Thirty-Six #2
“So we’re going into this dangerous, vitally important mission with a fraction of the usual training an agent receives?” Nadiya
bit out. “If it’s so important, why not dedicate more time to preparing us? Or choose agents with more experience?”
“Time is of the essence, Ms. Karam. And you four are the only ones with the precise set of skills that this mission requires.”
Deckard’s face took on the faint look of chagrin. “If there were any other way, trust that you would not be sitting here in
front of me.”
A moment of silence passed. Julian heard the faint whir of an air conditioner kicking on.
Quietly, Giselle said, “I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Your ethical code is admirable,” Deckard said, “but this is much bigger than a single man. We are on the precipice of an event that could alter the course of the war and plunge the entire world into chaos and destruction. You will save millions of lives by ending just one.”
“Spare us the platitudes,” Julian said irritably.
Klaudia gave a slight nod of agreement. “Tell us exactly what Satow has done, and why he needs to die.”
“Soon enough,” Deckard said. “Soon enough.”
“Are you going to at least explain what happened in the simulation?” Nadiya demanded. “Why was it . . . my house?”
“It was a test of your psychological fortitude. And you passed.” Deckard smiled thinly. “Congratulations.”
“But how?” Nadiya pressed. “How did you know exactly what it looked like? How did you re-create it, down to every single detail. . . .”
“We have our means” was all Deckard replied.
A beat passed, but he didn’t elaborate.
“And I suppose it was also a test of our psychological fortitude,” said Julian, “when you shot at us with real fucking bullets.”
“How do you know they were real?”
Julian looked to Nadiya for corroboration, but she had sunk down in her seat and was staring at the floor. Seeing her so cowed
made another flare of anger go through him. As he glanced around the room at the other two, also silent and in various states
of bewilderment and indignation, the absence of someone suddenly became conspicuous.
“Where’s Crispin?” Julian asked.
“He’s perfectly fine,” said Deckard. There was an unsubtle hint of amusement in his voice. “Enjoying his reprieve after providing
an excellent . . . service.” His eyes lingered meaningfully on Julian. “I’m glad to see that you two became so close.”
Heat rushed to Julian’s face. Only Klaudia seemed to notice his sudden embarrassment, and her eyes flickered.
“Unfortunately,” Deckard went on, “there has been an . . . unforeseen obstacle.”
Nadiya sat up straight, stiffening. “What is it?”
“Our simulation technology is still in its infancy—relatively speaking—and the recent updates that made possible your time
in Traumstadt have, in essence, overloaded the system. You may have noticed some glitches during the final moments of your
mission.”
The floor shaking under them as they stood in the room with the cube, the lights flickering. But that was all part of the
physical world—or so Julian had assumed. How would a system error affect something so . . . substantial?
“Glitches,” Giselle repeated, her voice still low. “Do you mean those men, in the tunnel?”
Deckard looked, for a moment, taken aback. It was the first time Julian had ever seen him even remotely unnerved. Turning
away from Giselle, he merely said, “There were myriad issues, none of the details worth elaborating upon. The fact remains
that your mission must be delayed until we can get the system back online.”
“Why would the simulation technology matter,” Klaudia began, “if your plan is to drop us into Soviet territory?”
“It is all related, trust me,” said Deckard, whose vagueness was beginning to dramatically irk Julian. “As it is, I have another
mission for you.”
“What?” Giselle’s face was white with horror.
“Nothing torturous or life-threatening, I assure you. Since the four of you are now clandestine officers, important pieces
in the game, it is time for you to familiarize yourself with the players.” Julian didn’t miss the way he used pieces and players simultaneously, putting them in the former category. “The CIA maintains a . . . close relationship with the CEO of Auric,
and with his help, I’m certain we’ll be able to resolve the issues with the network swiftly.”
Auric. The most profitable and influential technology company of the modern age, responsible for everything from gaming apps to encryption software, and now apparently weapons as well.
Much political hay had been made of the CEO’s association with the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology.
Paparazzi photos frequently showed him dining with the committee chair, Bill Brooks—a dubious choice for the role, given that he was an eighty-four-year-old retired football coach.
But, clearly, the CEO was now aiming higher. CIA clearance. Presidential access, if he continued on this course. It almost
made Julian laugh to think of Auric’s CEO as a glorified IT guy.
“An evening with Auric’s CEO sounds pretty torturous, actually,” Nadiya said icily.
“He’s a perfectly reasonable man.”
“Then reason with him yourself,” said Klaudia. “What do you expect us to contribute?”
“Your charm, of course,” said Deckard, with a thin smile. “And this isn’t a favor—it’s recompense. Your actions, Ms. Shimonova,
contributed to the breakdown of the simulation. You should have followed orders.”
Klaudia didn’t reply, but the icy mask resettled over her face.
“What actions?” Nadiya cut in. “Taking the L-pills? Why did you bother giving them to us, then?”
“I don’t think you’re interested in the technological minutiae. What matters is that, in this instance, you do in fact owe me one.” Subtly, Deckard curled his lip. “The CEO is hosting a gala in New York. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you attend,
and make yourselves charming and agreeable.”
“That’s what we’re supposed to do, then?” Julian let out a breath. “Pad some already oversized tech bro’s ego?” He didn’t
mention that, between Nadiya’s bristling hostility and Klaudia’s coldness, Deckard probably could have selected a better team
for the task.
“It will be to your benefit as well,” Deckard said. “It’s always good to have friends in high places. Make the CEO feel valued,
essential. And perhaps the day will come when he will repay you in kind.”
“You’re already asking us to ask him to fix your server.” Klaudia’s gaze was searing. “I doubt he’ll let us bank another favor.”
“We’ll see,” said Deckard.
In the silence that followed, Julian felt almost hopeless. The gala he could survive—he had plenty of experience, even if
it meant sidling up to the CEO—but were they really going to be sent into enemy territory to extrajudicially kill a German
scientist? Nothing about his life or his stint at Valeran had prepared him for this.
Or maybe it had been staring down Deckard’s men in that dark tunnel, the sound of the bullet ringing in his ears.
Even if it wasn’t morally suspect, it was unquestionably dangerous. He couldn’t do it. If it made him a coward, disloyal and
treasonous, then so be it. He would rather live in infamy than die in virtue. Deckard could take that to the bank.
But how could he refuse? Fear settled in him, iron heavy. Deckard had tortured him once to ensure his compliance; Julian had
no doubt he would do it again.
Klaudia spoke then, rescuing him from his increasingly despairing thoughts. It sounded almost sweet to him, even in its flat
reproach.
“And if we refuse?”
Deckard’s eyes glimmered. They were a nondescript hazel, as unremarkable as the rest of him. He was the perfect little gray
man. Obedient. Reprehensible.
“Patriotism is not a job, Ms. Shimonova,” he said, “it is a duty. An American who shirks his oath to his country will be treated
as any traitor would. Stock market fraud and political corruption might have earned you your Valeran sentences, but traitors
to the nation don’t go to military academies—or to prison. I trust you all know the punishment for treason.”
There was nothing to pack, no possible delays or hesitations. The only personal item that remained with Julian was his watch—still stuck at twelve, no matter how much he fiddled with it.
Deckard marched them out of the building and to the landing strip where they had arrived, mere days ago. The helicopter was
already whirring, scattering blades of grass from the lawn. The sight of the sky, the true sky, was almost overwhelming in
its vastness.
They boarded the helicopter and took their seats, Nadiya and Giselle on one bench and Klaudia next to him on the other. Klaudia’s
shoulder brushed his. Their thighs were no more than an inch apart, body heat warming the space between them.
As the helicopter lifted from the ground, Julian stared at her, no longer capable of being subtle. Her hair unfolded in the
wind, dark curls swirling around her face. The ends of it brushed his cheeks, almost agonizingly soft. He had the powerful
urge to grasp a strand of it between his fingers, to feel its silkiness fully.
Klaudia’s throat bobbed. Julian had not seen her look so vulnerable since she had been standing across the stage from him
during the Thymos tournament. Now he had an even stronger urge to wrap his arms around her, to clutch her to his chest—
Julian was reminded, suddenly, of a photo from one of his history textbooks. Grainy and black-and-white, it showed Julius
and Ethel Rosenberg, an American couple who had been caught spying for the Soviets and condemned to death. The photo was of
their final meeting before they were marched to their separate executions. Julius had his cuffed hands braced around his wife’s
shoulders, while Ethel collapsed against him, their mouths meeting in one final, passionate, unrepentant kiss.
The beating of the helicopter blades was too loud for any of them to speak. Julian dropped Klaudia’s gaze and stared out the
window, the buildings of Camp Peary growing smaller and smaller before they were lost beneath the cover of clouds.