“I should hope you would be my guest again very soon, Mr. Lodge,” Beria said before turning to Maggie. “And … my dear, I’m sorry, we met but only briefly, and I do not remember your name. Though you certainly made an impression then.”
Maggie smiled—a genuine smile this time. She was part of the rescue mission to get Frank and the others back, and her “impression” on Beria had been putting the holy fear of God in him, prompting him to flee in terror. “Maggie Lodge, Comrade,” she replied, using her false married name, “and as you said, I hope for the opportunity to make an impression again soon. Perhaps even now?”
She thrilled at the new thread of terror that whipped around Beria’s head, but resisted the urge to seize it, to pull, to send nightmares into Beria’s mind and turn him into a puddle of terror, spit, and piss on the floor. For his part, the Russian took a little longer to clamp down on the fear again. “Are you now part of the embassy here, Mr. and Mrs. Lodge? Shall we be seeing more of you in the future?”
Frank smiled. “I think that depends on how things go here,” he replied, venom just barely concealed under the gentle cadence of his voice. “Obviously, the United States is keenly interested in a peaceful transition within the Soviet Union, now under new leadership, with whom we might work toward more peaceful coexistence. Should that occur, our talents would be better used elsewhere, no doubt.”
In other words, we’re onto you, asshole, Maggie thought.
“I see,” Beria said, his facade slipping slightly. “Well, then. We can only hope for such fine goals. Until then.” And with that, Beria turned his back and started working the rest of the crowd—pausing only to whisper something to an aide, who shot both Frank and Maggie a brief but hardened look.
“And now we’re tailed,” Frank said simply. “Time to go.”
Maggie reached into her clutch and tapped her makeup case three times—we’re tailed, we’re leaving. The two of them then sauntered slowly toward the exit, making sure they talked to as many diplomats and Party officials as possible—but not Danny or any other Americans in the room. It took them an hour just to get to the coat check.
* * *
After that, they got in a cab, which was dutifully followed. So they went to an early afternoon tea at the Hotel Budapest, then took another cab to the Hermitage Garden, where they took a stroll and made a point to interact with as many people as possible. Frank felt bad about that—the old pensioner, the young couple with a couple of cherub-faced kids, the vendor selling hot tea from a cart—they’d all be taken to one of the MGB’s many offices hidden around Moscow, to be interrogated as to what the Americans said and did. Their backgrounds would be checked for subversions; God forbid any of them had any actual opinions that differed from the Communist Party line. Frank’s stomach sank as he thought of those kids never seeing their parents again because their grandpa was the old tsar’s gardener or something. It was a necessary evil, one he would add to the litany he’d committed over the past five years.
“Don’t feel bad,” Maggie said, her breath fogging in the cold. “They’ll be fine.”
Frank tamped down on the surge of anger that rose inside him. She didn’t know that, and it was getting hard to tell just how much her detachment had grown. It had started as a defense mechanism against all the emotions thrown at her, but maybe she genuinely didn’t care anymore. And while he felt spied on, he also knew she was using her Enhancement to keep a sharp lookout for their tails—ten yards behind them, sauntering slowly through the gardens, only the evergreen topiaries offering anything to really look at. The fact that she had picked up on his state of mind was part of the package.
But still. “I’m gonna start using more null generators on you,” Frank groused. The null generators were a refinement of an Enhancement displayed by a Russian Variant early in their careers: creating a field in which no other Enhancement worked. Rose Stevens, MAJESTIC-12’s resident genius and technology expert—a Variant herself, with an Enhanced intellect—had taken that one person’s ability and concocted a way to transfer the power into devices. The gadgets weren’t perfect; after years of tinkering, they still had a deleterious effect on Variants—aside from stripping them of their abilities, they also contributed to cancer if used long enough. But there was no better way for mere mortals to keep Variants in check.
Maggie, however, was having none of it. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she hissed between gritted teeth. “I’ll gut you in your sleep.”
Maggie was one of the most effective combatants MAJESTIC-12 had. If it weren’t for the lifetimes of combat experience in Frank’s head, she could probably take him wide awake if she worked hard enough. But the anger was surprising. “Easy, champ. It was a joke. Don’t you shut it off now and then? I do. If the voices are particularly rambunctious, I’ll flip on a generator for a few hours just to get some peace and quiet.”
“You do that?” Maggie asked, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you feel strange without them?”
Frank just shrugged. “It’s nice. There’s no running commentary in my head. No analysis of every little thing I do. No opinions on how to cook a goddamned egg, or whether I’m doing enough weights at the gym, or arguments between voices on what’s the most authentic way to eat caviar with tea.”
“That happened?”
“Yeah, just now at the hotel. Apparently, you can either serve it on half a boiled egg, or on bread with butter. If they weren’t just disembodied voices attached to random memories, I’d swear the people in my head would’ve ended up in a fist fight.”
Frank thought that would make Maggie laugh, but she just shook her head. “All that company with you, all the time. You’re never lonely. That’s something.”
“Wish I were sometimes,” Frank said. “That’s why I use the null generator, just to get some alone time. You don’t ever use one?”
“Hell, no,” she said, looking alarmed. “I’d feel … blind. Scared. I wouldn’t know how people were feeling, what they’d be likely to do.”
“You mean exactly how the rest of us live our lives?” Frank asked. “I have no idea how people are feeling except for what they say or how they look.”
“Most people hide it well,” Maggie replied, clutching Frank’s hand a little tighter as they walked, part of their married couple ruse, an old tradecraft habit. Their Russian tails likely already had a brief on them anyway. “But under the surface, they carry around so much anger. Disappointment. Lust. Sadness. All of it. That shit builds up and you never know when one of ’em is just gonna pop. The average person is just a stupid, instinctual, emotional powder keg ready to blow. All they need is the right push. And I don’t wanna be around when that happens.”
“You sound like you really don’t like people anymore,” Frank said quietly.
“People are shit, Frank. They really are. In the end, they’re just fight or flight, pleasure and pain. Everything else is just window dressing to cover up the fact that they’re animals.”
“Including me?” Frank challenged. “Danny? Cal?”
Maggie smiled slightly at hearing Cal Hooks’s name. Frank knew Maggie was fond of the old Negro man who could absorb life force to get younger and stronger, or spend it to heal others at the expense of his own health and age. Lately, Cal had taken to appearing as his actual age, pushing sixty, though with a strength and spryness of a man half as old. Cal was a good man, a religious fellow who, thankfully, knew better than to try to Jesus everyone up. He had an almost paternal thing with Maggie. Frank figured Cal felt sorry for her, somehow.
“Cal’s okay,” Maggie said. “I mean, he gets angry and sad and scared like everyone else. But he has such a handle on it. Better than you or Danny or anyone I’ve ever met. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. He—wait.” Maggie’s walk slowed as she looked off into the distance; Frank knew that look. She sensed something. “Anger and fear coming for us. Six o’clock. And … ten o’clock. And … fuck, three o’clock.”
Pincer move. Multiple directions. Capt
ure or kill, came the voice of U.S. Army General Mark Davis. If it’s more than five, you need to leave.
“How many?” Frank asked quietly.
You should’ve brought a gun, added Gunnery Sergeant William Collins, one of the best shots to come out of World War I. Even one of Mrs. Stevens’s pea-shooters would’ve helped.
“I’m sensing six,” Maggie replied, her body tensing. “Three pairs. Thirty seconds out, give or take.” She opened her clutch casually and pulled out her makeup case, clicking the side two times, then two times again, while she ostensibly checked her rouge. It was the signal for immediate danger and enemy contact. She then pulled out a cigarette case. “Rose specials,” she said. “One for each of us. Got your lighter?”
Frank smiled. He’d forgotten about the lighter in his pants pocket, and hadn’t thought to pack any of Mrs. Stevens’s “special” butts. “I do,” he said quietly. “You aim right, I’ll take left, and the lighter will handle the guys behind us. Ready?”
Maggie put her cigarette case away and leaned toward Frank with a slight smile. “Always, darling,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips. “Light me up.”
Frank flicked the lighter and lit her cigarette, then his. He turned to his left just in time to see two men in dark suits and coats striding toward him purposefully, grim looks on their faces. One on the right looks like the bruiser, said James O’Keefe, a two-bit boxer and bouncer who died back in ’51. Take him out with the cig and—
The voices suddenly went silent, like a door slamming shut between them and Frank. “Null field,” he whispered.
“Fuckers,” Maggie spat. “Let’s go.”
Frank smiled at the approaching goons. “Privet tovarishchi. Chto ya mogu sdelat’ dlya vas?” Then he pointed his cigarette at the bigger one just in time for the tip to explode, launching a sleeper dart that plunged itself straight into the man’s left eye.
Wasting no time, Frank flicked his lighter again and threw it to his left, where the two suits behind them had rushed to catch up. By the time Frank had turned to punch dart-guy’s friend in the face, the lighter exploded, spraying the Russians with concentrated oil that immediately caught fire—and engulfed the two in flame. The guy who took the dart to the eye—unlucky bastard—was on the ground writhing in pain, but Frank’s punch didn’t seem to faze the last Russian much, and Frank had to duck awkwardly to avoid the man’s roundhouse.
Frank kicked a leg out and caught the Russian’s knee from behind, staggering him as the missed roundhouse sent him twisting off balance, exposing the back of the man’s head to Frank. Immediately, he remembered one of O’Keefe’s signature moves and jammed a fist into the back of the man’s neck, just under his skull, likely sending a shockwave of pain and disorientation through his body. The man staggered as he turned around, but Frank was ready with an uppercut that caught him right under the chin and sent him sprawling down onto the gravel pathway of the garden.
“Enough!”
Frank whirled around to see the last Russian standing—holding a gun to Maggie’s head. She stood at arm’s length from him, staring at the barrel from just a few inches away. She looked incredibly pissed.
“Easy there, friend,” Frank said, his hands instinctively up. “Let’s not get anybody killed today.”
The Russian nodded to the two men who had taken the brunt of Frank’s lighter grenade. They were crumpled on the ground, completely on fire. “It is too late for that, I think. We have more coming. You will hang for this, American.”
Frank smiled his best, most diplomatic smile. “Look, we’re with the American Embassy, and honestly, I thought we were getting mugged. I mean, I’m from New York. That happens, you know? My uncle Tony, he was walking on 42nd Street, right near Times Square of all places, and out of nowhere three guys came up and just—”
“Quiet!” the Russian shouted. It didn’t take an Enhancement to see that the guy was agitated as all hell. “Get on the ground! Now! Both of you!”
Sighing, Frank did as he was told. “I’m telling you, Comrade, this is gonna really blow up in your face. I mean, we have diplomatic immunity.” Frank kept talking, stalling for time while trying to come up with a way out of this. Without the breadth and depth of expertise available to him through his Enhancement, he was left only with memories of past accomplishments and his own instincts—just like normal people.
But as he got on his belly, he saw that the goon next to him—the one who now just had one eye and was now out cold—had a small device clipped to his belt. It wasn’t a gun or a radio, and there was no sign of the Russian Variant who naturally generated null fields. So that meant, just possibly …
“Hey, honey pie, it’s gonna be okay,” Frank called out to Maggie, using the pet name he knew would annoy her the most. “It’ll be over in an instant. Like flipping a switch. It’s gonna be fine.”
“I’m so scared, Frankie,” Maggie fake-sobbed. “How you gonna make this okay? How?”
“Shut up!” the Russian yelled toward Maggie, then began shouting in Russian. There was no time left.
Frank reached for the device quickly, feeling for a switch. It was a toggle. Whatever. He flipped it and prayed.
The scream behind him was like a Beethoven symphony.
He called for reinforcements on the radio, Suleimenov said in his head. Your friend has him, though.
Frank turned to see the Russian sink to his knees, his eyes wide, his scream having turned into a kind of soft gurgling sound. A wet stain spread from between his legs and down his pants, and he grew so pale, Frank could see the stressed-out veins under the man’s skin. He clutched aimlessly at his chest as he stared up at his tormentor.
Maggie Dubinsky was not pulling punches. At all.
Frank scrambled to his feet, pocketing the null generator, just as the man fell over unconscious. “Is he alive?”
Maggie shrugged, then took his gun from him—and shot him in the head.
“Nope.”
“Jesus Christ, Mags!” Frank said, looking around to see if there were witnesses. Thankfully, the locals had likely dutifully scurried away at the first sign of trouble, and the weapon had a silencer on it. “He was out of the game!”
She turned and shot the other three Russians who weren’t on fire, then, after pausing a moment, shot the two guys still burning as well. “Now they’re out of the game. Give me the generator,” she said, steel in her voice.
Before he could respond, Frank’s mind was besieged. Memories, names, skills, knowledge—the sum total of the dead men on the ground—flowed into him, a tsunami of information. He sank to his knees, his hands reflexively going to the sides of his head as he screwed his eyes shut to concentrate. Boris Mikhailovich. Ivan Vladimirovich. Vasily Vasiliovich. Grigory Karlinovich. Andrei Borissovich. Josef Antoninovich. Their names came at Frank as if they were being shouted in his face. Images of wives, mothers, fathers, children. Memories of youth. Hopes for old age. Joys of life. Sorrows and indignities.
And information. The orders transmitted by some midlevel flunky to capture the “dangerous Americans” on behalf of the Deputy Premier. The null generators, given to them without explanation. The offices and safe houses in Moscow run by the MGB. Command and control. Contingency plans.
Frank grabbed as much as he could of the latter, which felt like grabbing at schools of fish in a rapid stream with his bare hands. In all his years, he’d never had so many die at once around him. It buffeted his mind, sent his senses reeling.
And then it passed. All was silent.
He opened his eyes to see Maggie standing above him, for once looking concerned and altogether humane. She still held the silenced gun. “Frank?”
“Get rid of that gun,” Frank whispered as he slowly staggered to his feet. “Can’t be seen.”
“Give me the device,” Maggie said, challenge returning to her voice and face.
“No. We’re taking it in for analysis. Didn’t know they had their own generators, need to know if they got
it from us. Drop the gun. We’re leaving.”
Maggie looked as though she was going to argue, but Frank focused his own emotions into an angry “do not fuck with me” thought, and a moment later, the gun hit the gravel.
“You get anything?” Maggie asked.
I already called for backup. They will be coming in from the north. You must head east, said Boris Mikhailovich Kirov, the officer in charge of the men sent to capture them. His voice echoed in Frank’s head and, for a moment, he wondered if Boris would mislead him. That never happened before, in all the years of absorbing memories and knowledge, but Frank couldn’t help but wonder. He then shook his head to clear it. That wouldn’t happen.
“Some MGB stuff. Nothing big. Come on. This way.”
The two quickly ran into the topiary gardens and, a few minutes later, came out onto Upensky Street, where they quickly hailed a cab and headed for Red Square. From there, they’d take two more cabs before finally heading back to the Embassy.
“Jesus, Maggie,” Frank breathed once they were safely in the cab. “You gotta get a handle on it.”
She turned to him, confused. “I’m fine, honey,” she said, then gave him a saccharine smile.
She’s really not, Dr. Mills said in Frank’s head. Her sociopathy is reaching dangerous levels.
“Yep,” he replied aloud. To both of them.
FIELD REPORT
AGENCY: Central Intelligence Agency
PROJECT: MAJESTIC-12
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET-MAJIC EYES-ONLY
TO: POTUS, DCI DULLES, GEN VANDENBERG USAF
FROM: CMDR WALLACE USN, MAJ LODGE USA, AGENT
DUBINSKY, AGENT SORENSEN
DATE: 12 MAR 1953
The assault on MAJ Lodge and Agent Dubinsky was a successful diversion from the activities of Subject-1 and Agent Sorensen. As planned, their visible presence during Stalin’s funeral and subsequent events focused USSR Deputy Premier Beria’s attention on them, and away from other matters.
MJ-12: Endgame Page 4