He’d also seen something else the day before. It looked like some kind of tower—too far away to see whether it was steel or wood—rising off in the distance. It was easily at least five miles off, but the manse was up on a hill with fantastic sightlines. Honestly, it might have even been farther, because there were very few reference points among the grasses. But it seemed pretty tall, and it was kind of in the middle of nowhere, no buildings or anything around it for miles.
This information produced a panoply of opinions in his head.
Observation post monitoring approach to the manse area.
Fire watch tower—it’s been dry here.
A well of some kind. Water, or oil.
It looks like the shot tower for the Trinity test.
That last notion was particularly interesting. Back in 1945, during the Manhattan project, the scientists in New Mexico had built a hundred-foot-high tower and placed the Trinity test weapon on top. They let it drop from there—and the subsequent mushroom cloud was the very first nuclear bomb detonation in history.
Shot tower.
It made sense. Thanks to the work of the Bekhterev Institute, the Russians knew that the vortex phenomena had been created in part by the detonation of a nuclear weapon at Hiroshima. Frank had been on patrol in Berlin at the time and had seen a similar vortex appear in the labyrinthine bowels of the former Reich Chancellery, all thanks to the efforts of a mad scientist employed by the Nazis—Kurt Schreiber.
Frank hadn’t worked with Schreiber at all and had only spotted him at Area 51 once, but was pretty sure that five minutes alone with Schreiber would result in a new voice in Frank’s head. But he couldn’t be comforted by such thoughts now, because if the Russians were preparing for a nuclear test near where Variants were being housed, it meant they were keen on exploring the link between nuclear detonation and Variant Empowerment.
If there was one, of course. Maybe they’d all just get blown to hell and back and that would be that.
Or maybe that was all just crazy talk. Maybe the Reds were just giving Smokey Bear his due and watching out for grass fires. Frank cautioned himself to not get overly excited about things. Chances were he’d be there for a good while, a prisoner of Beria’s Empowered troops in for the long haul.
Frank finished his bowl of stew—there was always a sheet of pasta dough at the bottom for some reason, which was the tastiest part of the whole damn thing—and shoved the bowl back under the door. He heard it hit something, and crouched down to look through the slot.
There was a pair of shining cavalry boots now flecked with leftover broth and tiny bits of meat.
Ah, hell.
Frank stood and moved away from the door as it suddenly swung open. A pair of guards flanked an MGB major in a pristine uniform—well, except for the boots. The man looked familiar, but it took several moments before one of the voices in his head, the double-agent once known as INSIGHT, produced the name. “Boris Giorgievich Illyanov,” Frank said with a nod, then continued in Russian. “I trust you are well.”
The man grimaced. “I am old, Frank Lodge.”
Frank nodded sadly. Frank’s team had encountered Illyanov with the other Russian Variants in the woods outside Prague last year. He’d been young at the time—barely a teenager—and his Enhancement made him freakishly fast. That was until Cal came into contact with him, aging Illyanov greatly in order to heal his own grievous wounds. There was never any definitive evidence as to whether Boris could have snapped back from the encounter, or had even lived very long after it.
The man in front of Frank now appeared to be nearly seventy. But looks could be deceiving.
“Come with me,” Illyanov said. The two guards entered the cell and prodded Frank with the butts of their new AK-47s. Not really seeing an option, Frank followed the Russian Variant out of his cell and out into the sun.
To his very great surprise, Frank saw Cal and Zippy being marched in similar fashion into the courtyard between the buildings—Zippy from the manse, Cal from the barn/lab building. Frank shared a look with each of them, and they nodded in response. They were OK, as far as Frank could tell, and holding the line as best they could. Cal, though, was considerably older looking—at least mid-fifties, if not more. They’d been working on him, too, no doubt.
Frank also saw a small cadre of similarly uniformed MGB officers in the courtyard. Boris’s little sister—Ekaterina, the super-strength girl—was there, as was Maria Savrova. There were two others Frank didn’t recognize, but given how they stood together with Savrova and the Illyanova kid, Frank imagined they had to be Variants as well.
When the strange shadow figure showed up next to Ekaterina Illyanova, Frank’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Looks like we got a little tent revival going here, Frank,” Cal said by way of greeting. “Gang’s all here.” Was it all Variants? Up close, Cal still looked hale, despite his aged appearance, but he hadn’t been given the benefit of an old uniform—his clothes were nothing more than castoff rags, and they hadn’t even bothered to give him shoes, the bastards.
“Appears to be,” Frank confirmed. “Zip, you OK?”
Zippy spared him a smile. “The food’s shit. I’ve been trying to have a word with the staff about it.” She was dressed in what Kirill confirmed was Kazakh peasant garb—poofy-looking trousers and a broad white blouse. At least she’d been given some decent shoes.
Savrova turned to the guards and barked in Russian: “Leave us. Fetch the director.”
The guards immediately scattered—Savrova clearly had pull. In fact, it seemed that the Russians had integrated their Variants directly into the MGB, giving them ranks and authority within the overall military-intelligence hierarchy. That likely had to do with Beria’s influence, Frank figured; his voices agreed.
Speak of the devil.
Beria walked out of the barn, dressed in the uniform of a Marshal of the Soviet Union. Frank knew Beria was deputy premier, and former head of the secret police, and … well, there were any number of jobs and titles the man held that would let him wear whatever the hell he wanted. And yet it seemed he wanted to be cut from the same cloth as his … fellow Variants?
“My friends,” Beria said in English as he approached, arms outstretched. “I had hoped to thank you for your cooperation over the past several days, but that is unfortunately not how you have decided our time together will be. Surely, you understand why we have thus had to keep you as prisoners of war.”
So, Cal and Zippy had sealed their lips and taken their punishment right alongside him. Frank felt immensely proud of them.
“Nice try, Comrade,” Frank said. “Once again, we are American diplomats, accredited to the U.S. Consulate in Damascus, and we demand to contact our embassy immediately.”
Beria stopped and looked positively murderous for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Mr. Lodge, can we please, for a moment, stop with the charade?”
To make his point, Beria held up his hand—which immediately burst into flame.
Well, that settles it.
“We are all Empowered here—Variants, as you would say. But I think this term you use belittles your status and your gifts,” Beria said as his hand burned. “Empowered is more apt, wouldn’t you agree? After all, we have been given power, and we, as the champions of the proletariat, should use it to usher in a new age of socialist peace and security.”
Beria waved his hand, and the flames immediately extinguished. His hand appeared unaffected by the fire.
“Well, that’s impressive,” Cal said. “Must be handy up there in Leningrad. I hear they got some cold winters.”
Illyanov moved toward Cal with his hand raised, ready to strike, but Beria put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, Comrade. This is fine,” Beria said in Russian. “They are like us. We can allow them some freedoms, can we not?”
Illyanov sneered at Cal. “He is a subhuman dog, and he has refused to fix what was done to me,” the man responded, also in Russian. “He will never join
our brotherhood.”
“Then he will be destroyed,” Beria said gently, pulling Illyanov back into the fold. Beria turned to Frank and smiled. “Yes,” he said in English, “that is the choice we now offer you.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Seriously? You’re going to play that hand?”
“You have resisted all our efforts to reach out to you,” Beria said. “All of you. You had many opportunities to share the details of your Empowerments, and here with us now, you could have cooperated with our experiments. Yes, you could have healed Boris Illyanov, Mr. Hooks, and been treated far better than you have been.”
Frank gave Cal a little smile. Good man. Good job.
“But we want you to understand something,” Beria continued. “You are American, and yes, we are Soviet. But what we are—Empowered—is far bigger than politics, than this Cold War. We all believe, all of us here, that the future will be claimed by the Empowered. We have a duty to lead the proletariat to a better future. And we invite you to join us to lead all nations—the United States, the Soviet Union, all of them—into a new era of prosperity.”
Frank thought about this a moment. “So … basically, you want us to help you … what, rule the world?”
Beria’s smile grew wider. “That is the language of the imperialists,” he replied. “Of course you would believe this, because you cannot even comprehend a world in which capitalistic dominance of the weak isn’t present. But there is a difference between rulership and leadership, one which we can teach you. The Empowered are stewards of humanity, not tyrants. We protect, nurture, and grow the proletariat. And as we unlock the secrets of the phenomena—the ones from Berlin and Hiroshima—we may yet spread the blessings of Empowerment to those who understand the responsibility of such a thing and join the ranks of proletarian champions.”
Frank blinked several times, trying to cut through the word soup. The other Russian Variants gazed at Beria with looks ranging from grim determination to utter rapture—but they all seemed to buy what Beria was selling. “So, uh … OK. Is the proletariat going to have a choice in the matter?” he asked.
“There is a reason, Mr. Lodge, why your superiors have kept your existence a secret in the United States, and it is the same reason that the Empowered work quietly within the Soviet system,” Beria replied. “People fear that which they do not understand, as you well know. If we reveal ourselves too soon, without the proper preparation, the opportunity to lead humanity to its next great evolution will be wasted, and we shall have to hide—or worse, openly fight those who would use us for reactionary, fascist aims.”
Cal cleared his throat and stood up a bit taller. “So, way I see it, sir, you’re gonna be in charge, and nobody will have a say in that? Sorry, but I can’t go along with you there.”
In the blink of an eye, Illyanov rushed up to Cal and backhanded him across the face, sending him sprawling onto the ground. “Stupid ape!” the old Soviet roared in Russian. “How is it you are even Empowered? You are not even human!”
Suddenly, the shadowy figure materialized in front of Illyanov and somehow turned solid enough to put his hands on the speedster’s shoulders, stopping him. “This is not how it is to be done, Boris,” the shadow said quickly and quietly, the sound entering into Frank’s mind like the memory of a whisper. “He is Empowered, like you. He is greater than human, like you. Leave him be.”
Frank and Zippy converged on Cal, helping him to his feet. There was a nasty cut on his lip, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Frank turned to Beria. “Can you get our man a live animal of some kind? A sheep headed for slaughter?” he asked in Russian. “It won’t take much, but it will help him immensely.”
Beria, however, was staring hard at Illyanov, who had reluctantly allowed himself to be led back to the group by the shadow figure. “We will speak later, Boris Giorgievich,” Beria said, sotto voce, before turning to Frank and addressing him in English. “If you want to help your man, then I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Lodge. That goes for all of you. You have until sunrise tomorrow to decide whether you will continue to live like sheep and allow yourselves to be used as pawns by the rich and powerful, or if you will take your rightful place, here with us, as the champions of working people everywhere. That is all.”
Zippy finally spoke up. “I think we can save you the trouble, Comrade,” she replied, a little too loudly and forcibly; she was definitely working up her courage. “We’re not joining you. So, you can take your supervillain shtick and shove it up your ass.”
Beria turned and smiled again. “We’ll see if you feel any differently in the morning.”
TRANSMISSION INTERCEPT TRANSCRIPT--MI6
29-07-49 0217 GMT
LISTENING STATION KABA
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
VOICE 1: (Russian) Yes?
VOICE 2: (English) You really need a better phone system, Comrade. Took us less than an hour to get this number.
VOICE 1: (English) Who is this?
VOICE 2: An interested party. I believe you have something of ours. Three somethings, in fact.
V1: Ah. I am impressed. Though perhaps I should not be surprised, given the capabilities of your people.
V2: Well, I have to say, your past efforts surprised us quite a bit. We’re overdue for returning the favor.
V1: Finding my private telephone is not quite the same as driving one of your top ministers insane. Or releasing two of your greatest assets. Suborning one of your top scientists. But I am pleased you have at least decided to join the game. It’s been terribly boring until now.
V2: Careful what you wish for, Comrade. Meantime, I’m calling to suggest a trade.
V1: Really? A trade? Do tell me more.
V2: You have three of ours. We have two of yours, plus an untrustworthy scientist. Seems like a fair trade to me.
V1: And how would you even begin to conduct this trade?
V2: We know where you are. Just tell your border people to stand down, and we’ll hop on over in a ’copter. In and out, ten minutes.
V1: You want me to stand down the border guard? This ridiculous request tells me you’re not serious.
V2: There’s only one man in the Soviet Union you can’t boss around. So don’t pretend you can’t manage a simple covert border crossing, Comrade.
V1: You’re in China.
V2: Of course we’re in China. That’s no big secret. I’ll tell Mao you said hi.
V1: I want to meet. Face to face.
V2: Not this time. This is just a quick prisoner exchange. Then we’re up and out. You want a sit-down, we can discuss after everybody’s back where they belong.
V1: All right. I assume you will want to bring others with you.
V2: Well, I can’t fly a helicopter myself. And yes, we’ll be bringing a small party to ensure security.
V1: No more than six.
V2: I can live with that.
V1: You may cross at Tomar. It is roughly 450 kilometers south-southeast of Semipalatinsk. I assume you know where you’re going after that?
V2: Of course we do.
V1: You must be here by six o’clock in the morning. Otherwise, there is no deal.
V2: We’ll make it work. I have your guarantee of safe passage?
V1: You will not be harmed in Soviet airspace.
V2: See you in the morning, then.
(V2 line disconnects, V1 open line redials)
V3: (Russian) Yes, Comrade?
V1: (Russian) Come see me in my office immediately. We are having guests tomorrow. We will need to welcome them.
(line disconnects)
WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS, JACK? ISN’T THAT THE BIT OF KAZAKHSTAN WHERE UNCLE JOE SET UP HIS TESTING AREA? WHAT ARE THE YANKS UP TO? MAKE THIS A PRIORITY. I WANT ANSWERS.—M
August 29, 1949
The banging at his cell door woke Cal up from a fitful sleep. He’d spent half the night staring up at the ceiling, trying to compose himself, to get right with God. He knew he wouldn’t join Beria’s circus, so he�
�d figured it might be his last night on Earth, and his last opportunity to make amends.
The Russians had started treating him better after that little meeting in the courtyard. He’d gotten a hand-me-down army uniform and some better shoes. They’d let him bathe, fed him a decent meal for once. He’d asked for a pen and paper, hoping he might write a note to his wife and son, but either the Reds didn’t know English well enough to understand, or they’d just ignored him. He’d also been hoping for some livestock, anything to get him a bit healthier and younger, but that wasn’t meant to be either.
Then again, a whole lot wasn’t meant to be. Hence the late night, talking to the Lord.
Cal had managed to spend a year of active duty in MAJESTIC-12 without killing anybody. That had been one of his most important goals when he’d first signed up, and he had to shoo away a bit of pride when he thought about it. Nobody got extra credit for avoiding murder, he figured; the straight and narrow was narrow for a reason, even more so when your government asked you to be a spy for your country. But he’d managed it, and had still served the United States well, by his count. There were stories about how his great-grandfather came north through the Underground Railroad, then joined the Union Army when it came time to fight the South; he figured he was just doing the same as his ancestors did, and that was enough.
Still, he wanted to see his wife’s face one more time. He wanted to tell Winston all he could tell him about life, and walking with God, and how to be strong in the face of everything the world would throw at you. Cal wondered if the MAJESTIC-12 folks would ever divulge even a little bit to his family about how he’d served his country. Even just say that Calvin Hooks died in defense of America. Wouldn’t that be grand?
MJ-12 Page 29
