by Greg Ahlgren
“Sir?” she repeated.
“Sorry, lost in thought,” deVere said.
She nodded. “It happens a lot with people of your generation.”
“Old people,” he said kindly.
She flushed, looking at the floor. “My grandfather, you remind me of him.”
“I’m not that old,” he said.
She smiled and took the joke. “No, of course. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you. You’re good at what you do.”
She nodded. “I think everybody should understand how we got where we are today. It’s important.”
“Agreed,” deVere said.
He went to the bookstore and told the clerk what school his daughter attended, her class number and the assignment code. He looked it up on his computer and burned the disk.
“Why can’t she download it from the site?” deVere asked.
“We try to encourage the students to come to the library,” the clerk said. “Get them out away from their computers for a bit, look around the library some.”
“So you see a lot of parents on their way home from work, do you?”
The clerk sighed. “You’re the eighth today.”
DeVere drove home, tracing his finger around the locked reinforced steel case on the seat beside him. Yes, he said to himself. It’s most important we know how we got where we are today. So the mistakes of the past can not only be avoided in the future, they can be undone.
Chapter 3
Natasha Nikitin wiped the palm of her left hand across her forehead before drying it on her bed sheet. Even stripped down to her panties and a loose T-shirt the heat pouring in her open bedroom window from the Dorchester street below immobilized her. She sat splayed on her bed, her laptop and IM3 decoder opened in front of her. For a moment she wondered if closing the window might provide relief, but rejected the idea.
The locals remarked that this was becoming one of Boston’s hottest Julys in years. Yesterday, at the quaint Independence Day celebration and concert along the Charles River, the heat had been oppressive. She had asked Nigel to take her home even before the Boston Pops had performed their legendary rendition of the 1812 Overture to cascading fireworks, and the Overture was one of her favorite pieces-even though it had been co-opted by Americans in the Northeast District as some sort of stirring nostalgic reminiscence of past glory.
Natasha readjusted the search mode on the IM3 and continued hacking into Paul deVere’s computer files. The IM3 was the latest in Soviet computer intrusion technology, and it was making quick work of the clumsy passwords and trips that deVere, or more likely Lewis Ginter, had set. Despite the ease of intrusion, Natasha consistently came up as empty in her hacking efforts as she had in searching deVere’s office. In the eight weeks she had been in Boston she had gleaned zilch on deVere and his activities.
Computer hacking was not limited to Boston-heck, any agency operative could have hacked into most files from a cubicle in Yeltsengrad-but MIT had a closed circuit on-line file sharing system which required MIT access. The defense system wasn’t perfect but it did require an agent to be physically in the campus loop to achieve penetration. For Natasha, the MIT closed circuit on-line file system was not distressing. It had, after all, required her to be stationed in the Northeast District. Natasha sometimes found it hard to believe that only eight weeks ago she had hurried across the headquarters of the Central Agency in Yeltsengrad. Winner of a plum assignment in the Northeast District, she had had to report to Igor Rostov, now her handler.
She had found his building, his floor and his office and knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. No answer. “Comrade Rostov?”
“Come in.”
She opened the door cautiously, peering around the frame into the dimly lit interior. Igor Rostov sat behind the desk staring at a computer screen. He didn’t look up when Natasha entered.
“Close the door.”
Natasha did, and walked toward the lone empty chair. The office surprised her; she had expected something more impressive. Even her own office was nicer.
“Sit.” Igor still had not taken his eyes off the screen.
Natasha sat. Igor typed something in the computer, closed the screen, then turned to face Natasha. “Tomorrow you leave for your new posting in Boston,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
“First time in the Northeast District?”
“That’s right.”
Igor nodded. “MIT lab intern.”
“That’s right.”
“Excited, are you?”
“I’m happy to have the chance to serve my country.”
Igor snorted. “Oh, no doubt. You aren’t even thinking about the bars and nightclubs, cars, restaurants, clothing boutiques or the much higher standard of living than we have here in Yeltsengrad.”
“I’ve done my homework,” Natasha said simply.
“Of course,” Igor said, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back. “I expect nothing less, considering how many agents apply for Northeast postings and how fierce the competition is for them. No doubt you’ve done your homework, and probably a few other things to get this posting.” He let his gaze move down to her chest.
“I believe I was chosen based on my qualifications,” she said, readjusting in her seat and hunching forward.
“That and the fact that you’re the best-looking agent we have.”
She glanced away.
“Best-looking smart agent, put it that way. Both assets will come in handy in the performance of your duty, Comrade Nikitin.”
“I pride myself on my ability to fulfill my assignments.”
“Of course. And I pride myself that my agents do so, or else they don’t stay in the Northeast District too long. There are always monitoring posts open in eastern Nevada, you know.”
Natasha waited for him to continue.
Igor stood up and sat on the corner of his desk. “You’ll have a good time in Boston,” he continued, softening his tone. “I was posted there once myself, and it’s a challenging place to be, you know. That’s why we chose the best person we could put in the field.”
“Thank you.”
He waved. “Hey, let’s get out of this overgrown cubicle and go over a few things in the conference room. Tea?”
“Thank you.”
Igor buzzed for two cups of tea to be brought to the conference room. He opened a connecting door and ushered her in. After tea and pleasantries he switched off the lights, and she turned to face the screen.
“Boston,” Igor said from behind her. He touched the laptop and the Boston skyline appeared on the projection screen. “Hell of a pretty place, but also the most dangerous place on earth for a Central Agency operative. We’ve lost more promising agents there than anywhere else in the world. Some are killed by hooligans, some defect, some have to be prevented from defecting.”
He turned to look at her. She avoided his eyes and studied the screen.
Click. “The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Department of Astrophysics. Outside of work the faculty here can’t mention the titles of their papers without losing listeners. Only the best of the best work here. And one of them is…”
Click. “Professor Paul deVere.” Natasha scrutinized the face. About the age her father would have been, she guessed, early fifties. A nice face. Lacking that hard, protective shell Soviet males acquire by their late teens.
“One of the most brilliant minds in MIT. Family man, lives a quiet life in Concord, faithful to his bitch of a wife, dotes on his teenage daughter.”
Click. “The Astrophysics research lab at MIT. Tallest high-rise in Cambridge. Secured building. DeVere is one of five professors with complete security clearance.”
Click. “Six months ago deVere began staying later at the lab. He didn’t have any new research projects or classes, which is to say, there was no obvious reason for his doing so. He had been reading up on time travel intensely during that time as well.”
“Time travel?”
“Hawking, Sone, David. Seems absurd, of course, but we’re not sure where it will all lead.”
“That isn’t his area of expertise, though,” Natasha said.
“I see you read those stupefying briefing books,” Igor said. “Yes, but coupled with his new hours in the lab, we are, naturally, curious.”
“Naturally.”
“Cameras can only show so much. And even people in the Northeast District know better than to discuss anything sensitive over a phone or Gorenect-mail. We need an operative in the lab. That is where you come in.”
Click. “Your background in physics is suitable for this assignment, which is why you get to sample the joys of freedom,” Igor said, his voice dripping sarcasm, “while you find out what deVere is up to.”
“He’s working alone?”
Igor nodded. “At this time we don’t have reason to think there’s anyone else involved. Another department member is Lewis Ginter”–click–“a veteran of the Balkan Wars of ’04, Special Operations and a known anti-Soviet, as you might guess. From what we can tell, he’s deVere’s only real friend in the department. They appear to be drinking buddies, they meet in sports bars after work and when deVere absolutely has to get away from his wife he’ll go to sporting events with Ginter. They seem to have some sort of attraction for the Boston Baseball Club although Ginter, being from New York City, appears to be a fan of the New York Metropolitans baseball team. And for a Negro, Ginter’s unusually bright. It’s my personal belief he’s colluding with deVere, but I really don’t know since he’s single and his social life tends to be rather, ah, colorful. Difficult man to keep up with, being former Special Ops and all.”
“Balkan Wars?” Natasha asked. “Did the former United States fight in the Balkan Wars? I thought that-”
Rostov’s snort interrupted her. “What was left of the old United States sent a force of volunteer military adventurers. It made no difference.”
“I see.”
Click, click, click. Igor showed a few other department members, all under appropriate surveillance and none suspected of anything other than working for tenure or research grants. “Not like the old days of the gulag,” Igor said a bit wistfully, “when we had the Jews and other dissidents to watch. Those were the days.”
Click. The screen went white. “Any questions?”
“None right now.”
Rostov nodded as he turned the lights back on. “I expect they’ll come fast and furious once you’re in the field. One thing about deVere…”
“Yes?”
Rostov put his hand to his lips, searching for the best way to put this. “Professor deVere has an animosity against the Soviet Union. He doesn’t only resent us, they all resent us. He hates us. The file doesn’t explain it, and that worries me. I can deal with what I understand. But I have no idea why deVere has this visceral hatred of the Soviet Union.”
“He lived in New Hampshire before the Second Revolution,” Natasha said. “His family were farmers. There must be something in his history to explain the abnormality.”
Igor snorted again. “His extraordinary abilities in math and science were detected while he was young, and he was sent to the best schools. His family were members of the old Democratic political party. Of course, having been Democrats in New Hampshire was probably enough to have made anyone feisty. Sometimes these things really do have simple explanations, but to hate us so…well, it would appear that he has no justification for hatred of the Soviet Union after all we did for him.”
Natasha nodded. “I’ll see what I can find. Now if you’ll excuse me–”
Igor shook his head. “Sit down.”
She looked up at him. He closed the blinds and locked the door. He sat across from her and looked into her eyes. “Comrade Nikitin, why is the Northeast District allowed to exist?”
“The Soviet Union believes in allowing people the right of self-determination, and we never compel anyone to–”
Igor waved his hand, cutting her off. “Skip the propaganda.” He stood and stepped back to a large map of the American S.S.R. mounted on the wall behind his chair. Natasha noted that all 37 Communist states of the A.S.S.R. were shaded in deep red. The three semi-autonomous zones were colored light blue.
Without looking back at the wall, Igor tapped his finger in the middle of the map, landing on Kansas. “We give the people here what they want,” Igor explained. “They are indeed allowed their ‘self-determination’ as you phrased it. We have learned a lot about governing other peoples since the 1930s, you know. That’s why we are called neo-Soviets. We let them teach Creationism in their public schools and ban the teaching of evolution. They want to outlaw abortion? We tell them we value life too and let them. We let them have their silly prayers in their schools. What do we really care? They see us as the protector of their values and believe we are on their side. They appreciate the security and peace that we have given them for over 40 years. They are loyal citizens.”
Igor drew a deep breath. “But the districts are troublesome. Of course there are hooligans everywhere, but they are especially concentrated in these districts, which is why we do not annex them. You know as well as I do why the Northeast District exists as an autonomous entity, when we could annex it before lunch tomorrow. Same reason the rest of the Free Enterprise Zones do, Great Lakes states and the West Coast–they make a hell of a lot of money, which we need. And their schools, MIT, Syracuse, Yale, produce some of the best minds and products. As you know, Comrade, industrious enterprise isn’t a natural by-product of the Soviet system, neo or not.”
Natasha stiffened a little. She wasn’t sure if Igor were leveling with her, or subtly testing her true beliefs, a last-minute screening. “I find a lot to commend itself in Soviet business,” she said carefully.
Rostov scoffed. “You know what the radicals in America say, ‘Nobody in the Soviet Union works worth a shit since they get paid anyway.’ The Northeast District workers bust ass, because their pay depends on performance. We need that.”
He sounded genuinely contemptuous. Natasha took a chance. “And we use the Northeast District as our trading port to the rest of the world.”
Igor nodded. “None of that propaganda garbage now, Natasha. I must know that you see reality.” He resumed his seat.
“Of course,” Natasha answered.
“As the old China needed Hong Kong, we need the Northeast District. Over half of all American S.S.R. business goes through there–three-fourths of all business with Europe. If we screw with that we’re committing economic suicide. Basically put, everybody who’s anybody in the Party makes their real money through the Northeast District, and we–they’d-all like to keep it that way.”
“Of course.”
“But the damn thing about freedom is that people do unapproved things. Which we feel deVere might be doing.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with time travel? Probably rubbish. But whatever it is, we need to find out and either control it or stop it. My gut feeling, after working in the Agency for thirty years, is that it might be something.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Of course you will. Otherwise…well, we don’t need to talk about the ‘otherwise’ part, do we, Comrade Nikitin?”
“No,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable again.
Rostov glanced down at a file that lay open on his desk and flipped over a page. “There’s not much on your family in your personnel file, Comrade. That is unusual.”
“There wouldn’t be. My parents are dead. I was raised an orphan.”
Rostov nodded. “Killed in the Second Great War. Your parents were heroes.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You were raised in a home made possible by the Soviet system.”
“For twelve years.”
“I see you have a degree in history from Karl Marx University. Strange beginning for a future physicist. And you have an older sister,” Rostov continued, turning a pa
ge. “She has a rather nice apartment.”
Natasha stiffened slightly. “It’s sufficient.”
“Sufficient my ass,” Igor laughed. “It’s a hell of a lot nicer than most loyal comrades get. It’s downright bourgeois. I assume it’s due to your position as one of the most promising young agents we have. We like to keep people like you happy.”
“I’m sure we all appreciate it,” Natasha said.
“And I’m sure your sister wouldn’t much fancy moving back to…let’s see, what’s that hellhole, Jovanograd?”