Remembrandt

by Robin King

  “Is something wrong?” Elijah peered at me in the rearview mirror.

  “What . . . what’s that building?” I pointed at the building to our right. “I know that place. I’ve seen it before.”

  I was only seven years old. I was playing with a puzzle on my mom’s desk in her office. The puzzle consisted of one nail pounded only partway into a block of wood. Several loose nails were strewn around the block. The object of the puzzle was to balance the loose nails on the one protruding from the block. I kept my hands steady, placing each nail carefully to complete the puzzle. All the nails balanced! I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in my mom’s office, so when I heard her coming I scrambled under her desk.

  “The plans really are perfect,” she had said in Russian, and though I barely spoke the language then, I understood most of what I heard. I couldn’t see her, but since I didn’t hear any response, I knew she must be on the phone. My stomach tightened as one of her toes neared me. I held my breath.

  “You know how I love my art, Yuri.” She laughed and dropped something on the desk. A gush of air caused a paper to fall from the desk and land on the ground just a few inches from my leg. While my mom continued her conversation on the phone, I studied the paper. It was an architectural drawing of a large, square building. Round columns rose from the ground floor to a grand balcony several stories high. Sculpted vines with five-petaled flowers wound around the columns and continued up and onto the edge of the balcony.

  “Yes, I know it’s more than just a museum.” My mom’s voice wavered. “Yes, yes. I’ll be there for the groundbreaking.” I heard her steps as she began to pace back and forth along the length of the room, drawing in deep breaths. I pressed my body against the inside corner of the desk to conceal myself until she left.

  Elijah’s voice broke into my memory. “That is the Rejnikof Museum of Art. It is one of the newer museums in Moscow, though I’ve heard it is a popular attraction. How do you know it?”

  “I saw a picture of it once. I was just surprised to see it here.” I searched through my memories, recalling events after I had seen the drawing in my mom’s office. Did she ever go to Russia? I knew she wanted to return to her ancestors’ homeland, but it seemed all of her trips brought her to places closer to home. “I never imagined it here.”

  This building appeared different in real life than the drawing, and yet I knew it was the same one. The columns and sculpted flowers could not be mistaken. It was the building from my mother’s office. I couldn’t look away. I felt drawn to it, like a part of my mom was there somehow. I swallowed, trying to keep her memory and the feelings associated with it buried deep within me.

  The light changed to green, and Elijah continued down the road. Looking out the car window, I tried to concentrate on the sights so that by the time we arrived at my apartment, my mind had turned to the task at hand, compartmentalizing my memories for the moment. I needed to get to work.

  “Here we are.” He pulled the car near the curb of a red-brick building. As he removed my luggage from the trunk, I succumbed to the urge and traced my fingers along the sleek, midnight blue exterior of his car. This one was different than the one from St. Petersburg. I wasn’t sure the make of the car. I had never seen the shield-like logo on the front grill. It must have been foreign, probably something Russian or Swiss, and obviously out of my price range, with its soft leather interior and chrome wheels.

  Elijah escorted me to the elevator of the newly built apartment building. A security guard sat at a long desk near the entrance and nodded at Elijah as we passed. While we waited for the elevator to reach us, I examined the lobby. It looked much more like a grand hotel than an apartment building. Red carpet covered the floor, and marble walls surrounded us.

  Upon entering the elevator, Elijah pressed the number 8 at the top of the panel of buttons. My stomach jumped before we arrived at the eighth floor. The elevator doors opened to a deserted and immaculate hallway. Artwork hung on the hallway walls, and fresh flower arrangements filled the vases sitting on side tables. I almost didn’t want to step onto the light beige carpet. I felt like removing my shoes out of respect.

  Elijah obviously didn’t share my reluctance, because he walked right off the elevator with my luggage. I hesitantly followed him down the hallway. Soon he paused and pointed to a maple door with an “84” written in gold script. “This is where your handler will be staying.”

  “Is he already here?” I asked. Elijah nodded. I had mixed feelings about having Daly’s room near mine. Some part of me was grateful to have his help and support on this mission, but the other part wanted to punch him in the gut or maybe sneak a jalapeño pepper into his food. I wondered if he ordered takeout. Maybe I could . . .

  “And here is your room,” Elijah interrupted my scheming. He used a small key to unlock the next door and placed my bags just inside. He handed me the key. “I will be downstairs in the morning to take you to campus. Good night.” He turned and left.

  My apartment was everything my dorm at Brown wasn’t. The entryway opened to a living room with velvety olive couches and plush tan carpet. To the left, the room transitioned into what I assumed was a gourmet kitchen, which I would keep myself from using. I didn’t want to ruin the perfection of the place with the smell of burned food. The only separation between the two rooms was a long granite countertop lined with barstools. The far wall of the living room was made entirely of glass. I stepped toward it to get a snapshot of the view to keep in my mental scrapbook. The cityscape consisted mostly of old factories with smoke billowing out and dissipating into the night sky. The Moscow River flowed in the distance, and I spied a few of the well-known Russian domes on small mosques on the other side of the river, but they were too far away to appreciate fully.

  I smiled, almost glad the view had one small flaw. “Perfection is overrated,” my mom used to always say when things weren’t going my way. It never made sense when I was younger, but I was beginning to see that life’s imperfections sometimes had meaning. Without the bad, how could we ever appreciate the good?

  I still wasn’t tired after I unpacked and showered. I lay down on the king-sized bed and stared up at the intricate ceiling moldings. Reviewing mission details and flipping through mental pages of medical textbooks didn’t make me drowsy at all. Too antsy to remain in bed any longer, I jumped up.

  French doors opened to a small balcony off my bedroom, so I put on the robe I’d found in the bathroom and went out. Car exhaust and factory smoke filled the air. I almost went back inside, but a slight breeze from somewhere outside of Moscow blew in and diffused the pungency. I pulled the robe tighter around me, wishing I had someone here with me, a specific someone.

  “Nice night.”

  I jumped, then grabbed the balcony railing to balance myself. The soft voice came from the balcony just a few feet from my own. Daly sat reclining at a small metal bistro table with a wine glass in his hand.

  “Why do people keep doing that?” I couldn’t keep from raising my voice in exasperation.

  “Doing what?”

  “Sneaking up on me in the dark!”

  “You may not have noticed, but I was here first. I could say you did the sneaking. Which I guess would make sense, since you are the masterful spy. I’m just the behind-the-scenes handler.” He flashed an apologetic smile at me. I looked away. He was not going to get off so easily.

  “So are you ready for tomorrow?” he said smoothly, melting my tension a bit.

  “I’m ready.” Ready, but still nervous. I wondered if I would always feel this way before a mission.

  “It’ll get easier with each successive mission, though I doubt you’ll ever be completely relaxed. It’s actually good to feel slightly nervous. It reminds you to focus on your task.” He took a sip from his wine glass.

  “Drinking on the job, I see.” I pulled a chair out from my own table and moved it to the side of the balcony closest to him.

  “Drinking, yes. Becoming intoxicated, no.” He held up
what I thought had been a wine bottle on his table. From my current position, I could read the Russian label. It was only sparkling cider. “I don’t drink alcohol,” he explained.

  This information surprised me. Daly came across as one of those men who frequently wined and dined at expensive restaurants. I could see him using his deep voice and dark eyes to swoon beautiful young women while they sipped champagne together. My whole idea of him was starting to come apart.

  “Why not?” I didn’t hide the surprise in my voice.

  He didn’t answer for a few moments, and I began to regret the question. It really wasn’t any of my business, but a part of me wanted to know him better, understand him more.

  His face hardened, and his eyes turned to the nearby warehouses. “I’ve seen what alcohol does to people. Lowered inhibitions, a lot of poor choices, and causing harm to others. It’s not who I am.”

  Now his dark eyes burrowed into mine. I couldn’t help but feel a new respect for him. The bantering that often accompanied our time together played in the back of my mind. I didn’t understand why Daly made me so crazy sometimes. It seemed childish now. Like how Tanner and I often taunted one another, except we always ended up laughing in the end.

  “Besides,” Daly went on, breaking our gaze, “I know how to have a good time without it.” He raised his glass high in the air toward me. I pretended to hold my own glass, and we feigned clinking them together.

  We sat in silence for several moments, and I’m sure he was immersed in his own pool of thoughts. The faint sound of a siren in the distance brought me back to reality.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Hmm?” Daly rubbed at his chin.

  “How do you do stuff like this” —I motioned to the apartment and the city of Moscow that lay before us— “and still feel like you have a normal life?” This question had been nagging me for weeks, but until it fell from my lips I hadn’t realized my need for an answer. I guess the duality of my relationship with Daly reminded me of the same incongruous situation of my life.

  “I’m probably not the best example of having it all,” he emphasized the words. “My life is The Company. I start and end my day with work. But when I first started with them, Itosu shared part of his philosophy with me.”

  “Yeah, he does like to do that.” I smiled as I pictured Sensei Itosu’s face, etched with lines of wisdom.

  “He quoted a French writer to me.” Daly’s brow furrowed. “I can’t remember the name, but I’ll always remember what he said: ‘We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.’”

  “André Bertha,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The French writer who said that.”

  Daly smiled and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I guess by now I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve read that somewhere.”

  I’d actually heard it on a TV show, but I didn’t correct him.

  “What Itosu meant is that being an operative is a mask we wear, a job we do,” Daly went on. “It’s not exactly who we are, but it’s always a part of us too. If I stopped being a handler tomorrow, some piece of me would always be on a mission.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “So what you’re saying is now that I’m an operative, there’s no turning back?”

  “No.” He sat up straight and leaned closer to the railing. His voice came out with a quiet intensity. “What I’m saying is that it was already a part of you before you even knew about the organization. Think about it—solving puzzles, foreign languages, physical training, even spying. You can’t tell me that your first time doing any of these things was with The Company.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a smug smile on his face. I had a feeling that, like Golkov, Daly knew about my involvement in the Caesar Augustus statue prank.

  He was right, though, and it didn’t bug me as much as I thought it would.

  The sky was nearly black now, except for a waning crescent moon high in the sky, indicating it was well past midnight. No matter how much energy I had before, I knew I would need my rest for the days ahead.

  “I probably should get some sleep.” I stood up slowly, almost disappointed that our conversation had to end. “I’ll see you . . . well, actually, I guess I’ll just hear you tomorrow, Mr. Daly.”

  “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll be successful.”

  I smiled at him and turned to go back inside.

  “And Alexandra?”

  “Yes?” I stopped at the doorway.

  “You can call me James,” he said softly.

  “Thanks . . . James.” Despite this being one of our first civilized conversations, his name felt awkward on my tongue.

  21

  Change of Plans

  “I am sorry that my son, Adrian, could not be here this morning,” Dr. Kuzmenko said in English, his Russian accent so heavy I had to concentrate carefully to understand. I wished I could ask him to speak in Russian to save us both the trouble.

  “Will he be here tomorrow?” I spoke slowly for his benefit.

  “I am not sure if he will be . . . better by then. I know he very much wanted to show you the benefits of attending university here.” Dr. Kuzmenko straightened an already neat pile of folders on his desk. He moved to another stack, his wrinkled hands trembling. “I hope you do not mind following an old man like me around.” He smiled, but his bloodshot eyes spoke of restless nights. There was something more, too. I couldn’t explain it. I wasn’t an expert at reading people, but if I hadn’t known about his association with Red Eye, I would have described him as a cross between Santa Claus and Albert Einstein. His kind, fatherly face had a far-off look, like he was trying to solve an elaborate equation in the back of his mind. I couldn’t imagine him being a terrorist of any kind.

  For the rest of the day, I played my role as prospective medical student. Dr. Kuzmenko took me to the hospital first, where I followed him during his rounds. I had to catch myself a few times from responding to questions asked of me in Russian; instead, I waited for the doctor to translate. Though his language skills were not amateur, his mind seemed to be somewhere else all day. I even bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when he told me a patient had to have his “appendages” removed instead of his “appendix.”

  Dr. Kuzmenko taught academy classes in the afternoon. During his last class, I noticed his perspiration increasing. By the end of class, sweat beads fell from the sides of his face to his shoulders. He didn’t even seem to notice, a glazed-over look in his eyes.

  “I was hoping to try some authentic home-cooked Russian food,” I mentioned as I followed him back to his campus office. I had scripted this line originally for use on his son, but found myself using it on the father, with less flirtatious undertones.

  “There are some good restaurants near the hospital.” Dr. Kuzmenko glanced at his watch. That was not exactly the response I was looking for. Maybe I should have batted my eyelashes. “I have another engagement tonight,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow at academy?” He tightened his grip on his small brown briefcase.

  “Yes,” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment. What kind of an operative was I if I couldn’t even get an invite to his home? And why was he acting so strange?

  I watched him walk rigidly down the sidewalk. When he was almost out of sight, I made a decision. I was going to his house, whether I was invited or not. If there was a chance the deep-cover operative was still alive, I couldn’t wait another day and hope she remained that way.

  I searched my mental library and reviewed protocol for following a subject. Keeping a close but safe distance from Dr. Kuzmenko, I shadowed him across campus and to the street corner. The sun had already disappeared behind the buildings and mountains, and a lack of sufficient streetlights allowed me to remain undetected. I knelt beside a wide oak tree and pretended to tie my shoe. Dr. Kuzmenko stood on the sidewalk for about a minute until a black car with tinted windows pulled over n
ext to him. He opened the back passenger door and got in. After a few seconds, I stood up and hailed a taxi.

  “Follow that car,” I instructed the taxi driver in Russian. I kept my eyes on the black car, wishing there would have been time to call Elijah.

  After nearly twenty minutes, Dr. Kuzmenko’s car stopped on a deserted road near the outskirts of Moscow, not too far from the apartment I slept at the previous night. Even with the car windows rolled up I recognized the acrid pollution from the manufacturing plants.

  My taxi driver pulled over near a large, gray utility box about five hundred yards down the street from the black car. After I paid him, I slipped out of the car and crouched down behind the box. The taxi driver shook his head at my strange actions and turned around to leave the same way he came.

  I watched Dr. Kuzmenko exit his car and peer over both his shoulders before proceeding toward the warehouse closest to him. The neglected building looked like the one in the photo where I’d first seen the doctor. It seemed to be the only building in the vicinity not producing smoke to add to the smog of the city.

  With his briefcase in hand, Dr. Kuzmenko crossed the deserted parking lot and stopped at a rusted metal door. A drop of water hit my exposed face, and I looked up. It was now too dark to see threatening clouds looming over my position, but the starless night warned me of an impending storm.

  As more raindrops began to fall, Dr. Kuzmenko’s white-gray hair began to darken, saturated with water. It took me a minute to realize why he waited outside in the rain. The door didn’t have a knob or handle. There was no way for him to enter the building from that side. He brought his suitcase up to his chest to hug it, shielding it from the precipitation.

  “Dana?” I jumped and looked around for the voice that had erupted in my ear. No one was there.

  “Where are you?” I recognized Daly’s—James’s—voice. I almost burst into laughter when I realized the voice was coming from my earpiece.