And then I notice something, a single reference, a citation to a paper published decades ago cowritten by Volkov and Munn and published in a journal I’ve never heard of. Eventually, I dig up the paper. In it, I learn many things, including the little-known fact that up to the age of eleven a child with a severed fingertip can grow a new one. There are many additional papers by Munn, of course. But Volkov’s scientific career stops there, with this one paper he published with Munn, the original of which is in French. Nothing on him again until the breakup of the Soviet Union, at which time Mikhail Petrovich Volkov somehow becomes one of the richest men in the world.
Their connections are few but deep: a paper they wrote together, a gift of the family’s collection of glassware.
I need to find out more.
Mellin’s cybersecurity is too hard for me to get through. My only hope is Rik’s phone number, which I am pathetic enough to have memorized.
The biggest threat to a phone’s security is its data connection. If Rik has recently used a network outside of Mellin’s VPN, I can download everything I need with an app.
And so I get busy, hacking Rik’s phone, working away. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for, a message to Munn sent through an unprotected network. It’s about a flight leaving at 13:50 and tickets, which are attached.
I’m about to open the attachment when I’m startled by a noise. I look up and there’s a man standing in the doorway. He’s got his arms folded in front of him and a look of accusation on his face, but it’s his uniform that panics me most. My heart pounds wildly. I look for somewhere to run. I tell myself to calm down. Calm down now!
But it’s not a police uniform. It’s from the hotel. The guy is a front desk clerk. I’m guessing he clocked me coming into the business center and is thinking that a teenage girl online so early in the morning is probably searching for stuff she shouldn’t be. Plus, my weird haircut and old clothes no longer make me look like a rich American but a scruffy street urchin.
The man asks what room I’m in and I tell him, then hold up my card key. My stomach flip-flops but I smile bravely, praying that he’ll move on. He looks at me for a long time, as though trying to decide whether I’m lying, then apologizes somewhat insincerely and disappears again.
As soon as he is out of sight, I close all my windows, erase the history, empty the cache, delete all cookies, and shut off the computer. I move as fast as possible, but not so fast that I forget about Rik’s email to Munn. Holding my breath, I click on the attachment.
It’s tickets for a flight that left yesterday. Munn is in Moscow.
I haven’t been approached by police and I haven’t seen Vasiliev and his men. I doubt they’d recognize me anyway. I barely do. Every time I pass a mirror, I flinch.
But at least I have some facts I can work with: Volkov and Munn know each other. Munn has flown to Moscow.
I think about Arturo and I pray that Vasiliev doesn’t discover that he helped me remove the tracker. But I can’t help Arturo right now. I’m in too much trouble myself. I can’t stay in the hotel any longer either. The guy will have checked out the room number I gave him and discovered I’m lying. I’m willing to bet there’s someone placed at the front door right now, instructed to stop me as I leave. But I know what to do. I enter the restaurant and head for the kitchen. If you’ve worked in enough kitchens you know exactly where to go. I grab a cloth off a door handle, pinning it around my waist like an apron as I walk, behaving as though I work here. I’m a busgirl or a pot cleaner or one of the millions of people who prep vegetables for salad. My attitude says, Hey, I do this every day!
My mother always said that working in the food industry teaches you more than you know, and she was right.
The high turnover in a kitchen means that a new face goes unnoticed. And there’s always a door next to a kitchen that will be open no matter what the weather to combat the heat and steam of the cooking. I look for that door now, skirting the backs of the staff. If anyone notices me they see an aproned teenager, one of many who work in the kitchens here, nothing unusual. Soon, I’m outside. I step past two guys, sitting on the steps in their chef jackets and checked kitchen trousers, smoking. And then I’m gone.
27
MY GOAL IS to find Munn. He’s in this city somewhere. I stay out of the way of police and cameras as I search every bar and restaurant, squinting through my sunglasses. I miss my normal prescription glasses, safely stored in my tote bag. And this new short cut feels like someone else’s head. I get a lucky break, though, finding a tube of lipstick left behind in a bathroom. I use it to alter my lip shape again, so that I look even less like myself. The lipstick is bright red, expensive stuff that lasts all day. Lauren was right, makeup is magic.
Munn always stays in fancy places, the best bars and restaurants and hotels. He should be right here in the tourist part of the city. But I can’t find him. After several days, I begin to wonder if he’s got an apartment somewhere and that’s why. Or maybe he never got on the plane in the first place.
Then one evening, I see someone walking out of the glass doors of the Four Seasons hotel and across its vast plaza. He’s got Munn’s same lanky body and sweep of white hair. I step forward, following him a short distance. It’s Munn all right. I’d know him anywhere.
I follow him as he passes the fountains and flowers, then under Mokhovaya along the pedestrian underpass. I can’t imagine where he is going until, at last, I catch sight of him heading back onto Tverskaya and entering the Ritz-Carlton, where I’ve taken up residence since abandoning the Hotel National.
In the laundry room, of course.
Munn crosses the lobby with its marbled floor and gilded everything. He fits in so perfectly here, as he does in all grand places. Striding confidently to the concierge’s desk, he stops to ask a question, then walks off, turning the corner to the elevators. I wait for him to get into the elevator and for the doors to silently close. The progress of lighted numbers tells me he’s reached the top floor. Floor twelve, the O2 Lounge.
The O2 Lounge serves Kamchatka crab, caviar, sea bass, and ribs. But nobody comes here for the food. It’s the views they’re after. The open-air bar looks out over Red Square, the studded towers of the Kremlin wall, and the fairy-tale rooftops of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
It’s still early, the patio dotted with people sipping cocktails. Light jazz floats on the breeze.
I search the tables and see the back of Munn’s head as he sits beneath the shade of an umbrella. I can’t quite shake off the idea that he’s my idol, my boss, the man who plucked me from a terrible situation at the Science for Our Future awards. I revere him. I know I shouldn’t. Look where he’s landed me, alienated from my own country. And so very alone.
I realize that I need him. And he must need me, too, because he’s come an awfully long way to find me. I have to think about what I want from him. I have to guess at what he wants from me. One thing’s for sure, I can’t afford to be shy. Or tongue-tied. I can’t allow his age or fame or all his credentials to cloud my judgment.
I walk across the bar, sit at his table, and stare into his face with what I hope is a venomous look. Closer up, I see he is elegantly dressed, as always. His hair is raked back from his head, his gaze fixed upon me. I need to speak to him as a peer, not as a student. I need to be unafraid.
I take the glass from in front of him and drink. The dry vermouth isn’t nearly as refreshing as I’d hoped.
A small smile creeps across his face. I think he’s only now recognized me. After all, with my short hair and sunglasses, I’m practically disguised. He takes in a breath, then says, “The martini is said to be the only invention as perfect as the sonnet.”
Another sip. This time the taste is different, not quite as bitter.
“Perhaps you’d like your own drink?”
I look at the glass and get a little happy thinking how my lipstick has marked it. I hope this annoys him.
“I’m living in a laundry hamper,”
I say. “Is that what you wanted? Or did you want me to work for Volkov?”
It’s a genuine question.
“One moment,” says Munn. He goes to the bar, returning with a menu. “Order something,” he says. “You look gaunt.”
“I looked worse when I was locked up,” I say, surprised by the way I’m able to speak to him. Months ago, I’d have barely managed a few words, and here I am being brash. “Did they send you pictures?”
“I’ll order for you,” he says, summoning the attention of a waiter.
“What would happen if right now I walked into the US embassy?”
This gets his attention. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says. “Slow down on that martini. I don’t think you realize how strong it is.”
“I’ve been drugged up to my eyeballs for days. Imprisoned, scared out of my mind, in fear for my life, and now I’m a national scandal. I’m so nervous I can barely function. Don’t talk to me about strong!” I finish the glass. “The news keeps reporting that everyone wants me brought to justice. As though I’ve done something wrong.”
“Yes,” says Munn. “I understand that.”
My head swims, probably from the drink. “Maybe you can explain what’s going on,” I say.
He launches into a summary of what is happening back in America. Post-death recovery is on every news channel. People want to know how the dead can be brought back to life. Some have even stopped burying their relatives.
“I know all this,” I say. “Internet.”
The waiter arrives with a glass of orange juice and plate of asparagus, or what I think is asparagus. It’s not green, but white.
“Can I have a burger?” I say. The waiter begins to remove the plate, and I say, “No, leave it. I want this, too.”
Munn orders a burger, another martini, and more juice because I’ve already downed the first glass.
The asparagus is delicious, whatever the color. The alcohol has dialed me back, helping me to relax. I chew slowly, savoring every buttery bite. Munn allows me to eat undisturbed. I finish the plate, then say, “Are you part of the CIA? Or the FSB? Or MI6?”
I sound like I know more than I do about intelligence agencies. In fact, I only know what Dmitry has told me in his stories about his father. And while I don’t know exactly who Munn is working for, he has to have something to do with intelligence.
“I can assure you that I was not responsible for putting you in your current situation,” he says. “However, I have relationships with certain people who are in a position to help you.”
“Help me not get arrested for something I didn’t do, you mean?”
Munn takes a long breath, leaning forward as though he’s going to touch my forearm in some kind of comforting manner, but I stop him with a glare.
“Volkov has taken a shine to you,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “This has some disadvantages but also some advantages.”
Hearing him speak Volkov’s name sends little shock waves through me.
“Do you work for Volkov?” I ask. After all, it’s a possibility.
My question surprises him. “Certainly not,” he says. “We’ve been trying to gain intelligence on Volkov’s scientific undertakings. If you were to work for him, you’ll be privy to what is really going on in his laboratories. That’s very valuable information to America. And to its allies. Great Britain, for example.”
“You want me to work for Volkov? Because that is an interesting coincidence. He offered me a job.”
“Which you declined,” Munn says gently.
“And you knew that.”
“Only because you’re here now.”
It’s like we’re playing a game of chess. His move. My move. I remind myself that Munn is always utterly in control of himself, and good at presenting an image. I can picture him in the conference room at the SFOF meeting during that awful moment when they were deciding whether to award me the prize. He’d leaned casually against the wall as though he was merely interested in the facts of the case, nothing more. Nobody would have guessed that he’d sent Rik not only to find me but to coach me through writing a statement.
I say, “Every Russian troll on Twitter and Facebook has convinced ordinary US citizens I’m anti-American. I’ll never get a decent job no matter what I do. But that doesn’t mean I want to work for someone who looks an awful lot like a criminal.”
“Is a criminal,” Munn corrects. “This is why it is so important to us to know what he is doing. The public will change its mind about you once we reveal how helpful you’ve been to us. And we will. That’s part of the deal.”
The deal. So there’s a deal in play. And what strikes me, too, is the use of the word us. Munn must be desperate. Any normal person would be trying to get me away from Volkov, not push me toward him. But it appears this is what Munn wants. He’s flown all the way to Moscow to persuade me to work for a criminal.
“Why does Volkov matter so much?” I say.
Munn looks uncomfortable. “There are some prickly rumors circulating about Volkov,” he says. “I’m happy to share them, but tell me, Kira, what else do you know? I’ll fill you in, don’t worry, but I’m interested in what you’ve surmised thus far.”
But I haven’t surmised anything. A minute ago, I thought Munn worked for Volkov.
I glance out at the evening sky, thinking aloud. “First, Will leaked information, and that’s how I ended up here,” I say.
Munn considers this. “Possibly,” he says, “but I suspect Volkov pegged you earlier. Will may not have been much of a factor.”
I remember Vasiliev at the Science for Our Future conference and I realize that, of course, Munn is right. Volkov had tried a legitimate means of “acquiring” me, sending his man, Vasiliev, to the conference. But of course, I’d said no.
“And now the US sees an opportunity for me to leak information back about what they’re doing in Volkov’s labs,” I say. “Volkov must be up to something bad.”
He nods.
“It’s a unique situation. Volkov imagines I now hate America simply because America hates me. But you know I’m used to being hated, and it won’t change how I feel. So you’re certain of my allegiance.”
“All true,” he says.
My burger arrives and I eat like a starved dog. Munn nurses his martini. After a minute he says, “This is all very dangerous. In truth, I rather hope you don’t agree to it.”
“I saw your laboratory glassware in Volkov’s cabinet,” I say. “Why should I trust you? You and Volkov are friends. You’ve even published together.”
Munn clears his throat. “That was a lifetime ago. I can assure you we are no longer friends.”
“Did you have a falling-out over whose name came first in the research article?” I say snarkily.
“Over a woman,” Munn says, taking a sip from his drink.
From below come church bells, drawing our attention. We sit until the last note has rung.
“There is a legend about St. Basil’s Cathedral. Do you know it? Ivan the Terrible blinded its creator so that he could never create anything to rival it. An awful waste.” Then, quietly, he adds, “Don’t let post-death recovery be your last beautiful invention, Kira.”
I take a long breath. “It didn’t look so beautiful when I saw Will dead under a sheet,” I say. “And I don’t want to be a spy.”
Munn looks at me carefully. “You won’t be. At least, not for long.”
“Will and I promised each other that if one got away, the other wouldn’t forget. But he turned his back—” I have to stop now. My throat feels cottony. My eyes fill. The sad truth is I’d never have done that to him. I’d never have left Will behind.
Munn leans toward me and whispers, “You’re angry about Will,” he says, “but there are a few facts you don’t know.”
“What facts?”
“For example,” he begins, “Will was dumped on a gurney in a corridor because they thought he was too incapacitated to go anywhere. He escaped that
place—wherever it was they kept you—and arrived at Volkov’s house, half blind and shoeless.”
I think about Will, whose lab coat is always pristine, whose shoes always look fresh out of the box. For him to arrive in such a state into the palace that is Volkov’s house is unimaginable.
Munn continues, saying, “He offered Volkov a plan that would keep you in the country and, yes, it meant whipping up the media and defaming you. That’s a pity, but it was a smart move. Volkov hates America and has a pathological rivalry with me. You’re the girl who can bring back the dead. Volkov would never have let someone that valuable return to the United States. If it weren’t for Will, Volkov might have eliminated you altogether. Will saved your life.”
I let his words sink in. Will saved your life.
I don’t know what to say.
Munn continues, “Will did the only thing he could think of to make you safe. You’re too well-known now to simply disappear.”
Disappear. Like Arturo, I think.
“Volkov is probably hoping you’ll come to your senses, so to speak, and go work for him,” adds Munn.
“How did Will know where Volkov lived?”
Munn smiles bitterly. “He didn’t,” he says. He closes his eyes as though pushing away a memory, then says, “He got somebody on the street to lend him a phone. He rang me and I told him what to do. If you want to hate someone, hate me. Not Will. The boy was scared to death. He was scared for you.”
I nod, taking this in. I have to use every ounce of strength to stop myself from crying.
“There are some facts you don’t know,” I say finally.
Munn tips his head with interest.
“Arturo is still alive. I saw him.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then he says, “And you’d like to help him. That will be difficult.”
I think about how Arturo had refused to come with me from the laboratory. It was like he was too scared to save himself. “I have to try,” I say.
Dragonfly Girl Page 29
