Twenty-Six
Camp Peary, Virginia
Early the next morning, before the simulated sun even rose, Klaudia woke. At first she was slightly panicked to find herself
in a strange place, but as her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness she saw Nadiya turned on her side in a bed a few feet away
and heard Giselle’s soft breathing, and a feeling of relief settled in her chest.
She hadn’t had a roommate since her first year at Valeran. Klaudia found it oddly comforting not to wake up alone. She was
careful to be quiet as she showered and dressed, so as not to disturb Nadiya and Giselle, and then she took the files and
slipped out the door.
Klaudia made her way downstairs to a small library off the main room. It had a shelf of aged books and faded board games,
including a chess set. She made note of that as she sat down to read.
Deckard had not given them so much information as to be overwhelming in volume alone, but what did exist was so information-dense
that it took nearly an hour just to arrange the papers into useful piles. Klaudia decided to work backward. If she figured
out why each of them had been chosen, she could understand how they were meant to execute the mission.
Her own file contained a number of newspaper clippings pertaining to her trial, copies of her original visa and Soviet passport, and courtroom transcripts.
She was unnerved to see them there, and slightly embarrassed to have to confront her previous words, Siegel’s fumbling defenses, and the prosecution’s pitiless lines of questioning.
But her inclusion was easiest to explain, if only because the mission would obviously require a fluent Russian speaker.
She set the SHIMONOVA, KLAUDIA file aside.
She took Julian’s file next. It contained numerous supplementary documents: family trees, transcribed speeches, and even a
chart that tracked the stock prices of the companies owned by various Joyce-Youngs, past and present. It suggested to her
that his name and illustrious lineage were somehow crucial to the mission.
Klaudia let her gaze linger on one particular document, a transcript of his first police interview. Too vain—or perhaps too
flustered—to allow the opportunity to explain himself to pass, Julian had spoken briefly to the arresting officer before clamming
up and demanding his lawyer.
DET. MAHONEY: Was it worth it?
JULIAN JOYCE-YOUNG III: I assume you’ve never tasted unlabeled Macallan.
DET. MAHONEY: So it was all for the expensive booze, then? Not the girls?
JULIAN JOYCE-YOUNG III: Trust me, I don’t need to pay for companionship.
Flush rising to her cheeks, Klaudia briskly set his file aside.
And then Giselle. Her file was shockingly thin, with only the sheet of basic biographical details, a few report cards, and
a pageant questionnaire. Of course, Klaudia thought, with a twinge of something that was almost jealousy. Of course she was a pageant queen. For one of the
open-ended questions, Giselle had written about her little sisters and her pet beagles. It was all so mundane. Klaudia could
not imagine how Dr. Iver had even found her. Did he normally peruse West Virginia local papers?
The first scientifically verified eidetic memory, her biographical data said. Even if Klaudia believed it, how did that fit into their mission? She could see the ability being helpful in a number of general cases, but it elucidated nothing specific. She put Giselle’s file aside.
At last she picked up Nadiya’s. It was also surprisingly sparse. There was a newspaper article about a Dr. Alexander Karam—her
father—who had been killed, along with her mother, in a mysterious double homicide nine years ago. The sheet with Nadiya’s
biographical data stated that Dr. Karam had worked for the CIA, but any information about what he had done there was redacted.
With a sigh, Klaudia dropped the paper and let it flutter to the ground.
By the time Klaudia returned to the main room, the others were awake. Julian, Giselle, and Crispin were sorting through the
food Deckard had left them—all canned, as if to further dispel any notion they might’ve had that spy work was glamorous. Nadiya
was seated on one of the couches, intently watching the dated, black-and-white television.
Klaudia approached. The television was tuned to a news channel, the image rippled with static. Chancellor Hauke was giving
a speech from behind a podium. His German was subtitled in Russian.
Slowly, Klaudia lowered herself onto the other end of the couch, causing Nadiya to look up.
“Do you speak German?” Klaudia asked. “Or Russian?”
“Not even a little bit,” Nadiya said. “I was hoping I could pick something up through context clues. Do you think it’s a real
speech?”
If Deckard could produce such convincing holograms, surely CIA technology was advanced enough to fake a news broadcast. Klaudia
squinted for a moment at the subtitles.
“He’s talking about the kidnapping of the East German scientist by the Soviets,” she said. “Moritz Satow. Dr. Iver sent us the article about him a few weeks ago.”
“A real speech, then.” Nadiya regarded the screen, brow furrowed. “But nothing especially helpful to us.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Was it all tied to Satow somehow? If so, what was the point of Deckard’s caginess? Satow’s disappearance
was not a secret; it had made the front page of the New York Times. “I went through all the files again this morning.”
“Of course you did.” There was a note of both teasing and genuine admiration in Nadiya’s voice.
That made it all the more awkward for Klaudia to transition to the next part. “Something stood out to me, in your personal
file.”
Nadiya shifted away from the television, so that she was fully facing Klaudia. “What is it?”
“It was about your father.” She tried to keep her tone serious without becoming grim. “It said he worked for the CIA before
he was—”
“Murdered.”
“Yes.”
A moment of silence passed. This sort of conversation was not within Klaudia’s skill set. It required an elegant manipulation
of language she was incapable of. Perhaps it was better suited to Julian’s talents—notwithstanding the fact that Nadiya seemed
to openly despise him.
Maybe Klaudia needed to let her guard down in order to convince Nadiya to do the same. She cast about for a personal anecdote
of her own.
She could have made something of her deprived Russian childhood, she supposed, though in truth she hardly remembered it. What
she did remember was their first apartment in America, a two-bedroom Brooklyn walk-up, which didn’t have a doorman but was
hardly the fare of a sob story.
Besides, Klaudia didn’t relish playing the role of noble Soviet.
Long-suffering, bestowed of an ethereal wisdom borne of their oppression under communism.
She was not so guileless as to allow herself to be used as an instrument of facile Western propaganda.
Her father had been sure to impress that upon her.
If you must be a piece in their games, make sure you are an indispensable one.
From what Klaudia knew of Nadiya, she operated under a similar worldview. Maybe that was her way in.
“I think this might be crucial to completing the mission,” said Klaudia carefully. “Understanding the reasons each of us were
chosen . . .”
Nadiya’s jaw was taut, but she nodded.
“All the information about your father was redacted,” Klaudia went on. “Is there anything you can fill in? Anything you remember?”
“He was a scientist.” A distant look came into Nadiya’s eyes. “We moved to Langley when I was seven, so he could work for
the CIA. Before that, he worked in a lab at Columbia. His degree was in neuroscience.” Her gaze returned to Klaudia. “That’s
all I can remember. Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said Klaudia, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. “There are other avenues to try.”
Klaudia glanced over at the table. Julian and Giselle were arranging the canned food into stacks, though seemingly without
much purpose, while Crispin looked on, as eerily silent as ever. What Klaudia noticed was that Giselle seemed to smile easily,
and that she kept making Julian smile, too.
Maybe Julian wasn’t the most gregarious one among them. After all, Giselle was a former pageant queen. Something fluttered uncomfortably in Klaudia’s stomach.
“What about her?” she asked.
Almost imperceptibly, Nadiya tensed. “Giselle?”
Klaudia nodded.
Another beat of silence. Nadiya’s expression was unreadable. When she didn’t reply, Klaudia pressed, “Is it real, what it
says in her file? About her memory?”
“It’s real.” Nadiya watched Giselle. Her eyes looked strangely soft. “I’ve seen it.”
Across the room, Giselle said something that made Julian laugh. Klaudia’s chest tightened.
“And do you have any sense,” she said slowly, “of how it might relate to our mission?”
Nadiya turned back to her. “She’s important to Professor Blanchard. He was doing these . . . experiments on her. I think it
has something to do with the hologram technology. During the showcase, I . . .” She paused and let out a breath. “It feels
like we’ve been told to solve a puzzle but we haven’t been given half the pieces.”
“Yes,” Klaudia said. “It’s starting to feel that way to me, too.”
“The fact that Deckard isn’t allowing us to have any weapons . . .” Nadiya’s gaze swept around the room again. “But I suppose
anything can be a weapon, if you’re desperate enough.”
“In your hands, maybe.” Klaudia had disconcerting visions of herself trying to knock someone over the head with a fireplace
poker.
Nadiya smiled faintly. “I have been trying to keep a tally.”
“You should,” said Klaudia. “Deckard claims it’s just a simulation, but I find it hard to believe that he really expects this
mission to be resolved without some sort of force. He’s just limiting our options.”
“Yeah.” The smile faded from Nadiya’s face. “I guess this is the sort of thing Valeran has been preparing us for.”
Theoretically. Klaudia had never imagined being a clandestine officer. She belonged behind a desk, scrutinizing aerial maps,
not in the field, parachute jumping into enemy territory.