She could feel his body stiffen. He stared in shock at Zaykov. “Janet?”
Musi looked puzzled. Janet? The name was somehow familiar, and she scanned her memory trying to make the connection. Nothing. Perhaps someone Andrei knew in the United States … “Andrei, it’s Musi Zaykov.”
His tongue moved across cracked lips. Slowly, his eyes seemed to focus on her instead of some shadowy figure in the distance, and he now seemed to recognize the woman sitting beside him. “Musi …?”
“Yes, you will be all right.”
He seemed to relax, let himself fall limp against the pillow, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “Water.” Zaykov poured a glass of lukewarm water for him and held the glass as he drank. She soaked a towel and wiped sweat off his face and chest.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I woke up and saw those guys shooting something into the I.V. I guess I panicked.”
“I should say,” Zaykov said with a wry smile. “You almost killed Rodovnin. I am having the syringe and the intravenous solution analyzed, and Rodovnin and Boroschelvisch are in custody. The doctor will also tell us if he ordered an intravenous feeding for you. I wasn’t notified of it.”
He rolled painfully up out of bed, taking deep breaths, trying to force his equilibrium back to normal, then turned angrily to Zaykov. “I don’t want any more damned I.V.’s stuck into me.”
“The doctor obviously felt it was necessary, you are so dehydrated—”
“I said no more I.V.’s.” He got carefully to his feet and began to test the strength of his legs. She was shocked at the appearance of his body — he looked as if he had lost well over seven kilograms since she had first seen him. Ribs and joints protruded, and his muscles, once lean and powerful, looked stringy, weak. “My body recovers just fine with rest, vitamins and water,” he told her. “I’ve never needed intravenous fluids before.”
“And I have never seen you so thin before, Andrei. Perhaps the doctor was right—”
“I’m thin because the food around here is lousy. Hasn’t the KGB ever heard of steaks? The only protein around here is from chicken and beans. Back in Vegas you could get a twenty-ounce steak dinner for five bucks. You could eat like a pig for nothing …”
Maraklov paused, resting a hand on the bedstand. He half-turned to Musi. “Vegas,” he said shaking his head. “It seems like a century ago.” Actually it was only a few days.
“Las Vegas is not your life any more, Andrei. It never was.”
“Then what is my life? When do I get to live my life? When I arrive in the Soviet Union? 1 think we both know my life will be anything but mine back in Russia …”
Musi had seen this before but never believed it could happen to a man as gifted and professional as Colonel Andrei Maraklov. It was more than the sickness caused by that machine he flew. It was common among turncoats, traitors, double agents, informers, even hostages held for long periods of time who began to identify with their captors. The feeling of profound loneliness, aloneness, invades even the strongest men, the feeling that no one trusted you then, that no one really wanted or cared about you then. But Andrei Maraklov’s situation was very different. He had been a Soviet agent pretending to become an American — actually two Americans, as a boy and as a man. Now he had to leave that part of his life and revert back to a strange new world. It was supposed to be his world, but it was now as alien — in a way more so — as America was to the young Russian teenager so long ago.
As a young graduate of the Connecticut Academy years ago, deep-cover agent reorientation and surveillance had been one of Musi Zaykov’s first assignments. She had been trained in studying the men and women who had returned from deep-cover assignments, analyzing them emotionally, seeking out any lingering loyalties to their former lives or resentments toward their new ones. Although the personalities were always different, their emotional roller-coaster rides were not. She had hoped Andrei would be different, stronger, better balanced. She was wrong. Hopelessness, paranoia, anger, loneliness, guilt, even impotence — all common symptoms.
The intravenous solutions and injections would all check out; she was sure of that. They would find no trace of contamination, no evidence of conspiracy. Rodovnin and Boroschelvisch would check out as well.
Maraklov had already made complaints about the food — that was typical. He had also complained about the Soviet worker’s sloppiness and inefficiency, about shortcomings in the Soviet government, about his new military commanders, about his clothing, water and surroundings. Telling stories about his former environment, making comparisons, was also to be expected. Unfortunately, so was violence.
The instructors at the Connecticut Academy suggested that the closer one could get to the repatriated man or woman, the better the transition would be. Strong emotional ties often resulted — but they could be negative or positive emotions. The “handler” was often the target of the repatriated person’s rage as well as his or her love and trust. In this case it was easier to accept Maraklov’s love — she hoped that she would not have to bear his hate as well.
She had thought about the Connecticut Academy several times in just the past few minutes, while in the past few years she had hardly given that place even a passing thought. What was it about that place …?
“Andrei, please believe what I say,” Musi said, “your country wants you back. They need you back. You will be the guiding force of an entire new generation of soldiers and citizens. You will be honored and respected wherever you go. And it has nothing to do with that machine out there. Military secrets are the most transient of all. It will be your strength, your courage, your determination and your patriotism that make you a hero to our people, not that plane out there.”
“That’s bullshit,” he said, turning away from her. “They want me because of what I know, not because of what I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s only partly true,” she said. “Of course, the knowledge you possess is important, even vital to our national defense and security. Naturally, imparting that knowledge will be your primary function when you return. But your usefulness as a man and as a Russian will not end with that.” She moved toward him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I can prove it to you, Andrei.”
“How?”
“Come back with me. Right now. Leave the airplane here—” Maraklov spun around. “Leave it? Here?”
“You are killing yourself every time you fly it,” she said. “Look at yourself. It drains you like some kind of electronic parasite. It will kill you if you continue. Leave it. I can order a transport to take us to Moscow in the morning. Take whatever you want from the aircraft — its most vital computers, diagrams, memory tapes, whatever. Or take nothing. The aircraft is in the hands of the KGB. You have done your duty — now let them do theirs. Come back with me to Russia and I guarantee you, you will be treated like the national hero you are.”
He stared at her, apparently considering her words. Her message finally seemed to be getting through to him, she thought. He was finally beginning to believe her …
“So that’s it,” Maraklov said. “You don’t think I can deliver. That’s it, isn’t it? The Politburo doesn’t think I can deliver DreamStar—”
“No, Andrei, that is not—”
“They don’t want me flying DreamStar any more,” he continued angrily. “They never did. I delivered it. They think they can debrief me and get rid of me. Now you want me to go back to Russia immediately. Bring him back before he snaps, is that what they said? Pick his brain before he freaks. Is that it?”