That meant returning to his apartment and changing into a better pair of jeans. He took a much more direct route back, since he felt no need to avoid being followed. Soon he was walking up the familiar wooden steps of the lovely old house where he lived.
He knew something was wrong when he saw the old crone who lived on the first floor peering out at him through a crack in her door. She only did that when he had a woman with him. What was up? He turned to leave, and that's when he noticed the Volga parked outside, the driver staring in at him. Why hadn't he seen the damn car as soon as he turned the corner? Thinking about Natasha. That had not been smart.
He heard footsteps upstairs. The old crone had disappeared. Oh Lord. What had they told him to do in situations like this?
He was still thinking when two men came down the stairs and saw him. "Vladimir Ivanovich Osipov?" one of them demanded.
He nodded, unable to speak.
The man flashed some sort of red identity card at him. Volodya couldn't read it. He didn't have to read it.
"We would like you to come with us, if you please."
I didn't expect them to be so polite was all Volodya could think. The two men searched him, then each took an arm and led him out to the Volga. He noticed that both of them had rolled-up copies of Playboy sticking out of the pockets of their trench coats. Oh Lord.
No one spoke in the car. One of the men had onions on his breath. The driver was wearing a Swiss watch. The Volga had a very smooth ride.
He might never ride in a car again.
Life is so wonderful and so short. Women. Vodka. Jazz. The circus.
They drove through the streets of Moscow, and Volodya tried to memorize everything he saw. It didn't take long before they turned into Dzerzhinsky Square, and Volodya saw the bland, mustard-colored facade of the Lubyanka. Oh Lord.
Skating in Gorky Park. Sunlight on the cupolas of Saint Basil's.
He remembered what he was supposed to do in situations like this.
He scratched his crotch, then casually reached into the funny extra little pocket in his jeans. The man with the bad breath stared at him for a moment but didn't do anything.
Mushroom picking in the woods. A football match at Lenin Stadium.
He pretended to cough and slipped the small capsule into his mouth. He bit down on it. The taste was bitter, but he could stand it. He swallowed.
Bronze gates opened, and the car pulled into a courtyard. "Out," one of the men said.
Volodya got out. It was a beautiful day. The sun. The sky. The breeze. Life is much too short. He smiled at the man with onions on his breath.
And that was all.
* * *
Doctor Chukova returned with her suitcase a few minutes before four. She was terrified. Being late would only make things worse, so she went directly to Rylev's office and knocked. "Come in," he called out.
She entered. A bald, smiling man was sitting next to Rylev. Rylev motioned to a chair. She sat down. "This won't take long," Rylev said, and he left.
Doctor Chukova looked at the bald man, her heart pounding.
"My, but you have beautiful eyes, dollink," the bald man said.
And his slim, elegant fingers moved toward her face.
Chapter 30
Daniel Fulton was playing the piano when the doorbell rang. For once he was glad to be interrupted, and he ran to answer it. Lawrence Hill was standing there, smiling.
"We have her," he said, moving past Fulton into the house.
Fulton shut the door. "Is she all right?"
"She's fine. Everything went off without a hitch."
Fulton said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the God he finally believed in. "Can she stay with me?" he asked.
Hill shook his head. "That wouldn't be a good idea. The Russians are going to be looking for her, and I expect that this is one of the places where they'll look. We'll hold on to her, find out what she knows, then eventually we'll give her a new identity and she'll be free to go. It's standard procedure."
"I've got to see her. Can't I at least visit her? I'm sure she'll be more willing to cooperate if I'm there."
"Actually, I was going to suggest that myself, Daniel. In fact, you can stay with her, if you like. We spies aren't inhuman."
Fulton grinned. "I'd like very much to stay with her," he said.
"If you do come, you won't be able to communicate with the outside world for a few days, you understand. Security reasons."
"That's fine. There's no one I want to talk to."
Hill looked at his watch and considered. "Well then, I guess there's no problem. I can bring you right over, if you like."
"Where is she?"
"In a house we own in Greenwich Village. But of course you shouldn't mention the location to anyone. I'll call the people there while you pack and let them know we're coming."
"Thanks, Lawrence."
"Don't mention it."
Hill went off to use the kitchen phone while Fulton went upstairs to pack. He couldn't think what to bring, but it didn't matter. Valentina was safe. He was going to see her again. He threw some clothes into a suitcase and returned downstairs. Hill was waiting for him, and they left immediately.
"You said before that you felt responsible for Valentina," Hill said as they drove into the city. "Are you sure it isn't something more than that?"
Fulton considered. "Maybe it is."
"Love at first sight, perhaps?"
Hardly that. But it would take too long to explain, so he didn't try. He merely nodded. "I guess you could say so," he murmured.
Was he in love? It seemed so trite. Everyone fell in love. But why should he be any different? He had his dreams like everyone else, and lately they had been about no one but Valentina.
Hill looked at his watch again as they approached the Village. "I'm afraid I won't be able to go inside with you," he said. "I've got to catch a plane back to Washington."
Through his excitement, Fulton forced himself to think about Hill. The man had done a lot for him. And it had been just another job to Hill, one victory in a lifetime of battles. "On to your next assignment?" Fulton asked.
Hill nodded. "It won't be as satisfying as this one, I expect."
Fulton figured it wouldn't do any good to ask what the new assignment was. "I appreciate all you've done, Lawrence," he said simply.
"We did it together, Daniel," Hill replied.
A few moments later he double-parked on a little side street in the Village. There were old-fashioned streetlamps in front of the Georgian town houses; yellow and red leaves floated down from the trees; a well-dressed woman pushed a baby carriage along the sidewalk. "This is it," Hill said.
"Which one?" Fulton asked, trying to sound calm.
"Two-eighteen. One short ring, then two longs. You're expected."
"Okay."
They shook hands. Fulton took his suitcase and got out of the car. Hill waved and drove off down the street. Fulton watched him leave, then turned and walked up the steps of 218. He rang the bell as instructed, and the door was opened almost immediately by a short, black-haired woman. "Hello," he said. "My name is—"
"Yes. Of course. Come in."
He went inside, and the woman shut and bolted the door behind him. She was young and rather pretty, but seemed uninterested in doing anything about it. She didn't use any makeup, and she was wearing a shapeless plaid shirt and corduroy pants. If she was impressed by him, she gave no sign of it. "Follow me," she said.
She led him upstairs. The interior of the house looked as if it had been elegant once but hadn't been kept up. The flocked wallpaper was water-stained, the Oriental runner on the stairs was threadbare. But Fulton barely noticed these things. Valentina was somewhere close by. Had she been told he was coming? Could she feel his presence?
The black-haired woman stopped in front of a closed door on the second floor. "In there," she said.
Fulton put down his suitcase. The woman stared at him for a moment, and then walked away.
He knocked on the door.
"Come in," the familiar voice said, in English.
He opened the door. Valentina was sitting in a chair; a book was open on her lap.
"Daniel!"
Then the book was on the floor, and she was in his arms, and they were both whirling in space, too happy to speak, and all his love-dreams had come true.
The two of them would never be parted again. Never.
* * *
Bill Sullivan read the report from Moscow as soon as it reached his desk. At first he couldn't make any sense out of it. But the more he stared at it, the more he thought he understood.
And what he understood terrified him.
But what in the world could he do about it?
Part 3
The Tristesse Étude
~
O ma patrie!
—Frederic Chopin
Chapter 31
It had been a long, strange dream, from which Valentina was finally starting to awaken.
The trip to America seemed to last forever. Once the fear was gone, there was only a kind of dazed grogginess that didn't let her relax. She vaguely remembered an airport terminal and a taxi and lights everywhere—more lights than she had ever seen. But none of it seemed quite real. This was America, she knew, but she didn't seem to know anything else. Where are we? she had asked Chuck Dennison.
New York City.
And that seemed perfect. Didn't Daniel Fulton live near New York City?
Then they were in a house. A safe house, Dennison said, and the name seemed perfect too. She met sullen, silent Abigail, who led her to a bedroom and told her to get some sleep. Like her room in London, this one had bars on its windows; but now, she assumed, they were to protect her rather than to imprison her.
She went into the bathroom adjoining her room. The woman staring back at her from the mirror startled her for a moment, but then they managed to smile at each other. Reluctantly Valentina removed the wig and scrubbed her face, and Andrea Dennison disappeared. There was just the same old Valentina then, only now she was standing in a bathroom in America, and that made all the difference.
But when she finally drifted off to sleep, she dreamed that Rylev had found her, and somehow she was back in Moscow, back in the machine, and she was descending once more into the horror she could never escape.
The next day everything was more real. Neither Abigail nor Dennison could—or would—tell her much about what was going on, but they fed her and gave her books to read and assured her that everything was all right.
And then Daniel arrived, and she believed them. In his arms, she felt completely happy for the first time in her life. He was real; he loved her; she was free. And then, paradoxically, she started to cry.
They lay on the bed together. He held her and kissed her and tried to stop the tears. But even he couldn't make them go away, any more than he could rewrite her past and remove all the pain she had suffered—and all the pain she had caused.
She had gotten what she wanted out of life, but did she deserve it? If she were still a clerk in Food Store Number One, the world would have been a better place. She thought of all the closed doors in that corridor in her mind. Behind each of them was a life she had destroyed. They may not have been particularly good lives, but they weren't hers to warp and torture until they fit a new mold, until they were willing to fight to the death for a cause that neither she nor they believed in. Her own pain was gone now, but that just made it easier to feel the guilt.
When she could finally sob out an explanation, Daniel seemed to understand. "I'm not anyone to preach," he said, "but I'm beginning to realize that guilt is something you have to live with, along with all the other baggage you carry around with you through life. There isn't a day goes by that I don't feel some guilt over the way I've treated—the way I am treating—my parents, and I don't seem to be able to do anything to change myself or to make it right. But I've got to do something more than stare out at my bird feeder. And I can't deny myself the pleasure that I feel from the good things in my life—like playing the piano. And being with you."
Yes, he was right. There was nothing she could do about the past, so she would try not to think about it. And she knew that this would not be hard, eventually, with Daniel lying beside her. She fell asleep in his arms, and when she awoke in darkness he was still there, as she knew he would be. He too was awake, and he made slow, languorous love to her, and life seemed perfect once again.
The next day it felt awkward for a while as they showered and dressed and ate the breakfast Abigail cooked for them. This was a strange sort of domesticity, but she was sure she could get used to it. There was a baby grand in a parlor on the first floor, and later in the morning Daniel played for her. For her! The piano was slightly out of tune, and one of the keys gave off an unpleasant twang when struck, but Valentina scarcely noticed. "I can't believe this," she said when he took a break. "A recital just for me."
Fulton shrugged. "Someday maybe you'll get bored with it. I can hear you now: 'Quit playing that damn piano and get in here and help with the dishes."'
Valentina laughed. "There is no chance of that, Daniel."
He joined her on the dusty sofa. "Who knows what the future will bring?" he said. "I read about emigrés from the Soviet Union while I was waiting for you to get out. A lot of them become disenchanted after a while, and some of them go back. America isn't for everyone."
"You are too hard on America, I think, Daniel."
"I suppose. I suppose that, now you're here and the present is wonderful, I've started to worry about the future. I'm too used to worrying."
"But you have always been hard on America. That's why the big shots in the Soviet Union like you so much."
He took her hand in his. "You're right. My friend Dmitri Khorashev didn't like my attitude toward America either. 'Orphans resent complaints about parents,' he said to me once, 'and slaves resent complaints about freedom.' But if you're free, it's hard to imagine being a slave. And if you've lived all your life in America, you just get used to seeing what's wrong with it, and you don't stop and consider the awful alternatives that the world has managed to come up with."
"You sound like you are finding wisdom, Daniel. I want to live in America for a long, long time—with you."
"It's going to happen, Valentina. It's going to happen."
Valentina smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. There was silence for a while, until the doorbell rang: one short ring, then two long rings. She heard footsteps along the hallway, and then more footsteps returning. And then Daniel's voice, cheerful and surprised. "Well hello, Lawrence. I thought you were off on another assignment."
Valentina looked up.
And then she screamed.
* * *
She is standing at the beginning of the endless corridor. So many doors; she knows the secret behind each. They are all closed, but there is no guarantee they will not open. There—the second, one on the right. She finds herself in front of it. The door is closed—isn't it? And yet she can see through it, can see the monster she has created in this room. The monster is no longer lying vanquished on the bed; it is standing up and staring back at her. She feels the stirrings of her ancient hatred, but much more than that she feels the terror a victor must feel when her victim returns to life, when the battle must be refought and she has no strength left and no way of knowing if she can ever really win.
And so the only thing she can do is scream.
* * *
Lawrence Hill was staring at her. "I have wanted to meet you for a long time, Valentina Borisova," he murmured when her screaming finally stopped.
She clutched at Daniel. "What's the matter?" he asked. "What's going on? He's on our side, darling. He's from the CIA."
"I know he's from the CIA," she whispered, barely able to speak. "I know much more than I want to know about him. He was one of my first targets, Daniel, in the machine. His name was different then—perhaps he was using an alias in Mosco
w. But it's him. And now he's working for the Soviets."
Daniel shook his head. "There must be a mistake," he insisted. "He got you out of Russia, away from the machine. He brought us together. How can he be working for the Soviets?"
She stared back at Hill, who was smiling softly. She had never seen one of her targets in the flesh before. Sometimes she could half convince herself that nothing in fact had happened—it was just a game in her mind, a game that the KGB thought was real. But she knew the KGB was not that stupid. "Is there a mistake?" she asked Hill.
Hill's smile widened. He sat down opposite them. "I have to confess I was upset when I found out the real reason for my conversion," he said. "I was so impressed by my discussion with Pavel in that Moscow apartment. And then to learn that some psychic had been fiddling with my brain—well, it didn't say much for my free will, did it? But then I thought: it doesn't matter how it happened, what matters is that it's the truth. And it is the truth, you know, even if you yourself don't believe it, Valentina. The Soviet Union, for all its flaws, is on the side of progress, on the side of humanity, whereas America, for all its talk of freedom and opportunity, is only on the side of the people with money. My upbringing, my education, the media—everything had brainwashed me to see things the other way around—and you simply cleared away all the garbage and let me see things as they really are. I am very grateful to you, Valentina Borisova."
Valentina did not want his gratitude. "Why?" was all she could manage to say.
"Why am I here? Why are you here? Because I want—we want—your cooperation. And this seemed to be the best way to get it."
"Cooperation for what?"
"We want you to use Trofimov's hyperspace amplifier one more time."
"But you had my cooperation for that in London. I don't understand."
"Don't think about London," Hill said. "London was just part of the plan to get you here. Think about New York. What can we have you do in New York?"
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