***
A week later, an endless week of endless sessions later, Olivia quietly placed her hands on the table. She was, as they’d intended, very tired. But she’d also been victorious in two different matters. She’d lied successfully in response to the one question that required a lie. And she was running again. Prolonged sitting tightened her muscles and ligaments; only hard exercise could ease them. Stretching had its uses, but did not begin to alleviate the emotional stress. Hiking was unavailable. So she decided to move on to the next part of her physical rehab. She laid out a hundred meter circular course. At first, she barely hobbled. A week later, she couldn’t go very far but she could run herself into exhaustion. Since that was what the moment required, she decided that constituted victory. Marianenko and Suslova, who’d watched her progress, understood. They also understood that keeping her sitting, itself a form of torture, produced no changes in her outward demeanor, gathered no information they couldn’t get without depending upon the pain she carried within. So they let her run.
But not today. To Olivia, this latest session was no more a hostile interrogation than the others had been, no more hostile than her polygraph back in Los Alamos. But it was, as always, high-stakes and high-pressure and as always, under observation from behind the opaque window. And she could not escape the sense, at once ominous and happy, that they were approaching some kind of resolution. That belief made her a bit more willing to push.
Olivia looked Lieutenant Colonel Marianenko in his eyes. He was a big, strong, well-proportioned man who carried himself as if he was capable of instant, no-warning violence. She did not doubt he was. He reminded her a great deal of General Getmanov, although without that man’s intellectual sophistication. He was neither stupid nor ignorant nor coarse, and both his Russian and English were beautiful, educated, fluid. Perhaps it was just that he’d never traveled. And travel, she’d thought with some amusement when she’d first asked him where he’d been, is so broadening. Marianenko had not answered that question and so she did not ask another. Unlike some interrogators, who sometimes discussed aspects of their own lives as a means of building rapport, he hid himself completely. He was the man inside the uniform, nothing more.
“Russia is preparing to go into Chechnya with main force units,” she said wearily, in response to some extraneous question she’d been asked twenty times before. “That was obvious to anybody in America who bothered to read the more serious newspapers, what there are left of them. I don’t think anything has changed. Russian soldiers are no doubt already dying there. We’ve wasted a week when I could have been doing my job.”
Behind the window, Major Suslova caught the change in tone. Always before, Doctor Tolchinskaya had been graciously compliant. The dignity was still there, but the compliance was gone. She felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck. After the first day, the guard had been outside the door, not in the room with them; two days later, that measure had been deemed unnecessary. This was different. Tolchinskaya was now attempting to direct the interrogation. She was forcing things. She was demanding her work. She was demanding freedom. At least, freedom sufficient to do her work.
“Doctor,” Marianenko said, looking down at his laptop and casually typing. “Please do not remind me why you’re here. Please let me remind you that you have no job, no responsibilities, nor much of anything else, until the State decides that you do.”
Suslova’s eyes flicked down to the laptop screen, to the question that Marianenko had asked.
Press her?
Yes. She hit the send key, then returned to watching Olivia. The woman remained in composed self-control, but once this defiance started, it could well lead to panic or sudden physical assault. Hands kill. Keep your hands visible, Doctor. Suslova’s eyes kept flicking back and forth between Olivia, still sitting tall and powerful, and the screen. Face. Screen. Hands. So had it gone for a week. But now it was time for more.
“I stand by my statement, Colonel. Both parts. Your country is at war. And you need me.”
“Old Russian proverb, Doctor. ‘The cemeteries are filled with indispensable men.’ And women, one might add. If being a Russian means anything, it means knowing how to do without.”
“Even when you don’t have to?”
“Sometimes, especially then.” He paused. Then he raised the one matter still standing between Olivia and her freedom and her task. She’d waited for it for a week and when the question came, she responded exactly and automatically as planned.
“Doctor Tolchinskaya, we still have not discussed your work at Los Alamos.”
“Nor will we.” The words were shocking, even more so when combined with the utterly calm hardness of her voice and bearing, and the complete lack of both compliance and defiance. It was a statement of fact that required no further elaboration.
“I’m afraid you do not understand,” said Marianenko, shifting to equal hardness. “You are a bought defector and a traitor, the scum of the world. We can have you imprisoned, we can have you tortured until you tell us anything we want, we can shoot you…”
“I know and acknowledge your power over me,” she answered in words that she’d never rehearsed but came as though she had. “But I was not imported for your base pleasures.” Her voice was quieter now, but no more yielding. “If you enjoy inflicting suffering, I am sure there are many Russians with whom you may amuse yourself.” A shot in the dark, but she saw it hit home. There was the briefest flicker of anger in his eyes, a defensive I am not that kind. Then he went opaque again, as blank as the window behind him. But he’d shown Olivia something she’d sensed with Getmanov: the ability to do terrible things, the living with the fact that he had, but neither savagery nor cruelty. Even in the security services, they’re not all alike.
Press back. It’s time.
“I think, Colonel, that there are some things you should understand. Since the United States and the Russian Federation are not at war or in any way enemies, I am not a traitor according to the only definition that matters to me—the one written into the Constitution of the United States by men who were only too aware of how the charge of treason could be expanded to include virtually anything. Before I left, I memorized that definition. It comforts me. Would you care to hear it?”
“No. American law has no relevance here.”
“It is relevant to me because I am an American, not a Russian or a Russian wannabe.”
“Wannabe?”
Olivia smiled. “It’s an American thing.”
“Do you wish to make any more pronouncements?”
“Yes,” she answered firmly. “I am not a traitor. Nor am I bought. No money has changed hands and I expect to earn my salary. As for being scum, I’ll ignore that as merely a tactical move because we both know I am not. But if I were, then your country needs all the scum it can get.”
For the first time, Marianenko smiled at her. “Well played, Doctor. But it does not change the requirement to discuss your work at Los Alamos.”
Press back, she thought. “If you insist, as I suppose you must,” said Olivia. “May I tell you a brief story?”
“Related to the matter under discussion?”
“Absolutely. After the recent Gulf War, the Pentagon’s press secretary was asked at a news conference about American use of ALCMs…”
“ALCMs?”
“Air-Launched Cruise Missiles. He replied that it was Pentagon policy not to discuss them. When asked to explain why he couldn’t discuss it, he replied, ‘That would be discussing it.’”
“Your point?”
“I shall not be so strict. I’ll be happy to tell you why I won’t discuss it. I have three reasons. First, you would not understand it. You would need to bring in some very high-quality officers from your Line X, your technical directorate. You are not Line X. I believe, meaning no disrespect, you have scant scientific or technical background at all.”
“How do you know that?”
“Over the last few days, discussing other issu
es, I’ve said some things that any technical specialist would have questioned. You accepted them. Then, when I slipped contradictions into my responses to you, you accepted them without even batting an eyelash, although a technical specialist who reads the record will easily see what I did.”
“That is a very good point. Others will read my transcripts and reports. An interrogator is only the first link in a long chain of intelligence analysis.”
“I know. However, I still contend that you don’t know bopkess about technology.”
“Bopkess?”
“Yiddish for goat shit.”
Marianenko laughed. “Yiddish is not a language that will make you many friends in this country. However, I would not dispute your characterization.”
Olivia smiled in acknowledgement, then went on. “Shall I tell you my other reasons?”
“You appear to have composed a list. Very well.”
“Second.” She said the word with emphasis. “What I did at Los Alamos was designed back in the 1980s to help bankrupt you. But it was all a game. President Reagan had no more intention of building Star Wars than of returning to the Democratic Party.”
“Reagan was a Democrat once?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Word leaks out. That your Evil Emperor had once been a liberal—that I did not know.”
“So this is an informative session, after all.”
“In some ways. Go on.”
“The purpose of Star Wars was to force you, by which I mean the Soviet Union, to spend money and use technical talent you couldn’t afford and didn’t possess in countering his imaginary system. He understood that these were your greatest weaknesses—your tottering economy and your desperate shortage of people like me. He was right. We who worked on Star Wars understood that success was neither expected nor sought. That’s why I left. That’s why so many others stayed on. For an easy sinecure. Unfortunately, the missile defense program that helped bankrupt you is now helping to bankrupt us, along with the rest of our lunatic military spending. As for whatever use you might make of such shards of technical information as I might provide…Comrade, you don’t need it. Your immediate needs are so great that no distractions should be tolerated.”
“Continue,” he said tautly.
“This brings me to my third reason. Strategic sensors are not my primary field. My strength is your greatest immediate need, which is tactical sensors for urban combat. If you want a whore on whom to waste money, I am sure there are thousands in what’s left of your own military-industrial complex. But you imported me because I am a master, not a mercenary.”
Marianenko nodded.
“As I’ve stated once,” Olivia went on, “I now state again. I am neither a bought defector nor by any moral or American legal definition a traitor, so I shall not behave as if I carry such shame in my soul. I came here to help you fight a common enemy. If you wish my whole-hearted cooperation, you will respect that and treat me as an ally and a human being of considerable value, not a slave. In short, if you, unlike my previous employers, value technical success and the military victories that success can enable, you will behave accordingly and let me get started.”
As Olivia spoke, Major Suslova watched the tension drain completely out of her. Back down. She hit Send, then laid her hand on her pistol. She knew that feeling of extreme relaxation and what it could mean. It could mean a beginning or an end.
Marianenko stared at Olivia for a long time, and once again, as she had with General Getmanov, Olivia returned his gaze without fear or challenge, only calm patience. After a few seconds, Marianenko looked away. He had difficulty bearing her hard blue eyes, frank and open as the steppes, and it was not a pleasant sensation. “Give me your requirements to get started.”
Graciously averting her eyes, Olivia rose slowly, her body making sounds as it adjusted. “Sitting for prolonged periods is painful. Shall we move this conversation to the terrace?”
Her powerful instinct for mastery, suddenly revealed, startled Marianenko. She had done something he’d never experienced before or even imagined possible. The subject had taken over the interrogation. His interrogation. But Olivia was not the usual subject. And she was right. Russia’s need for her was great and growing. This was no time for mere personal assertion.
He closed the cover of his laptop. They went out to a garden table with chairs. Olivia found herself surrounded by the scent of blooming roses, overlooking the birch trees that lined the creek, their green leaves shimmering in the brilliant sun. The year was approaching its longest day. From somewhere, the wind brought her the smoky scent of burning peat; far off on the horizon, she could see a faint smudge, perhaps from the lightning strikes of the night before. Ripening grass—hay soon to be ready for baling—rippled in the wind. But the horizon was blue-grey with rain clouds that almost obscured the smoke and the coming rain would save the hay. This was Russia as she’d imagined it, only not so far away.
Normally, she would have prepared her requirements on a computer spreadsheet, along with a cost estimate of each line item. But the Russians had her laptop, had undoubtedly taken it apart and were still scrutinizing it. She also had no idea what costs were in Russia, or where many items might be obtained. But she had to begin somewhere.
“Colonel, if I can’t make use of a computer, mine or somebody’s, I’ll need paper and pencil.”
Marianenko called to a guard within. The items were brought.
“May I ask you to work with me? I know what I need. I don’t know how to express it in ways that your government could respond to quickly.”
They went to work. Olivia wrote with a fine, even hand, mostly printed, with a few cursive flourishes. Lists of personnel, technical and administrative. Lists of technical equipment. Lists of manufacturing requirements. Marianenko guided her. When he needed to make changes in vocabulary or format, she paced restlessly. At last, she thought, I’ve got my own lab. But the thought held no pleasure; the cost had been too high. Perhaps someday that particular pleasure would come. But not today, although the pleasure of ending a weeklong interrogation was beginning to sink in. I’ve got my own lab and I’m free. My own lab in Russia and I’m free…in Russia.
Irony, she concluded, can be pretty ironic.
Olivia heard footsteps on the terrace behind her, one set heavy, the other not. It was Major Suslova, followed by the housekeeper, bearing a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine. Also some piroshky, the asparagus she had pickled more than a week ago, with some mayonnaise. Olivia felt her body straighten in a gesture of instinctive respect.
“That is unnecessary,” Suslova said. “But appreciated.” She wore a very true carnation scent, its spice enriched by a creamy sweetness of vanilla and brown sugar, barely noticeable except for the quality they added. She took Olivia’s arm and moved her a few meters away from the table where Marianenko scribbled and edited.
“I was raised with some very antique manners,” Olivia said.
“And emotions.”
“Yes.”
“I know. It is a lovely courtesy, sitting or standing a bit straighter when another approaches. Emotions can be courtesies, too. Tell me, do you have any?”
“Many and strong.”
“They are not obvious.”
“You’re not the first person to say so. But I find that there’s little point in advertising my emotions.”
“Except you cannot hide the sorrow.”
She shrugged. “I did not make this decision lightly.”
“Or without regret.”
“Or without regret,” she agreed. “Nevertheless, it was, is, and will be a permanent decision. Believing anything else would be lunatic.”
“And yet you’re not afraid.”
“Oh, I am. I never really expected to be seriously abused here. But in such conditions, who can be sure?”
“We had no reason to abuse you, only to stress you for a while. What goes on elsewhere is sometimes something else.” And then, sudde
nly, “You’re armed.” Suslova’s statement did not admit contradiction.
“How do you know?”
“You’ve acted as though you have an exit, should you need one. A piece of glass, I believe. Give it to me, please. And be slow.”
Hands kill. Olivia understood that axiom and slowly withdrew the fragment of glass from her wallet. About six centimeters long, with a point. It was the edge that interested Suslova, ground with ridiculously unnecessary care for the sheer pleasure of the craftsmanship into something a surgeon would appreciate. “For whom?”
“For myself, because I shall never become a traitor, neither in one leap nor by centimeters. I have come this far for the best of reasons. I will go no farther for the worst.”
Marianenko had said nothing since Suslova’s arrival. Now he entered the conversation. “Do you still regard yourself as an American citizen?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know what your government will do to you if you ever return to America?”
“Oh, yes, solitary confinement for years and years, if I’m lucky. Maybe one of our cable TV channels will make a movie about me. I wonder who will play me.”
“And yet despite that, you still regard yourself as an American and expect us to trust you with our soldiers and our future.”
“Yes. In no small part because I shall never become a traitor to anyone. Look, I am here on my own moral authority as an American citizen. There are things our nations should do together. I hope that what I have done will in time make it possible. I hope to become a bridge over which Americans and Russians may pass. Maybe someday,” she smiled briefly, “they’ll award me the Order of Reagan.”
“Is there such a decoration?” Suslova asked, perplexed.
“No,” Marianenko interrupted. “And if there were, it would not be given for international friendship and mutual understanding.”
“He understood the Soviet Union very well.”
“But he did not understand what would happen after his enemy vanished. What we and the world would have to live with. That is not full understanding. Come to the table, if you would.”
Marianenko opened the bottle of wine, poured for them all; Suslova quite deliberately took a healthy swallow. “It’s not drugged.”
“What it is, is quite a good Georgian white,” Marianenko said. “Tell me what you felt, saying these things to my major.”
“Surprise.”
“Yes, by our standards, you are being very open.” His eyes slipped away from her face to Suslova’s, handing her back control.
Olivia watched their silent interaction. They had a closeness she had not expected between a Russian man and a woman who were clearly not lovers. “I do not normally talk that way at—back in America.”
“No, I imagine not,” Suslova agreed.
“Colonel Marianenko is not a technical person. Are you?”
“Not at all.”
“So what is your interest in me?”
“My brother commands 22 Brigade, which is a Spetsnaz unit, in the Caucasus and has a number of groups, what your Special Forces might call teams, already in Chechnya. He has a long-standing interest in your field that has intensified greatly of late. When I mentioned to him that an American was coming to help us, he immediately volunteered to host you for experimental purposes. It would be far more useful to you to start out with our elite forces.”
“True. They would take better care of my work.”
“True. Our conscripts will benefit as soon as they are able to handle it. But I am still uncertain of one thing. What if your work someday requires you to work against the interests of your own country?”
“I will not.”
“Someday you may have no choice,” Marianenko interjected.
“There are a great many ways to take one’s life. It requires only a little imagination and less resolve than you know I have.”
“She is being realistic, Comrade Colonel,” Suslova added. “Trying to keep someone alive who genuinely wants to die is almost impossible, especially if you also expect them to do anything worthwhile.” She turned to Olivia. “How far do your loyalties to America go?”
“Is Russia going to invade Alaska?”
Suslova laughed with genuine delight. “No, I think not.”
“Then I see no real conflict between my American loyalties and the new loyalties I am offering you.”
Then Marianenko stood above Olivia. “Right now, Doctor Tolchinskaya, fair chance. One more time. We accept that you will neither divulge your previous work nor work against your nation. But...are you an intelligence officer in any of your nation’s services, or of any other’s? Because if you are, say so now and you will be dealt with as a professional. If it is later learned that you are, we will deal with you as,” he paused, “as scum of the world, entitled to nothing.” Marianenko’s voice was pure silk velvet, in its own way as chilling as Suslova’s rapier bearing and the heavy pistol that printed clearly beneath her embroidered blouse.
“Colonel, I am not an officer nor an operative in any American or other military or intelligence service.”
Marianenko and Suslova exchanged glances. It was time for the final test.
“Doctor Tolchinskaya,” Marianenko said calmly. “I believe you. However, I am sorry to say, my superiors do not. They read my reports. We have spoken several times since your in-processing began. They are not satisfied. I have been directed to begin again, in order to determine to their satisfaction whether you are in fact trustworthy.”
For a moment, Olivia felt the same frustrated, resentful rage she always had, whenever a worthwhile project she’d worked on was cancelled, delayed, or deliberately distorted as a prelude to cancellation. Then the rage turned to dread. This was not the United States, where she could always walk away, seek work elsewhere, give up and move on if she chose. This was Russia. They could keep her here literally for the rest of her life, asking the same questions over and over. Had some corrupt potentate of some competing Russian project learned of her and used his influence to wreck her work before it even started? In the end, was it the same game here as in America? If it was, she had no chance. Or perhaps Marianenko was simply playing one last gambit. Whatever the truth, it was time to find out.
“Colonel, as I have said before, I now say again. I am neither a bought defector nor a whore, neither a slave nor an intelligence officer, and I do not betray people. Not Americans, not Russians, not there and not here. If you or your superiors, assuming your superiors have in fact made this decision, are so obsessed with the possibility of some future betrayal at some future date, so obsessed that they’re willing to destroy this before it starts, that’s your problem. I’m not going anywhere. But if what you want from me is betrayal, giving you things you don’t need and can’t use instead of what I offer in defense of our mutual civilization, then the Major here or you can join me in the tree line and we can end it decently now because there is no point in going on.”
Olivia’s voice was very calm, but there was no hiding her passion. Suslova had no trouble holding her gaze, but she was surprised to see Marianenko watching her closely, and, when Olivia turned to him, bear her gaze calmly and with dignity. At last he nodded.
Chastened by their grace and embarrassed by her own intensity, Olivia lowered her eyes for the first time in that week and filled her wine glass. “If you will please excuse me, I will be in the trees, down by the creek. A birch grove is as good a place as any to die. We may proceed in any way you wish.”
“Of course,” Marianenko said quietly. “Please do nothing rash.”
“Have I any need to?”
“No. Not anymore.”
Sometime later, Suslova joined her in the cool, damp shade of the birches, noting how full the wine glass still was, and the raw pride that had the American on her feet and facing her directly. “Major.”
“Doctor.” Suslova studied her thoughtfully. Despite the fear in Tolchinskaya’s level blue eyes, as well as a profound di
staste for the idea of being killed from behind, she could see no regret for anything said or done. And in that was a freedom Suslova recognized and understood. “Should I ever have to do anything—final—with you, I will do it to your face.” She handed Olivia back her embroidery snips and pocket knife.
“Thank you.”
“I truly believe you will not need to use it on yourself so I threw away that fragment of glass. You put a fine edge on it. What did you use?”
“A bit of granite down here the night before you arrived. Standard engineer thinking. How can I use what I have to make something I do not have and need? May I make an observation and ask a question?”
“Proceed.”
“In America, I often went about armed for reasons of personal security. You strike me as a woman who is always armed. For the same reason?”
“In part. My regular work makes real and ugly enemies. Also, the Afghans made an impression upon me. My brother, my other brother, was taken alive by the mujahidin. My husband was more fortunate. He died quickly. I will never be taken alive by anyone.”
“I understand.”
“Also, when dealing with you, precautions are reasonable. I would take it hard indeed if you killed my Colonel.”
“You have deep history together, I think.”
“Afghanistan. One very bad night east of Khost. I was seven months pregnant and newly widowed—my husband was an Airborne officer killed in a helicopter shoot down. One of your Stingers, I believe. No regrets or apologies necessary. Colonel Marianenko and I found ourselves in an overrun situation. I was a junior captain and a woman, and I rode roughshod over everyone but then Major Marianenko to organize and co-ordinate the defense. It was as desperate a thing as I ever hope to experience, much less get people through alive, and it was Marianenko who backed me for my Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“That is, I believe, a decoration equivalent to the American Medal of Honor.”
“If that is your highest personal decoration, you are correct.”
“I understand.”
“Yes, I believe you do. But as they say in America, ‘Enough about me.’ We will be moving you back south to Moscow at the end of the week. You need to set up a lab and find housing. Also, it is time to provide you with a propiska and passbook.”
“Propiska?”
“An internal passport. Such things are, I believe, not used in the United States. The passbook will, among other things, grant you admittance to our better shops.”
“And my weapon?”
“In due time, but you may be sure that none of us have forgotten about that.”
“Myself least of all.”
“If you’re willing to go into Chechnya when you don’t have to and take on the ugly weight of our Caucasian history, believe me, you will have your personal weapon. I believe you’ve been running this week.”
“In very small circles.”
“So the guards tell me. The wet shorts and shoes and the sweat are adequate evidence of how much one can accomplish while running in very small circles. I used to cover some country. Would you like to run together? In somewhat larger circles?”
“I would be ashamed for you to see me as I run now.”
Irina Borisovna looked at her. “Doctor, like you, I have old injuries, so I am not as fast as you might think. I would be honored if you would accept my offer.”
Olivia looked at her. They had taken each other’s measure and were well pleased with what they had found in each other, having long ago found it within themselves. “Then Major, I am honored to accept.”
“Shall we make it a custom we continue in Moscow?”
“Let’s run.”