It held a daybed with a flowered comforter, an open box of toys, and a child-size desk.
The older of the two men sat straight in his seat. At his side was a scuffed valise that held a disassembled Dragunov sniper rifle.
The other man, at fifty-seven years of age, was twenty years younger than his
Russian companion. He slouched in a pressed suit. His eyes were fixed on the girl as she stood in front of a plastic easel and shuffled through a tray of pastel felt markers. She had spent the last half hour meticulously drawing a rectangle in green upon the white sheet of butcher paper attached to the easel.
She had run the marker around and around in a hypnotically rhythmic pattern.
Dr. Raev, the man said, I don't mean to harp, but are you absolutely certain
Dr. Polk did not have it on his person?
Dr. Yuri Raev sighed. I have spent my life on this project. And my soul, he added silently. I will not have it ruined when we are so close.
So then where is it? We turned over that cheap motel he stayed in last night.
Nothing. It would raise too many questions if it should end up in unfriendly hands.
Yuri glanced at the man in the neighboring seat. John Mapplethorpe, a division chief for the Defense Intelligence Agency, had a long face with sagging jowls and bags under his eyes, as if he were made of candle wax and been left too long in the sun. Even the dye he used on his hair was too dark, too obvious a vanity for his age. Not that Yuri had any right to fault a man for attempting to stem the tide of age. Beneath the sag of his own skin, Yuri's body remained toned, his reflexes sharp, and his mind as quick and agile as it ever had been. Between injections of androgens and growth hormone, along with vigorous exercise, he fought as adamantly as anyone to hold back time. But it was not vanity that drove him.
He stared into the room.
No, not vanity.
Mapplethorpe drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. We must recover what
Polk stole.
He did not have it with him, Yuri assured Mapplethorpe more forcefully. It is too large to conceal on his person, even under a jacket. I was fortunate to stop him when I did. Before he spoke to anyone.
I hope you're right. For all our sakes. Mapplethorpe turned his attention back to the room. And she was able to track him? All the way from Russia.
Yuri nodded. Fatherly pride entered his voice. With her and her twin brother, we may have finally breached the barrier.
Too bad she couldn't have been quicker. Mapplethorpe made a dismissive sound.
My brother-in-law's daughter has an autistic boy. Did I ever tell you that? But he's not an idiot savant. He can hardly tie his shoes.
Yuri bristled. The preferable term is autistic savant.
The other man shrugged.
Yuri's distaste for the American continued to grow. Like Mapplethorpe, few people really understood autism, even in the medical profession. Yuri knew the disorder intimately. It was in fact a spectrum of disorders, characterized by weaknesses in communication skills and social interaction, along with abnormal responses to sensations. This led tragically to children with delayed and compromised language and speech abilities, repetitive motor mannerisms and tics, preoccupation with objects, and often dysfunctional ways of relating to events or people.
But sometimes such a disorder generated miracles.
In rare instances, an autistic child demonstrated an astonishing brilliance in a narrow specialized field, such as mathematics, music, or art. And while 10 percent of autistic children demonstrated some degree of such savant talent, what interested Yuri were those rarest of individuals, known as prodigious savants, those few who arose with talent that stretched the very definition of genius. Worldwide, there were fewer than forty such individuals. But even among such exceptional individuals, a handful rose who dwarfed the others.
They arose from one genetic line.
An old Gypsy word echoed in his head.
Chovihanis.
Yuri stared through the window at the dark-haired girl.
Mapplethorpe mumbled beside him. We must not let anyone catch a hint of what we're doing. Or the Nuremberg Nazi trials will look like traffic court.
Yuri didn't respond. Mapplethorpe barely comprehended the full scope of his research. But after the Berlin Wall fell, Yuri had needed new resources to continue his work. It took a full decade to slowly test the waters in America.
It seemed hopeless; then the political climate suddenly changed. The global war on terror had forged new alliances and allegiances. Enemies became allies. But more important, the boundaries of propriety were breached. It was a new era, with a new morality. An old catchphrase was now law: the ends justified the means.
Any means.
As long as it was for the common good.
Yuri's government had known this all along. It was only the Americans who were late in facing this harsh reality.
What's that girl doing? Mapplethorpe asked.
Yuri snapped out of his own reverie. He stood up. Sasha was at the easel, a black felt marker in her hand. Her arm flew up and down the stretch of butcher paper. She stabbed and stroked, very angular. There seemed no pattern. She worked one corner, then another.
Mapplethorpe snorted at the mess. I thought you said she was talented in art.
She is.
Sasha continued to work. The rectangle she originally drew in green began to fill with black swirls and swipes. She held her other arm straight out from her body, stiff as a plank, as if she sought to balance herself against some force beyond this world.
Finally both arms fell to her sides.
She turned away from the easel, dropped into a cross-legged crouch, and rocked slightly. Her brow was sweaty. She reached to a discarded toy wooden block and began rhythmically turning it in her fingers, as if she were trying to solve some puzzle known only to her.
Yuri turned his attention to her artwork.
Mapplethorpe joined him. What was that all about? It's just gibberish.
Nyet. Yuri accidentally slipped into Russian, but he was worried very worried.
He hurried to the door that led into the next room. Mapplethorpe followed. As he entered the child's room, Sasha just rocked and twiddled the block in her fingers. From past experience, Yuri knew she would be shut down for a while.
He also had learned a thing or two about Sasha's talent.
Reaching the easel, he ripped the butcher sheet down.
What are you doing? Mapplethorpe asked.
Yuri turned the drawing upside down and clipped it back onto the easel. Sasha sometimes drew in reverse. It was not uncommon among autistic savants. They often experienced the world through very different senses. Numbers had sounds.
Words had smells.
Yuri glanced over to Sasha.
Her brilliant blue eyes remained fixed on her toy block.
Yuri turned back and noted Mapplethorpe's amazement. The man drew closer to the drawing. He pointed, wordless with astonishment. Finally words tumbled out.
Dear God that looks like an elephant in the center.
Yuri stared, too. His heart pounded in his throat. She shouldn't have been able to do that unless triggered. It had been such sketches that had led them to Dr.
Polk drawings of the Mall, of the Smithsonian Castle leading them to set up a sniper's nest in an unwatched corner of the Mall. They'd had to move quickly, responding in two hours. There was a limit to Sasha's range.
Mapplethorpe leaned closer. The room it's in. I think I know that place. I took my grandchild there only two weeks ago. It's the rotunda of the natural history museum.
Yuri frowned. The one on the national Mall?
Where his quarry had been hiding for so long today.
Mapplethorpe nodded.
Yuri stared toward the mirror and saw only his own reflection. Had Sasha sensed them back there? And more important, had she sensed Mapplethorpe's intense worry about what had been stolen by Dr. Polk?