me—when he walked me to grade school every morning and scooped me into his arms whenever he came home. I thought it was the real Papa, leaking out of the standard-issue Soviet man for a brief moment before pouring himself back in. But now, with no one to hide himself from, he merely turns and walks down the hall, whistling to himself.
The security guard hands me a badge to dangle around my neck—my photograph, with my full name and nationality typed beneath it. They’ve added a superfluous j to the English spelling of my name. Yulija . Now everyone’s going to butcher the pronunciation.
Valentin holds up his own badge. “Valentine,” he says. Like the American holiday. We laugh nervously, a quick snorting sound. His fingers brush against the nape of my neck as he helps me slide my badge into place, leaving a warm trail of our shared music on my skin. I’m not alone. As disorienting as our new life is, I can survive here.
“Miss Chernina!” A fluted column of a woman, rich olive skin melting into a tweedy Jackie Kennedy–style skirt and blazer, clips toward us on heeled oxfords. “Cindy Conrad. Call me Cindy.” She pumps her right hand toward me like a piston. I shake, but her strength far exceeds mine, and my hand flails in hers as her raucous blues music shield spills onto me. “It’s not my real name. Come along; I work with the girls separately in the mornings.”
I seize Valentin’s wrist, leaning back from Cindy. “Wait—why are we separated?” I meet Valentin’s eyes. “I’d be more comfortable if Valentin were to—help translate, or explain—”
Cindy smirks. “That’s very sweet. But we do things rather differently here than you might be used to, and part of that is keeping the genders separated. For propriety’s sake, you know.” Another dainty laugh. “What do you think this is—a public high school?”
Valentin squeezes my hand. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything. Tebye obyeshayu. ” I promise.
Cindy trails a warm perfume from her like a censer as we wind through the CIA’s bowels, her caramel-colored bun bobbing high above everyone else. Though I can tell she’s slowed her pace to accommodate my limp, we’re still moving at a decent clip. I’m amazed how much noise these marble halls contain, circling a lush courtyard where young cardiganed secretaries lounge and smoke and drink from Styrofoam coffee cups. Everyone’s talking to someone as they trot from one corridor to the next, sometimes frantic, sometimes giddy. But everyone I brush against—down to the dowdy old woman stocking a breakfast cart—hums with a different melody.
“Everyone has a musical shield?” I ask Cindy, taking care to add an upward inflection to make it a question. Winnie told me my accent makes everything sound like I’m conducting an interrogation.
“We have many psychic safeguards in place—standard training for all CIA employees. He may be a real pistol to work with, but your father has been a godsend for our operational security, let me tell you!” She glances back at me. “You sound like quite the firebrand yourself. I heard about the number you did on Rostov and his ‘Hound’ back in Berlin. We’ll be needing more of that resourcefulness.”
There’s a current running through the building, a hum just on the horizon of my hearing like an electrified fence. It’s similar to the vibration in Papa’s townhouse, the by-product of living with two scrubbers. But no one we pass seems to be the source; aside from Cindy, I don’t sense that prick and tingle of psychic prowess.
“I don’t know how much your father and Valentin have told you about our work here. Hopefully not much, since it’s highly classified!” She says it with a smile, but I suspect she’s not joking. “Last year, we partnered with the Department of Education to include a psychic battery and examination in their high school testing—that’s how we found your teammates. They’re all around
The security guard hands me a badge to dangle around my neck—my photograph, with my full name and nationality typed beneath it. They’ve added a superfluous j to the English spelling of my name. Yulija . Now everyone’s going to butcher the pronunciation.
Valentin holds up his own badge. “Valentine,” he says. Like the American holiday. We laugh nervously, a quick snorting sound. His fingers brush against the nape of my neck as he helps me slide my badge into place, leaving a warm trail of our shared music on my skin. I’m not alone. As disorienting as our new life is, I can survive here.
“Miss Chernina!” A fluted column of a woman, rich olive skin melting into a tweedy Jackie Kennedy–style skirt and blazer, clips toward us on heeled oxfords. “Cindy Conrad. Call me Cindy.” She pumps her right hand toward me like a piston. I shake, but her strength far exceeds mine, and my hand flails in hers as her raucous blues music shield spills onto me. “It’s not my real name. Come along; I work with the girls separately in the mornings.”
I seize Valentin’s wrist, leaning back from Cindy. “Wait—why are we separated?” I meet Valentin’s eyes. “I’d be more comfortable if Valentin were to—help translate, or explain—”
Cindy smirks. “That’s very sweet. But we do things rather differently here than you might be used to, and part of that is keeping the genders separated. For propriety’s sake, you know.” Another dainty laugh. “What do you think this is—a public high school?”
Valentin squeezes my hand. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything. Tebye obyeshayu. ” I promise.
Cindy trails a warm perfume from her like a censer as we wind through the CIA’s bowels, her caramel-colored bun bobbing high above everyone else. Though I can tell she’s slowed her pace to accommodate my limp, we’re still moving at a decent clip. I’m amazed how much noise these marble halls contain, circling a lush courtyard where young cardiganed secretaries lounge and smoke and drink from Styrofoam coffee cups. Everyone’s talking to someone as they trot from one corridor to the next, sometimes frantic, sometimes giddy. But everyone I brush against—down to the dowdy old woman stocking a breakfast cart—hums with a different melody.
“Everyone has a musical shield?” I ask Cindy, taking care to add an upward inflection to make it a question. Winnie told me my accent makes everything sound like I’m conducting an interrogation.
“We have many psychic safeguards in place—standard training for all CIA employees. He may be a real pistol to work with, but your father has been a godsend for our operational security, let me tell you!” She glances back at me. “You sound like quite the firebrand yourself. I heard about the number you did on Rostov and his ‘Hound’ back in Berlin. We’ll be needing more of that resourcefulness.”
There’s a current running through the building, a hum just on the horizon of my hearing like an electrified fence. It’s similar to the vibration in Papa’s townhouse, the by-product of living with two scrubbers. But no one we pass seems to be the source; aside from Cindy, I don’t sense that prick and tingle of psychic prowess.
“I don’t know how much your father and Valentin have told you about our work here. Hopefully not much, since it’s highly classified!” She says it with a smile, but I suspect she’s not joking. “Last year, we partnered with the Department of Education to include a psychic battery and examination in their high school testing—that’s how we found your teammates. They’re all around
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