Thirty-Seven #2
“No, you’re asking him,” said Nadiya, finding her voice with a pang of bitterness. “We’re just your mouthpieces.”
“Then keep your mouths in line,” Deckard said coldly. “Let’s go.”
He led them out of the room and back down the corridor, into the elevator.
With mirrors on all sides, it threw their reflections back at them: four weary-looking teenagers in street clothes and their eerily unremarkable handler.
No one would guess that the fate of the free world was allegedly in their hands.
The hotel was clearly committed to its lavish aesthetic, because the restaurant in the lobby was more white marble with gold
fixtures and a domed ceiling of intricate stained glass. A faint bleed of sunlight rippled through. Large potted palm plants
stretched their fronds into the air. Instead of roses, ghostly white orchids decorated each table, their petals fragile-looking
and translucent. The room was cavernous, but almost completely empty.
Auric’s CEO strode toward them, past the palm plants, through the pale slants of sunlight. Everyone in America knew his face,
but meeting him in person was still a shock. He approached them with a loping gait that reminded Nadiya unexpectedly of a
supposed cryptid sighting in a grainy video. He was shorter than she had expected, not much taller than Klaudia in her kitten
heels. His face was long and pasty, framed by two greasy curtains of shoulder-length brown hair. Nadiya couldn’t imagine what
barber with a conscience had done that to him.
He paused before them, adopted a wide-legged stance, threw up his arms, and shouted, “Yes! Yes!”
Klaudia, who was standing nearest to him, recoiled visibly. Nadiya, Julian, and Giselle all flinched.
“Thank you very much for meeting with us on short notice,” Deckard said, unaffected. “Chane, this is Klaudia Shimonova, Nadiya
Karam, Giselle Buckley, and Julian Joyce-Young the Third.”
There was no need for him to introduce himself in return. Everyone knew that, like some ’90s boy band star, Auric’s CEO preferred
to be known mononymously as “Chane.” Maybe because Chane Renier-Botha smacked too much of apartheid. Not a good look for someone who fancied himself the herald of a free world.
Chane offered a broad but toothless smile. The volume of his voice had previously disguised it, but now Nadiya heard the slight
lilt of a South African accent when he said, “This is so, so awesome. Can you imagine how cool it will be—American astronauts
tearing down that Russian flag on the moon?”
The domed ceiling made his words echo, but only a long stretch of silence followed.
“Yeah,” Julian said at last. “Almost as cool as it’ll be when we turn the Kremlin into a shopping mall.”
The sarcasm was either lost on Chane or he didn’t care that he was being mocked. He looked each of them thoroughly up and
down, an eager twitch in his left eye. His gaze settled on Klaudia and stayed there.
“You’re my Russian girl, right?” he said. “Deckard told me that he’d get me one. You’re going to be a big part of this! I
need you to teach me how to communicate with the people once their country falls and their leaders are hanged. Are you Jewish?”
Klaudia’s shoulders rose around her ears. She was still leaning away from Chane and looked meek, which disturbed Nadiya. Slowly,
Klaudia nodded.
“Great! You’re going to be such a help! I asked Deckard for you,” Chane said again, beaming. “I want to know everything you
know. I’ll call you my private tutor. We’re going to spend a lot of long hours together.”
Julian cleared his throat loudly. Stepping between Chane and Klaudia, he said, “Surely you can use Auric’s proprietary translation
app for that.”
“Oh, she’s going to do much, much more than translate for me.”
Nadiya couldn’t deny her curiosity—as well as her desire to wipe that leering grin off Chane’s face. Adopting a falsely cheery tone, she said, “So you know about our mission, then? Will you be joining us?”
“No. No, I . . .” Chane glanced toward Deckard, smile faltering. “I’ll be cheering you on, though! Go, USA!”
“But we will be using your pistols, won’t we?”
“Well, obviously,” Chane replied. “Aren’t they awesome? Do you like them?”
There was no pretension to the way he spoke—it was all earnest, almost desperate. It occurred to Nadiya that his decision
to move into weapons manufacturing might not have been the result of ambition and business acumen, but rather borne of a simple
desire to be seen as suave and powerful. Guns were cool. Especially to people who had never fired one before.
Nadiya opened her mouth for a barbed retort, but the black look on Deckard’s face discouraged her. Instead, she merely said,
“They’ll get the job done.”
“The job. Yeah.” Chane’s head bobbed. “So you’re the one who’s going to blow the doctor’s brains out? Awesome. I wish I could
be there to see it.”
Giselle stiffened. “Why would you want to see it? Dr. Satow is a human being.”
“Anyone who aids the Soviets is an enemy of peace and an enemy of the West,” said Chane, and his sudden eloquence made Nadiya
think that this was an oft-recited phrase. “You’ll be sparing him a long trial at The Hague and a spot before the firing squad.”
“He would only face the firing squad if he’s found guilty,” Klaudia said. “That’s the point of a trial.”
“My clever girl,” Chane said. He clucked his tongue. “So attentive to detail.”
Klaudia shifted farther away from him, almost against Julian’s chest. Julian’s arm rose for a moment, as if to instinctively embrace her, but evidently he thought better of it and let his arm drop to his side again.
Deckard was the one to clear his throat this time. “Speaking of the mission . . .”
Nadiya realized with chagrin that this was their moment to charm and to wheedle, to make their sales pitch beseeching Chane’s
help. But, to her surprise, it was Giselle who spoke up first.
“We came here to ask you something,” she said. Her voice was steady, but oddly hollow. “There’s a problem with the simulation
technology. With the network. We can’t start the mission without it, and we need you to get it back online.”
The stiff, robotic tenor of her words unnerved Nadiya. She had never heard Giselle sound so flat and emotionless before. Like
she was just following orders.
Or maybe it was a more devious strategy—to make the request so unenthusiastic, so devoid of flattery, that Chane refused out