Twenty-Five
Camp Peary, Virginia
Nadiya breathed in the cool, artificially scented pine air and tried to shake off her unease. It wasn’t just the mock ski
lodge, or the painted wooden mountains in the distance, or even the pile of documents (CONFIDENTIAL, CLEARANCE REQ., they read) on the table before her. It was Giselle’s presence, her nearness.
She hadn’t planned the words that had come out of her mouth on the walk to the helicopter. Cruel, impulsive words, born of
fear and shame.
You made me look weak.
It wasn’t true. Not really. Nadiya’s reputation had been destroyed before Giselle had run down from the stands and sheltered
her with her arms. If anything, Giselle had saved her from worse. Enveloped in Giselle’s embrace, Nadiya had managed to stanch
her tears and steady her breathing. She had allowed herself to be comforted—if only for a moment.
And then Giselle had been pulled off her and Nadiya had been carried away. Only half-conscious by then, nauseous with fear,
Dr. Iver had brought her back to the dean’s residence. She didn’t remember very much after that. Just Dr. Iver’s face hovering
over hers, blurred by her darkening vision.
“Why?” Nadiya had choked out.
Before she could hear Dr. Iver’s answer, she slipped under.
The next morning, she had woken to find her hands bandaged and nodes on her temples. Nadiya ripped off the nodes and began
to tear the bandages when Dr. Iver entered and sat down on the edge of her bed.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Nadiya’s throat was too raw to speak.
“I’m not displeased with your performance. Neither is Professor Blanchard.”
She remained silent, everything in her head a jumble.
“I hope you understand why I couldn’t warn you. The element of surprise was essential. Otherwise it would have seemed staged.”
“Wasn’t it?” she asked hoarsely.
As ever, Nadiya could not get Dr. Iver to give up his secrets. She almost wanted to scream. Why? Why did you do it to me?
All Dr. Iver would say was that it was necessary. Necessary to demonstrate the advanced nature of Professor Blanchard’s technology. Necessary to impress the rep from the
Farm. Necessary to win the war. But she hadn’t even fired the gun. Whatever Dr. Iver wanted to show off to Deckard, it wasn’t
the Luster weapons.
Now she was here, miles away, thrust into this bizarre, half-real world, unspoken questions still burning on her tongue. Before
leaving, she had taken her father’s cross and slipped it into her hip pocket. Its presence both comforted and disquieted her.
She felt that she could remember her father with a little more clarity now—the living version of him, the sparkle in his dark
eyes. His voice, speaking in that Arabic-English hybrid that the replica spoke, too.
It seemed that the CIA had already implemented Professor Blanchard’s new technology. The holograms looked as real and solid
as the replica had. No glitches. No flaws.
Dr. Iver had also refused to divulge the true purpose of their mission, or to explain why they had been chosen, so Nadiya
was forced to guess. She glanced around the table, letting her gaze rest briefly on each of the other students in turn. Her
compatriots, she supposed.
Klaudia’s inclusion was the most self-evident—she was Valeran’s top-ranked student and a fluent Russian speaker. As far as Nadiya was concerned, that was justification enough.
Her eyes shifted to Julian. Trying to be nonchalant, Nadiya reached for the folder that contained their personal files. She
slid Julian’s out and read it with increasing irritation. After some basic biographical facts, it detailed how he had run
for mayor of Boston at eighteen and won, only to be arrested for embezzlement and taking bribes a few months later. It had
been a national scandal.
Nadiya wondered why someone like Julian would need to take bribes. The file included a supplemental form about notable members
of his family: senators, prominent hedge fund managers, charity directors, and even a secretary of state. But still Julian
had accepted private jet rides to various far-flung luxury vacation destinations, accompanied by a different girl every time.
He had also skimmed tax revenue to fund a three-night stay in Turks and Caicos.
The last paragraph of the file noted that Julian had a sister, age nine, and a brother, age fifteen, who had passed away less
than a year ago. Nadiya found her sympathy was limited.
At last, her gaze flickered to Giselle. Giselle. Both Dr. Iver and Professor Blanchard had emphasized the fact that her talent
was singular and irreplaceable. Nadiya tried to consider how it might be used in the context of the mission, but watching
her, Nadiya lost the ability to think rationally. She only felt her heart skip around in her chest and her stomach hollow
out with longing.
Stop it. Stop it. Maybe she should just tell herself it was over, that, with her cold rebuff, she had lost Giselle forever. Maybe it was best
for them both to walk away from whatever this was between them—before it could become something out of their control.
Shaking her head, Nadiya said, “We should decide on our cover story.” She remembered how those holograms—or whatever they
were—had looked at them, the suspicion obvious in their gazes.
“Yes,” Klaudia agreed, setting down the file she had been reading. “Any ideas?”
Silence filled the room.
“Spring break,” Julian said suddenly. “Dr. Iver had a good idea, incidentally. We’re all college students on spring break.”
“That would explain the large group, and our closeness in age,” said Klaudia. “You and Giselle can play siblings. It gives
the cover story a bit more legitimacy.”
Julian and Giselle didn’t look especially alike, aside from the indefinable but unerringly American quality they both possessed, but after a moment of consideration, they both nodded in assent.
“And you and Crispin,” Klaudia said, indicating toward Nadiya. “It’s easier to justify relatives traveling together than a
loose association of friends.”
Nadiya grimaced. She and Crispin also did not look particularly alike, aside from their wide, dark eyes and olive skin. Crispin’s
hair and odd, unworldly demeanor was more likely to attract bemused attention than anything else. But Nadiya supposed they
were stuck with him, so she, too, nodded in agreement.
“What about you?” Giselle asked Klaudia.
Klaudia frowned in consideration. “I’ll be—”
“His girlfriend,” Crispin put in. He was pointing to Julian.
Immediately, Klaudia recoiled. Nadiya almost choked.
“No,” said Klaudia, when she managed to speak. “Definitely not.”
“It would make sense,” Giselle ventured hesitantly. “Like you said, it’s more difficult to explain a loose association of
friends. . . .”
“It’s Occam’s razor,” added Crispin.
“It absolutely isn’t,” Klaudia said.
Julian opened his mouth to speak, but Nadiya, feeling Klaudia was in need of rescue, said, “Let’s put a pin in it for now.
Ideally the cover story won’t require this level of detail anyway.”
Klaudia looked relieved. She turned to Crispin and said, “Will you get Deckard? Tell him we’re finished with our prep and awaiting his final instructions.”
Crispin nodded and darted off. His gait was strange and mincing, as if he were uncertain of his own steps.
Once he was gone, Klaudia beckoned them closer. A shadow had fallen over her face.
“Do you know what the prisoner’s dilemma is?” she asked, voice low.
Nadiya and Julian both nodded, but Giselle looked confused.
“It’s a scenario in game theory,” said Klaudia. “Two members of the same criminal group are arrested. Each is placed in solitary
confinement, unable to communicate with the other. The police offer each a bargain: If they testify against their ally, they
will go free, while their partner is imprisoned. But if they both testify against the other, they will receive the same sentence. Each prisoner is told that their partner has received the
offer and they are given time to think it over.”
“All right,” Giselle said nervously.
“There are three possible outcomes to this scenario,” Klaudia continued. “If both prisoners remain silent, they each serve
one year in prison. If one testifies against the other, that one will go free while the other serves three years in prison.
And if they both testify against the other, they each serve two years.”
“Both should always testify,” said Julian. “It’s the dominant strategy. Defection has a better payoff than cooperation.”
“Theoretically.” Klaudia lowered her voice even further. “But that’s assuming the police are truthful about their intentions.
And in this scenario, it’s never safe to assume that.”
Nadiya’s stomach knotted. “So . . .”
“So cooperation is the dominant strategy.” Klaudia’s gray eyes were icy and sharp. “No matter what they offer you, never defect. Trying to pit us against each other is only to their benefit. This is not a zero-sum game. Not anymore.”
Klaudia looked at each of them in turn. Her gaze was intense, unflinching. And, one by one, they all nodded.
“Good,” she said, lifting her head and stepping back from the table. “Then we’re ready.”
Deckard returned with two briefcases of supplies. The first contained cell phones, credit cards, and rolls of marks and rubles.
The second—
“L-pills,” Deckard said, indicating the bottles of white tablets. “Cyanide capsules. These are just for show, of course—not
deadly, but they’ll give you a blackout and the worst hangover of your life when you wake up. Don’t take them unless you have
no other choice.”
Nadiya accepted her bottle grimly. But the implication that their mission had a suicide option wasn’t her foremost concern.
“No weapons?” she asked Deckard.
“Typically, clandestine officers don’t carry weapons,” he replied. “It’s too dangerous. How would you explain why a college
student on vacation is packing a pistol in her suitcase?”
“It seems more dangerous to be without a weapon,” Nadiya said, her apprehension growing.
“You have everything you need to successfully complete the mission,” Deckard said. “It will require flexibility. Ingenuity.
Think outside the box. The world of a clandestine officer is not black-and-white. From now on, you exist only in the gray.”
With that, he stepped through the door of the ski lodge, into a flurry of false snow, and was gone.