The details changed, but the order was always the same: Leningrad, Povenets B, the dark room. And so were the words the masked figures repeated over and over: ‘Tell us what you know.’
Even if Valera had wanted to tell them, she couldn’t. She was completely lost in what was happening in her head. When the figures shouted at her, she shouted back, her voice cracking. And when they wrapped her in blankets and gently whispered their constant demand in soft voices, all she could do was mumble ‘Mama’ or ‘Ledjo’ before breaking down in desperate tears and falling back into the endless rhythm of memory and fantasy.
She didn’t know when, but at some point the voices in the room changed. They stopped speaking as one and began fighting over each other to be heard. They came at her from every angle, getting louder and louder until the cacophony became too much and her mind took her back to Mikhailovsky Garden.
This time the trees were bare, the domes of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood were dull and cracked, and Valera was very heavily pregnant. She stood in the middle of the park, cradling her swollen belly. It didn’t occur to her that this was wrong, that she didn’t become pregnant with Ledjo until long after the siege. Her only thought was to protect her unborn child. She started walking east towards Saint Michael’s Castle, and almost made it to the trees before the bombs started to fall.
Then she was in Povenets B again. The explosion at the power plant, the shattering glass, the feeling of hot dust on her skin. But instead of just being confronted with rubble or Ledjo’s broken body, she saw a man standing in the ruins of the school, untouched by the destruction around him and reaching out to her. She’d never seen the man before, but she also had, in other, more peaceful fantasies. It was Ledjo, all grown up. She tried to run to him, pushing her legs harder and harder as she screamed his name. But no matter how fast she ran, she could never reach him.
And then, the dark room once more. She wanted to go back to Povenets B, back to Ledjo. She kept screaming. Her screams became a whimper, then a whisper, then silence. The masked figures were still there, surrounding her. But as she let her head fall and her body go limp against her restraints, the voices didn’t start shouting at her. They shouted at each other. Voices fought for dominance, shifting from Russian to English and back again, until only two remained, battling it out.
Then a piercing crack ricocheted around the room and there was just one voice left, telling Valera everything was going to be okay. Now she fought with what little energy she had left to stay in the room and not fall back into more twisted memories. She felt the restraints on her wrists loosen, her body being lifted out of the chair, and a prick in her arm. She started to slip away again, not into a dream but into oblivion.
CHAPTER 44
Dixon didn’t enjoy feeling like he was being put on show. But it was part of the deal between NASA and the CIA that he would be on call for both whenever they needed him. This could mean going to seminars or meetings outside his field or, like this evening, finding himself padding out a room at a party.
He’d been summoned to Washington at short notice for what had been billed as a reception for all the great minds working to win the space race. The timing felt off to Dixon. Gus Grissom was scheduled to make the next Mercury launch in two days’ time. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to wait and celebrate after his mission was successful than to tempt fate before it? He’d asked Murphy that exact question when he’d called him that morning and told him to get up to DC. Murphy’s response was that the event was the president’s idea, and that attendance wasn’t optional.
Dixon had spent yet another night banging his head against theoretical and real brick walls and was more than happy to take a break from the lab. But he resented that it involved a four-and-a-half-hour drive in bad traffic from Langley to Washington and, so far, an hour of awkward conversation with people he didn’t know. Scientists, as a tribe, weren’t good at small talk, and Dixon was no exception.
The reception was being held at the Phillips Collection on 21st Street, just north of Dupont Circle. Dixon had wondered briefly why if it had been the president’s idea it wasn’t taking place in the White House. Then he’d remembered that winning over the hearts of the nation had been a much easier job for Kennedy than ingratiating himself with Washington society, and he needed to make nice with the city’s well-to-do.
The Phillips family were philanthropists and art lovers, and over the years had converted their sprawling 21st Street mansion into the city’s finest private collection of modern art. The large rooms that Dixon moved through were hung with works by Renoir, Manet, and Pissarro. Taste and money seeped from the walls. The Phillips were exactly the kind of people Kennedy wanted to impress. Yet, so far there had been no sign of the man himself.
Ripples of excitement spread through the attendees whenever the mansion’s front door opened, only to dissipate when yet another bemused scientist or society scion made their entrance.
Allen Dulles, the director of Central Intelligence, also appeared to be skipping the event. It was an open secret that Dulles and Kennedy didn’t get on. In the eight years he’d been in charge of the CIA Dulles had overseen the American-backed coups in Guatemala and Iran, both of which had caused long-term damage to the country’s reputation, as well as the U-2 programme and the Bay of Pigs invasion. Kennedy was looking for a reason to get rid of Dulles, and Dulles was keeping his head down. Dixon guessed that if Grissom’s Mercury mission didn’t go well, Dulles wouldn’t want his name anywhere near it.
Finally, he saw someone he knew. Across the crowd, he spotted Murphy talking to an elderly dowager, festooned with mink and diamonds despite the heat and humidity. In summer Washington liked to remind people that it had been a real swamp long before it became a political one. With a brief nod, Murphy told Dixon that he’d seen him too and that he should stay put while he excused himself.
A moment later he was next to Dixon with two glasses of champagne in his hands.
‘Quite the collection,’ Murphy said, handing Dixon one of the glasses. Dixon was fairly sure he wasn’t referring to the art. ‘Did you know that lady’s great-grandfather bought Louisiana?’
Dixon wasn’t interested in making any more small talk, particularly with his boss.
‘What’s going on, Phinn?’ he asked.
‘We’re drinking someone else’s champagne, and giving ourselves pats on the back we don’t deserve.’
Dixon realised that Murphy wasn’t smoking. He watched as his free hand kept reaching in and out of his trouser pocket, a force of habit and muscle memory.
‘Is the president coming?’
‘No. But you didn’t hear that from me. Some senator started kicking up a stink about overdue federal funds a couple of hours ago and he’s been sucked into it.’
‘Well, I’ll be leaving then.’ Dixon handed his still-full champagne glass to a passing waiter. ‘It’s a long drive back to Langley.’
‘Not so fast,’ Murphy replied, picking Dixon’s glass back up off the waiter’s silver platter. ‘You’re not going back to the lab just yet.’
‘I thought I had a deadline.’
‘Yeah, well, something’s come up.’
‘Again, Phinn, what’s going on?’
Murphy took a long swig of his champagne. ‘We’re taking a trip.’
‘Where?’
‘Some guy called Devereux in London wants to sell us something, and I need you to check he’s not talking horseshit.’
‘I didn’t pack my passport.’ Dixon meant it as a joke – even the CIA’s beck and call had to have limits.