by Robin King
Daly shifted in his seat and opened the folder in front of me to begin reviewing the details inside. The mission sounded simple enough at first. I would pose as a prospective transfer student to one of the top medical schools in the world, Sechenov Moscow Medical Academy. Now I understood why I had been learning so much about medicine. My mission was to befriend Adrian Kuzmenko, a current student at the academy, and son of a Russian doctor and scientist with apparent ties to an underground terrorist organization. The organization had banded together during the Cold War and was still bent on making Russia a world superpower.
“We call them Red Eye,” Golkov explained, “mostly because group members only contact each other in the dark of night. One of our deep-cover operatives has been sending us information for the past year on their developments, but so far no action taken on their part has posed a threat, at least that we can prove.” He took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, our undercover operative has broken protocol and missed every weekly check-in since her meeting with Mr. Daly last month. We have received no correspondence from her.” Golkov’s lips formed a tight, thin line, which I knew meant he was worried.
Daly broke in. “Yacov Kuzmenko is a top doctor at the academy hospital and has been working at a research lab, developing new medications for skin disorders. Before our operative disappeared, she sent this photo showing Dr. Kuzmenko entering a facility we suspected to be a meeting ground for Red Eye.”
Daly pulled an eight-by-ten-inch photo from the mission folder and held it toward me. It was dark in the scene, but surprisingly clear for a photograph taken from a far distance. A gray-haired man in an oversized navy coat stood near the door of a dilapidated warehouse. He looked over his shoulder, so the profile of his face was in view. His closely trimmed black beard was sprinkled with silver hairs, his dark eyes half closed with exhaustion, but cautious at the same time. He carried a leather case in one of his arms.
“We have no other proof that he is working with them or that they are up to something that would pose a threat to the United States or its allies. Since our eyes and ears are no longer available, your mission is two-fold.”
“First, we need you to get close to the family and see if Kuzmenko really is working with them. Second, you must discover the extent of his involvement and how his medical and scientific expertise are being utilized.”
Daly still leaned toward me with the photo in hand. I couldn’t help but notice that he smelled of sweet vanilla. Memories of my dad’s famous vanilla-bean ice cream flooded my mind. He used to make it from scratch every summer weekend. I could almost taste the creamy texture on my tongue. I missed those days.
Golkov gave more mission details while he faced the back wall, pointing at photos and instructions of the mission on the touch screen. I glanced up at Daly and caught him staring at me before he looked up at Golkov. I checked my reflection in the spotless glass of Golkov’s desk, but didn’t see anything amiss. I ran my fingers through my hair anyway.
“You’ll leave Tuesday and be gone over fall break,” Daly said. “That will prevent you from missing too much school, yet still give you several days to be trusted enough by the Kuzmenko family that they will let you into their lives without suspicion as to your intentions.”
“So I have just a few days to get ready and make sure I know all that medical stuff I’ve been studying in Russian?” I asked incredulously.
“You won’t be using your Russian for this mission, at least in the normal sense,” Golkov stated. “Your cover story is that you are entering the English program at the university and know little Russian. Your fluency in the language will not be ignored—in fact, it is key to the mission’s success. Think of it as a sort of secret weapon, a way to listen in on the family without them suspecting you.”
The mission logistics and a session with Sensei Itosu took up the rest of the day, and I was glad for the preoccupation. During my walk home, I ran through the plethora of information thrown at me during the meeting with Golkov and Daly. I wanted to be prepared for my first real mission. I watched the meeting in my mind until I understood all the information. Though it wasn’t necessary, I forced myself to review it again. I couldn’t face the haunting memory from the previous night.
When I got to the dorm, I didn’t sleep. I just had to keep my mind busy. After studying for several hours and getting ahead in all of my classes, I pulled out William’s compilation of Shakespeare’s plays. I held the book in my hands while I viewed in my head the verses Elijah had quoted.
Before the sun rose, my stomach growled. I rolled off my bed and searched through the stash of snacks under my bed, using only my bedside lamp as a light source. Casey slept soundly in her bed, her sheets and blanket surrounding her in piles. I found a package of cookies. Although I hadn’t eaten any myself, the package was half empty. Casey!
I took a few of the cookies and rolled the end of the package shut to keep the rest of them fresh, trying to prevent the packaging from crinkling too loudly. I took a permanent marker from my top desk drawer and wrote “ALEX” in large letters on the front of the package. My eyes focused above where I had written my name. The words “double frosting” stood out on the packaging. I licked the frosting off one side of a cookie and let it melt on my tongue. They knew what they were doing when they decided to double the frosting on these cookies. Twice the yummy goodness. Twice the sugar rush. Double the . . .
It finally hit me. I had been looking at the passages Elijah had given me all wrong. Both had the word “agent” for a reason.
Agent. Agent.
Double agent.
That was the message he was sending me! The only problem was that it created even more questions in my mind. Was Elijah working for someone else? Did he want me to join him? Was he warning me about someone in The Company? The questions flooded through my mind. I had never worried about whether joining the organization was right or wrong. I trusted Golkov and Daly, but what if there was more to The Company than I knew? What if I was on the wrong side?
19
Better Left Forgotten
William stood up from the table when I arrived at the Ratty to meet him for a lunchtime study session. “Como estás?” he asked.
“Fine.” I didn’t even bother to say it in Spanish. I set my bag on the table, plopped down on the metal chair, and leaned back.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes searched my face, and I knew even the thickest of Casey’s concealers couldn’t camouflage the dark circles under my eyes.
“I’m just a little tired.”
“We don’t have to study today. I’m sure half of campus is cutting class anyway because of fall vacation. If you need a break we could . . .” He looked down and started playing with the crumpled corners of his Spanish textbook.
“No, I need this.” I sat up in my chair. The cafeteria began filling with people, the distracting noise whirling around me. A lack-of-sleep headache began pounding behind my eyes. I rubbed my temples with my fingers. “Can we go somewhere else? I’ve got a lot going on in my head right now, and this chaos isn’t helping.” I looked at the crowds of people.
“Sure.”
When we left the building, the sun hit my face. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my skin absorb the warmth. I exhaled.
“Better?” William spoke softly and stood at my side.
“A little.”
We walked down the sidewalk in a comfortable silence. Several students and teachers strolled the sidewalks or lounged on the Lincoln Field grass, taking advantage of what would probably be one of the last nice days before winter set in. William led the way to a large oak tree that rose as tall as the old brick Lyman Building. Orange and brown leaves covered the ground under the tree. I sat down, using them as a cushion.
“So, do you want to talk about it?” William joined me on the ground, where he looked slightly out of place in his slacks.
I stared at the pin stripes on his vest. “Uh . . .” Where would I start? There was so much I wanted to tell
him about my past, my memories, The Company. I played with my new ring, a reminder of a new passion and a complication in my life. I looked up at William. There was one part of me that I felt safe sharing with him. It was time.
“I want to tell you something.” The nerves in my stomach did a flip, but there was no turning back now.
“What?” His voice carried a trace of uncertainty.
I tried to reassure him with a smile. “It might be easier if I show you.” I scanned the campus grounds as far as I could see.
“Okay?” His brow furrowed and he squinted at me as if inspecting my face for clues.
I spun around and faced the tree, covering my eyes with my hands.
He laughed. “Are you going to count to ten so I can hide? Is that what the young coeds do now for fun?”
I knew he meant it as a joke, but his use of the word “young” made me feel my age. I moved my hands to hide the rest of my face.
“No, really, what are you doing?” he pressed.
“Look at what you see right now on campus. People, bags, books, bikes, cars—any little detail.”
“I’m looking.”
Seeing in my mind what he was seeing, I said, “There’s a couple on the grass near a bike rack. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black hoodie. She has on an ivory sweater and brown scarf. There are five bikes on the rack. A red helmet is hanging from the faded yellow bike with the banana seat. To the right of them, on the steps of Sayles Hall, is a bald guy in brown slacks with faded knees. He’s drinking from a Coffee Exchange cup, and there’s a leather bag on the step next to him. A white truck is parked by the side of the building. The Vermont license plate number is L54-Y77.”
“How do you . . .”
“Ask me something. Anything,” I interrupted, but still didn’t move.
“Um . . . there’s a girl sitting on the base of the . . .”
“Marcus Aurelius statue,” I broke in, anticipating his question. “Her red hair is pulled back and she has on a white shirt and black skirt. She’s reading . . .” I had to concentrate hard this time. “I can’t see the title. It’s too far away, but it has a blue cover with yellow writing.”
“How many windows does the Caswell Hall have on the front?” he asked, sounding as if he didn’t think I would be able to answer.
I counted from the picture in my head. “Fifty-four. If you include the windows in the doors, then fifty-eight.” I faintly heard him whisper the numbers as he checked my response.
When he seemed satisfied with my answer, he continued, “There’s a large yellow poster on the bulletin board by the Metcalf Building. What’s it for?”
I saw the posting he described like it was right before me. “Join the Phi Delta in a blast to the past! Re-live the nineties in all its wide legged jeans and hypercolor shirts glory. Don’t forget your Birkenstocks and scrunchies! November 30, 8 to midnight. Andrews Dining Hall. Be prepared to dance the night away to Ricky Martin and N’Sync!” Hmm. It almost sounded like fun, if I had an ounce of rhythm in my being.
William continued to ask questions, and I answered each one. I didn’t miss a detail. After several more minutes of his inquiries, he finally stopped.
I turned around then so we were sitting next to each other again, gazing out over the campus. I couldn’t look him in the eye, yet I imagined his incredulous expression.
“You can ask me who I saw while walking to class on Friday, and I could point each of them out in a yearbook. The day I ran you over in the hallway—I can describe the expression on every person’s face. Movies, music, books, family vacations, my first day of kindergarten—they all play in my head like I was there. I remember everything. Everything I see, feel, taste, smell, and hear. If I’ve experienced something, it’s there waiting to be relived.” I pointed to my head. “Sometimes it pushes its way through even when I don’t want it to, especially when I dream.”
I waited for the “Wow!” or the “That’s amazing!” but he said nothing. He scooted closer so our shoulders touched. His usual professor-like composure relaxed, and he took one of my hands. I couldn’t move. Warmth rushed over my body.
“That must be overwhelming sometimes,” he said.
His fingers traced the lines on my hand until they rested, intertwined with mine. I didn’t want him to let go. I held my breath and turned to face him. In his sympathetic blue eyes, I saw that he understood better than I could have thought.
“No one should have to . . . you shouldn’t have to . . . there are some things that are better left forgotten.” His words soothed me. Somehow he saw past the novelty of what I could do, and comprehended the anguish that could be associated with perfect recall—remembering every embarrassment, harsh word, traumatic experience. “You don’t always have to act so tough all the time,” he added softly. “I’m here.”
He reached up with his other hand and touched my cheek, wiping away moisture I hadn’t even realized was there. His fingers lingered on my face and then slowly down until his hand rested on my neck. My skin tingled where he had touched.
The world around us disappeared. We were no longer on campus, no longer professor and student. Just a girl and a guy in perfect harmony—a duet. I wasn’t the violin out of tune anymore. He had suddenly come to the piano and played the A so I could tune my string. It felt so right to be next to him, so comfortable. My pounding heart began to slow, and I let my exhausted body lean closer to him. I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. He stroked the side of my face until, at last, my mind and body gave up the fight of the last two days and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I woke up with a start and shivered. How long had I been asleep? Then I noticed the brown wool pants where my head lay. William!
I sat straight up and glanced around the courtyard. The sun had disappeared behind the campus buildings.
“Good morning, Alex. Or should I say good night?”
“Oh, shoot! What time is it?”
William glanced at his watch. “Almost 7:30. Need to be somewhere?”
“No, I just have to . . .” Do I tell him I have a midnight flight to Russia? While I’m at it, maybe I should just quickly mention that I’m on my way to infiltrate a terrorist organization by getting chummy with the son of a doctor who is possibly a member. “I’m going out of town for fall break, and I need to pack before I leave.” I stood up and brushed the leaves off my backside.
We cut across the grass toward my dorm. Don’t ask where. Don’t ask where.
“Where you headed?” He obviously didn’t listen to my inner pleas.
I couldn’t lie, not to William. “Moscow.”
He stopped in the center of Lincoln Field and grabbed my arm, his eyes wide. “You’re flying halfway around the world?” His voice came out in English this time.
“It’s some work for Golkov.” There. I didn’t lie, and I didn’t say too much either. Wasn’t it still a lie, though? I crossed my fingers behind my back, just in case.
“You sure do a lot of work for him. And on fall break, too?” To my disappointment, William let go of my arm and we continued across the field and onto the sidewalk.
“I love my work.” That was true too. I loved doing Golkov’s puzzles, and the sessions with Sensei Itosu. I’d even grown to enjoy working with Daly. And it wasn’t just the excitement of it all. I felt like I was a part of something important, like I was important.
“I can tell you love it. It’s just . . . I guess I was thinking we’d do some long runs together, since I won’t be teaching.” His voice trailed off when a boy and a girl came racing down the stairs of my building, laughing as they ran right between us on the sidewalk. A couple sitting on the steps glanced in our direction as we arrived in front of my dorm. William cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.
I broke the silence. “Thanks . . . for your help today.” I wanted to say more, but I felt self-conscious at our audience.
“No problem,” he replied. “My shoulder is always here for you.” I gra
bbed the stair rail to head inside, but before I had completely turned around, William winked. My face felt hot and my head light. I was glad for the support of the railing. I gave him a weak smile before making my way into the building.
20
Moscow
There was an air of intensity in Moscow that I didn’t feel in St. Petersburg. On the drive from the airport to my temporary apartment, the city overwhelmed me. Traffic rushed by, and people dashed down sidewalks in opposing directions. On every block, skyscrapers towered over old churches and palaces, contradicting each other.
Elijah looked at me in the rearview mirror. Just as last time, our conversation was scarce as we drove. I watched the city pass by while I worked up the courage to ask him about our conversation at the museum in Providence.
“I’ve been wanting to talk with you about what you said to me the last time we spoke. I read your suggestions and . . .”
“Ah, I’m glad you have enjoyed reading the classics. There are treasures hidden within them that many people have yet to discover and that others will never understand.” He tugged at his earlobe, where a tiny earpiece with an almost invisible wire extended from his ear down the side of his neck to disappear beneath his collar. The new earrings provided by Millard felt heavy on my ears as I realized we were not alone. The Company would hear everything I said on this mission, and the camera brooch recorded what I saw. Elijah would not be able to give me the answers I sought at this time.
“We will pass by the Kremlin before we reach the apartment,” he announced. “Keep your eyes to the right.”
Though it was dark outside, it felt like day to my internal clock. The city lights and grandness of buildings differed greatly from what I was used to in Washington and Rhode Island. I stared wide-eyed at the Kremlin with its domes and spires, my gaze dancing excitedly from one colored dome to the next.
A few blocks down, we stopped at a red light. While we waited, I spotted a tall, gray brick building and gasped as a memory flashed in my mind.