. Gaia stared at the photo in awe for quite some time. Her father had been absolutely right about the eyes, too. Hypnotic. But once again, the goal here was not just to indulge. This flyer was a clue.
Gaia grabbed the flyer and soon realized joyfully that it was in fact attached to another manila envelope tacked behind the overloaded collage of hopefuls. She tore open the envelope (it was all she could do not to rip it open with her teeth) and pulled out the contents. She had certainly had no desire to go on some kind of treasure hunt, but she couldn’t help feeling that the items in her hands were in fact treasures. More journal pages, another binder full of her father’s CIA transcript with a minidisc, and…
Now Nikolai had added something new. It looked like another transcript of some kind, but the binding wasn’t that official blue color of the CIA binder. This transcript was black, and it had another minidisc that clearly accompanied it. The title on this transcript and disc:
Oliver Moore Incident Report—10/16/1990
ORG File # POCC-95547
Digital Transfer
A transcript, yes. From the exact same date as the other one. But not a CIA transcript. So what, then? Who had her uncle Oliver worked for in 1990? Had he quit the Agency by then? And how the hell had Nikolai gotten this transcript? Why did she even bother asking that? When Nikolai had said in his note that he had pretty much everything, he meant that he actually did have just about everything.
Gaia stepped over to a small table in a dark corner of the room, where she was virtually invisible to all the bands and groupies traipsing through. She pulled the disc player out of her bag, shoved the new Oliver Moore disc in, and pressed play, waiting to hear voices as she examined the rather forbidding black transcript. She saw her uncle’s name and then… Nikolai’s name. Very weird. And then someone named Yuri. Jesus. This was getting weirder by the second. And the more confusing it became, the hungrier she was to understand it all. Finally she could hear their voices. The first voice she heard had a deep timbre and a thick Russian accent.
ORG File # POCC-95547
4Z RESTRICTED
Recorded—10/16/1990 17:27:32
NO ACCESS FOR SUB-3-LEVEL PERSONNEL
YURI: So… [Pause] I am waiting. Is there an explanation here? Does someone want to tell me what the hell went wrong today?
MOORE: Ask him. This was his fault. Don’t you blame me for this.
NIKOLAI: This is not my fault. She took me by complete surprise. We were not given proper warning of her capabilities. That is not my fault.
YURI: Is this answer supposed to satisfy me? Moore? Do you think I should be satisfied right now?
MOORE: No, sir, but—
YURI: Don’t give me any more goddamn excuses! This is horrible planning, miserable preparation, and a pathetic debacle, a totally unsatisfactory result. So you tell me, Moore. What did we miss here? What factor have you not considered?
MOORE: I’ve already told you, I’m not taking responsibility for this.
YURI: Oh, you a
re taking responsibility, Moore. Believe me, you are. And we are going to stay here until we have figured out where we went wrong. We are going to go through every detail, Moore, for as long as it takes, until we find what we have missed.
MOORE: Fine. Where do you want me to begin?
YURI: Where do you think? At the beginning, Moore. I want you to begin at the beginning.
MOORE: What does that mean, sir?
YURI: That means the first day, Moore. The first day you met Katia. You start there, and you tell me what I need to know. Unless you’re too much of a fool to remember that far back, which could be part of the problem we seem to be—
MOORE: Oh, I remember… I remember everything about that day. Every detail. It was after all, the day I met her….
1983
Just Katia. No last name. Well, of course. A girl this exquisite didn’t really need a last name, did she?
Twin Child Prodigies
OLIVER COULDN’T REMEMBER EVER having been this tired. Somewhere between six and seven, his exhaustion had simply gone critical. And his eyes… his eyes hurt like hell. It was so bad that he could barely see his own hand holding the key to his brother’s apartment and fumbling it toward the lock. He squinted painfully in the hallway’s dim light, trying to concentrate on opening the door.
“Tommy?” Oliver yelled out, getting the door open. “Tom?” There was no answer.
Oliver flicked on the light, wincing at the glare. He had done it again—worked so long and so steadily without stopping that he could barely see straight. The code was rushing through his head, as it always did after a day like this, numbers and letters flowing back and forth across his vision like flocks of restless birds.
“Tommy?” he called out again for good measure, but nobody was home. Oliver pocketed his set of keys and made his way to his brother’s living room, turning on a shaded lamp and collapsing onto the couch.
The room was, of course, an absolute mess. It was always the same way. On long car trips his side of the backseat had always been strewn with wax paper cups and Big Mac wrappers from their last stop at the drive through. Oliver’s side was, of course, immaculate. Now, looking around at Tom’s apartment, Oliver could see nothing but pizza boxes, papers, magazines—so much stuff that he never even tried to make sense of it when he stopped by.
Before Gaia Page 4