“That’s not my best stash. Not by far.” Nadia loomed over her. “Tell me this plan.”
“You won’t like it.” Tanya shoved the whole collection of vials into her coat pocket. “It requires the American.”
Nadia swore. “You can’t be serious.”
“So he’s capitalist swine. You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wish to strangle him myself for snatching the scientist out from right under our noses?” Tanya groaned. “We need the power of his elemental if we want a chance of succeeding. We have to try. He hates the Flame as much as any of the Ice’s faithful—perhaps more so, for what they have done to him. You read Winthrop’s report, as I did. Pritchard has every reason to want the Flame to fail.”
Nadia worked her jaw back and forth. “Fine. So we enlist Mister Pritchard’s assistance, and more importantly, the aid of his little elemental friend. But then what? We storm the airfield? I’m sure they are already well on their way to Washington, or whatever Flame depot they’re redirecting to.”
Tanya smiled sweetly. “So we stop the plane.”
Nadia flinched as if slapped. “Pritchard will never agree. And the sort of spell it would require—I mean, you’ve seen the effort it took for us to work the Ostankino protocols a few years ago, and that wasn’t nearly as life-or-death as this could be . . .”
“Please. We have to try. Get in touch with Winthrop; let him be the one to persuade Gabe. I’ll start gathering components.”
“Winthrop has already pushed counter to the Ice’s wishes as far as he dares for me. He’s too cautious. After what he’s done, he wouldn’t empower a charm without orders in triplicate from his Ice superiors.” Nadia barked a dry laugh. “Even if we can convince him that the American—”
She stopped abruptly at the sound of a knock on her apartment door.
Tanya carefully fastened the cover of her satchel closed, her gaze locked on Nadia’s. Should she hide? Should they both hide? The Americans could have agents anywhere, after all. Someone in the KGB. Someone like Sasha, sent to stop them.
Nadia held up a hand, then wedged the other behind her shabby couch. When she pulled it back out, she was clutching a Makarov pistol. “Who is it?” she called, her voice pinched and high.
Tanya shifted the weight of the satchel to her shoulder and rose silently. Adrenaline burned off all of her exhaustion in an instant. She leaned forward, weight on the balls of her feet, an ancient language on her lips—
“A friend.” British accent. Tanya exhaled, and the exhaustion came roaring back. Winthrop. “I, ah, I’m afraid I might require your help.”
Nadia returned the Makarov to its hiding place, then moved toward the door. “I’m afraid you do.”
• • •
Zerena had been battling a monster of a headache for the better part of the morning, and Aleksander Komyetski was not helping matters.
“You may embarrass me in front of those imbeciles from the university all you like, but this office”—Sasha jammed a meaty finger onto his desk—“is mine. You have no authority here. None. Even your ublyudok vanyuchii husband, should he ever deign to visit the embassy again, is not welcome beyond the doors of this vault. I am the chief of the rezidentura. And I will not have you or anybody else meddling in my operations!”
Zerena popped an aspirin into her mouth and bit down hard. Relished the bitter, chalky taste. It tasted no worse than Sasha’s grating voice felt. “I would never dream of interfering in the KGB’s business, Sashenka. I am a diplomat, after all. I have no place in the affairs of spies.”
Sasha barked a laugh at her, the sound so crisp she nearly flinched. “If you are a diplomat, then I am Andrew fucking Carnegie. What did you do, Zerena? The miraculous return of my operative reeks of your meddling.”
“You have kept your star operative and have not humiliated this entire office with your foolish bid to send good men to their deaths over a perceived slight by the Americans. I would say you are sitting quite nicely at the moment,” Zerena countered.
Sasha ripped a sheet of paper from his typewriter. “Flash cable to Moscow Station. ‘It is with great sadness that I must report the death of Tatiana Mikhailovna Morozova, who perished attempting to recover a Soviet person or persons who we believe may have been forcibly taken into American custody for their extensive knowledge of the Soviet Union’s superior engineering techniques. I authorized no such course of action, fearing for Comrade Morozova’s life, and instead cautioned her to develop an alternative means to recover the abducted scientist. Sadly, she took it upon herself—’”
Sasha snarled and began to mutilate the sheet of paper. Zerena frowned as the snow of the draft sprinkled down upon her.
“I needed this. We needed this. The KGB would not have appeared remiss in its efforts to recover the scientist, our colleagues would have still acquired the component we need, and we’d have rid ourselves of this lying bitch, all at once.”
Zerena held up her palm—smooth, lightly scented with Parisian lotion. “Sashenka.”
He exhaled through his nose, but halted his tirade. Zerena felt her pulse throbbing through the pain of her headache, and waited a few moments before she continued.
“You look at our dear Tanushka, and you see nothing but one of them. An adversary. Someone opposite you on your little boards, yes?”
Sasha glanced at one of his chessboards. Zerena followed his gaze and, after a moment studying the board, saw he was stuck in that particular game. Any move he could make would guarantee a loss.
“But she has other uses to us. Knowledge. Power. A position of some importance. The chance to be a conduit for us, a puppet. And, given her heritage, I am sure she is not without some skill in our arts.” Zerena allowed a brief smile to flicker on her lips. “It wouldn’t do to waste the resources we have at our disposal, now would it? Leave that to the bourgeois capitalists.”
“You know nothing of the workers’ struggle,” Sasha said, his tone low. “Ever since you married him you’ve been swaddled in the blood of the exploited—”
Zerena’s anger and rage narrowed into a single point that burned hot inside of her. The metal in her blood was on fire. The gold on her wrists was molten. She was incandescent, her fury liquid and rippling. For one brief moment, she imagined letting Sasha drown in it.
Then she drew a slow breath and eased back.
“I know everything,” she said carefully, “of what it is to struggle. To strive.”
Sasha’s arms remained folded, but now they appeared more as a shield.
“I can reshape her. Make far better use of her as she is than as a line item on your cable.” Zerena rolled her shoulders back with a satisfying crack. “I will leave you to your work. But you must leave me to mine.”
Sasha stared at her for a long moment, then nodded wearily. All the fight seemed to have left him, for now. Zerena knew better than to hope it would last for long. His gaze drifted toward a scroll hanging from his wall, a Japanese landscape of misty mountains and delicate tree branches.
“One more acquired,” he intoned.
Zerena smiled. Her headache was lifting. “One more acquired.”
She dissolved the auditory charm protecting the office from eavesdroppers and entered the main rezidentura vault.
Then froze. Nadia Ostrokhina was at her desk ten meters away, digging through her drawers, but with the lazy aspect of someone less interested in locating some treasure than in looking busy. It wasn’t so early in the morning that she had no business being here, and yet . . . a flash of gold and yellow in Nadia’s hand snagged Zerena’s attention.
“Rather early for you, is it not, comrade?” Zerena asked, sidling toward her with a dagger-sharp smile. “I shall have to tell the French ambassador his parties are getting too dull.”
Nadia returned the smile a little too readily. “I’m afraid I missed the French party. Wasn’t feeling well. Still not, in fact.” She bumped her drawer shut with her hip. “I was just getting a few things before I returne
d home.”
Nadia’s hand was still clutched tight around whatever it was that Zerena had glimpsed. The woman was a junior officer, but she spent an awful lot of time around Morozova, Zerena knew, and the possibility couldn’t be ignored . . .
Zerena darted forward and snatched Nadia by the wrist. Her thumb found the soft patch between the woman’s wrist bones and dug in. Nadia yelped and jerked her arm back, but Zerena’s grip stayed firm.
“Comrade—” Nadia looked at her with wide eyes. “Please—”
Zerena continued to press. Nadia’s fingers popped open in surrender. But no—no ritual components, nothing remotely useful at all. Only the nub of a worn-down yellow pencil rested in her palm.
“We have had a problem with the theft of office supplies in the embassy,” Zerena said, keeping her tone sharp. “I would hate to think any of Sashenka’s officers were responsible.”
Nadia’s brows furrowed, and for a moment, Zerena feared she might see through the lie. Might know precisely what she’d really been looking for. But the moment passed, and some of the tension in Zerena’s skull eased. She released Nadia with another smile.
“I apologize for the roughness, but I am sure you understand the importance of protocol.” Zerena slipped into her lightweight spring jacket. “Do feel better, comrade.”
“Thank you,” Nadia murmured, still flustered.
Zerena didn’t glance back. She had work to do.
3.
Prague Station convulsed around Gabe. He hunkered in the records vault, thumbing through files with a flashlight between his teeth, while the usually quiet machine of the CIA station outside broke into a clamor of clicking heels and growling voices and grinding organizational gears. His hands sweated, and he fumbled file tabs. His heart had its own rhythm for assignments: a quick light patter like a child’s sprint. He forced himself to slow and focus and listen. Panic tightened nerves, spring-loaded the engines of blame. If his colleagues found him here, and his half-baked excuse—wanting to check a lead in Sokolov’s file—didn’t stick, the best he could hope for was to be held under supervision until long after all chance to stop Dom had passed. Most of the other options involved a bullet in his brain.
Somewhere in the world outside the records vault, Frank screamed at Emily. Frank never raised his voice, he didn’t need to, but the moment—the whole goddamn op—had gone exceptional. Questions jumped between unwary minds. Spies treasure gossip like caviar—and for once everyone could talk about their fears, everyone but Gabe. They asked: Had Dominic betrayed them? Had he then been betrayed in turn? Was he sitting pretty in some tropical paradise, laughing around his cigar? Or lying silent in the mud beneath the Vltava’s cold waters?
Gabe alone knew the truth, but he couldn’t say; nobody else knew, and they compensated by saying everything they suspected at the top of their lungs. This wasn’t Gabe’s mess, though no doubt someone back at Langley would try to hang it on him—anything to avoid tainting Dom, and by association every asset he ever handled, every higher-up who ever tagged him for promotion. Maybe they’d settle on the truth, or a version they could accept without having to understand elementals and Hosts and the whole fucked-up witchcraft world—Dom had turned, or started sour. But Gabe wasn’t optimistic. He’d been in the service too long. His neck was furthest out; he’d get the knife when the time came, whether they thought they were killing him for treason or gross incompetence.
Fine. Let them. He hadn’t expected to die in bed since Cairo.
But he had to catch Dom and Sokolov, stop them while there was still time. For that, Alestair said, for their ritual, they needed information. Everything we can get on Sokolov, especially the details of his birth. Date, time, location—precise as possible, my dear man. The more we know, the more certain a fix we’ll have on our target, and the greater our assurance the ritual will work.
Not Dominic? Gabe had asked.
Well, no. Your man’s an operator. He will have obscured the key details in his file. Stick to Sokolov.
Gabe found the file under S, propped it open, and copied the key details into a notebook from his pocket: city of birth, address, date, time. Nice and clear. Hopefully it would help. Every little bit, right? He closed the file cabinet, locked it, tore the notebook page free, folded it small, and slipped it under his watchband.
He turned off the lights in the vault before he emerged into the hallway. So far, so good. Look busy. Walk fast. Quick steps, hands in pockets, head down. Turn right to leave the station. Down the front steps. The rest of the world waits past those street-level doors: a chance to make this whole damn mess right. Beyond, Prague sidewalks lay cold and caked with snow and soot.
“Gabe!”
Far enough away for him to have plausibly misheard. Just a few more steps. He pushed through the double doors into the chill, and paced himself as he walked. The steam of his own breath wreathed him. Stay calm. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Someone caught his arm. He turned, too sharply for innocence.
Josh Toms stood behind him, panting and purple from the run.
“Josh. You’ll get cold without a coat.”
The kid shook: cold, exertion, and nerves. “What are you doing, Gabe?”
“Taking a walk.” He stilled his heart, counted time for his breath, kept his eyes on the young man’s eyes. He could act normal, when needed. “I have to clear my head. This thing with Dom, I can’t believe he’d betray us.”
“You were in the records vault. I saw you come out. And you headed straight for the street.” Damn. Gabe had been right—the kid was wasted behind a desk. “Are you working Sokolov for Morozova? For the Flame, and the Ice?”
And because Gabe was a professional, he didn’t slip, didn’t flee, didn’t slug Josh in the face. He considered, for the slightest of instants, palming the notepad page, eating it on the way back to the station. Calculation took the drawing of a breath: Josh was scared, and desperate, like the rest of them. He knew—too much. Where had he learned those names? What had Gabe let slip during his argument with Alestair earlier? But Josh had mentioned Morozova in connection with the Ice, which meant, shit, he’d been in the Vodnář. Gabe stepped toward him. Spoke low. “I’m not working for Morozova,” he said. “She’s working for me. There’s a deep game here, Josh. An iceberg game. You only know the tip of it.”
“You’re a traitor.”
“I’m not the traitor here. Dom is, and maybe others. I think I can stop him. But I can’t do it through official channels.”
“God damn it, Gabe, if Dom’s soured, if you have proof, Langley has to know. Frank has to know.” Josh caught Gabe’s wrist and pulled him back toward the embassy.
Gabe didn’t move. Josh stumbled; Gabe caught his lapel and dragged him closer, face to face, nose to nose. Hair-thin wrinkles crossed the kid’s forehead. Gabe had never noticed them before. “You think Langley doesn’t know? Who sent Dom in the first damn place?”
“Tell me what’s going on, Gabe.” Pleading. “Give me something.”
He almost did. Damn him, he almost did. What would relief feel like? To tell this kid about the witches and the weird, about the truths Gabe wished he didn’t know? Pain shared is halved, Ma used to say. But Gabe had traveled farther, done more, and learned some pains don’t halve by the sharing.
“I can’t,” he said finally. “This isn’t your game. But—I can fix everything, if you let me.”
Josh said nothing.
Gabe let him go. “I’m going down that street. You don’t have to stop me.”
Sometimes authority is all you have.
He turned, walked away.
Josh didn’t chase him.
• • •
Tanya wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she reached the Vodnář, but the air of the mundane unnerved her. It was business as usual. Witches nursed their drinks over the usual animated arguments about pharmacopoeia, while men in stiff-collared jackets sank into the shadows of the booths. She shifted the satchel on
her shoulder, letting its weight against her hip ground her. Normalcy was good. Normalcy was the goal. If they could pull this ritual off, if she could really trust the American—and the Ice, for that matter—then no one ever needed to be the wiser.
Jordan caught her eye from the doorway leading toward the back rooms. Toward the chamber that rested atop the confluence of the ley lines. Tanya could almost feel it, vibrating beneath her feet, threading through the components in her bag. She smiled wearily. Jordan pressed her lips together in response, and jerked her head toward the darkened corridor.
It was time.
“He’s not here yet,” Jordan warned her, as they made their way into the bowels of the Vodnář. She didn’t need to say who.
“Will he really come?” Tanya’s own voice sounded faint to her ears.
Jordan’s teeth clicked together. “Depends.”
Tanya understood. It depended on which Gabe valued more—being a good little patriot, allergic to any collusion with the Soviets, or saving the world. Well, most Westerners she’d met believed them to be the same thing. Tanya’s task was to untwine the two.
And now for the holding of breath: to find out if all her developmental work had been for naught. This time, it had been more than just a spy game. She’d meant every word of warning about the Flame. Whether Gabe believed her or not was on him.
Nadia already sat cross-legged against one wall of the curved chamber. Candlelight cut sharp shadows across her face as she studied Alestair across the room. Alestair, for his part, was making a good show of calm, his hands propped atop the head of his umbrella and his posture relaxed, but Tanya saw the taut muscles of his neck.
“Well, then,” he said, as Tanya and Jordan entered. “I suppose we’d best begin.”
“What about Pritchard?” Fear coiled tight in Tanya’s belly. Without his elemental attunement, the ritual wouldn’t be nearly as strong.
Alestair exhaled through his nose. “I believe he is willing, but the choice is ultimately his. Unlike some, we are not in the business of coercion.” He smiled thinly. “Now, if you’ll kindly prepare the instruments, I think I’ve found an appropriate passage—”
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two Page 21