Skandal (21 page)

I tuck my hands in my lap. “I just don’t know what to do with those strong emotions. They overwhelm me.”

“That’s why I’m going to have you work on your emotional control this morning.” She smiles again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be a sponge. You should be in control, Yulia, deciding for yourself what affects you and what doesn’t. Like the card I showed you—the Star.”

For the rest of the morning, Cindy, Donna, and Marylou take turns summoning up memories—good, bad, anything tied to strong emotion, as long as they don’t tell me the emotion in advance—and I must draw it away from them, name the feeling, and release it without experiencing the strong emotion myself. After Marylou’s memory of getting locked in a closet by bullies at her elementary school left me sobbing in a corner of the room, however, Cindy conceded that I might require more assistance than she previously anticipated.

“I want you to read this.” She hands me a strange book titled
The Science of Being and Art of Living
. “It’s by Maharishi Maharesh Yogi.”

I flip open to the first pages and stare at the words. “‘Transcendental meditation,’” I read very slowly, drawing out each syllable without understanding a letter of it. “‘Inducing a wakeful … hypometabolic … physiologic state.’”

Cindy purses her lips together, then takes the book back from me. “On second thought, maybe I’ll just teach you myself.” She slips out of her heels—sugary pink today—and daintily sets them aside before settling onto a pile of pillows. “Sit cross-legged. One leg on top of the other.”

I follow her lead, legs crossed, back straight, wrists resting on my knees.

“Now. Think of a phrase—a
mantra
, it’s called—that empowers you.”

Papa’s old adage drifts through my thoughts, as carefree as his whistling.
An empty mind is a safe mind.
But I’ve seen what his idea of an empty mind entails—scrubbing away memories of my power, trying to make me forget what I am. He desired to protect me, to be sure, but the truth always finds its way back in the end; forgetting has harmed me more than it’s helped.

I scrunch up my nose in thought for a few moments, but nothing else comes to mind. “Can you give me some ideas?”

Cindy wiggles her toes. Without her heels and her looming posture, she looks much more vulnerable. “Do you want to know my mantra?” she asks, head lowered.

I nod.

“
My past cannot hurt me now. My future cannot stop me now. All I have is now.
” She keeps her gaze lowered while she says it, lashes shrouding her eyes, but I feel I have a glimpse into her hard, fearful life in New Orleans that put a tremble in her hands. Her voice, however, doesn’t waver, but the way she guards the words reminds me of the old babushkas in Moscow, standing at the site of the demolished Church of Christ the Savior (now a swimming pool, courtesy of Uncle Stalin) and whispering prayers they hope only God will hear.

“I like that.” I smile. “Really—there’s a … a balanced quality to it. Philosophical.”

“It’s very zen,” Cindy agrees. “It focuses on being in the moment. You need something that grounds you in the moment, too. Something to let you know that the emotions inside of you don’t control you. They don’t have to affect you.”

I grimace. “None of us really knows our limits,” I mutter to myself. Papa doesn’t have to scrub me to infect my thoughts, it would seem.

Cindy raps her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “What about … I am as solid as an oak tree?”

I shrug, feeling unmoved. My leg is starting to fall asleep in the awkward pose. “No. I want to be like—like that card you showed me. The Star.”

“Others’ thoughts and memories can pass through your mind,” Cindy says, “but your mind must remain your own.”

I sit up straighter. “
My mind is mine alone.
”

Cindy nods, leaning toward me. “Let’s work with that.” She sucks in air. “Take a deep breath, slowly, then let it out very gradually. On each exhale, think your mantra to yourself. Push away any other thoughts that try to creep into your head.” Her shoulders slump as the usual starch in her posture eases away. “Your music shield should be far in the background, like gentle waves lapping at the shore…”

I tremble, thinking of Valentin’s awful ocean memory. “Or—or like the breeze through the birch trees.”

“Yes, like that, too. Breathe in …
My mind is mine alone.
Breathe out …
My mind is mine alone.
”

The words ring through me, clear and calming like a distant carillon. Shostakovich recedes to the background; the psychedelic record on the record player melts around us into cool liquid sound. It does not touch me. My fears for Mama and Zhenya cannot reach me.
My mind is mine alone
. The scrubbers cannot scratch at me here.
My mind is mine alone.

After a few minutes, I open my eyes, feeling calm, yet somehow awake, like I’m humming with psychic energy ready to be put to use. Cindy hops to her feet and slips back into her heels, transforming once again into the glossy professional. “Donna? Are you ready to share a memory with us?”

Marylou sits up, eyes wide and bleary. “Donna’s talking to the boss-man … man.” She snorts. “It’s funny, because you’re not a man.”

“Yes. Hilarious.” Cindy leans over Marylou and snatches up a scrap of paper. “Who told you to take three of these?”

Marylou stares at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, almost as if Cindy is some strange new species she’s never encountered before. “Tuttelbaum,” she says finally, one eye squinting as she takes a step backward.

Cindy harrumphs. “No more MK INFRA experiments for you. They make you too dependent on outside factors to perform well, when you should be developing your innate ability.”

“Oh, don’t be such a square.” Marylou draws a box in the air. “I’m, like, this close to bustin’ through Castro’s defenses, man, all thanks to those pills. If I can get, like, five more…”

“You could do it just fine on your own if you tried.” Cindy crushes the paper in her fist. “If Frank thinks he can turn us all into his perfect psychic drones—”

“If Frank thinks what?”

Frank Tuttelbaum stands behind Cindy, a lacy drift of curtain coiled in his thick fist. Almost vanishing into his broad side is Donna, a smug smile smeared on her glossy bubblegum lips, and her hands tucked demurely in front of her. There’s nothing smiling about Frank’s expression, however.

Cindy’s face blanches. “I believe further discussion of the MK INFRA program is warranted before we allow our operatives to—”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got bigger problems than our scientists, Conrad.” Frank yanks the curtain from the ceiling and pitches it aside. “My office.
Now!
”

As Cindy scampers off with Frank, Donna sashays into our den, pats the still-skittish Marylou on the head, then drifts down onto the couch and spreads her skirt out in a perfect arc around herself.

“What’s happening?” I ask Donna, glancing between her eerie smirk and the doorway where Frank and Cindy left.

Donna fixes her grin on me and narrows her eyes. “Now we’re even.”

I cross my arms, suddenly cold. “Even with what?”

“You hurt me with your stupid little emotions trick the other day,” she says, “so I told Frank all about your secret plot. The one you were rambling about on the flight home—how you’re a mole and you’re going to poison us all? Foil our plans to capture your evil scientist mom? What are you, some kind of sleeper agent the KGB sent over here to infiltrate us?”

Anger weighs down on me like a slab of stone. I can’t breathe through my rage. I try to work through Cindy’s transcendental meditation routine, but I can’t remember all the steps.

“Oh, well. Doesn’t matter now. No way Frank will let you do anything for us again, so you’ll have to find someone else to poison.”

Anger draws tight around my lungs, fighting against me as I try to breathe deeply. I’m not the poison. I’m not the mole. For a moment, I can almost taste how good it would feel to let my fist crash into her nose; I can smell how she would cry and scream. The anger rises like a tide. How delicious it would be to let these emotions take control.

My mind is mine alone.
I chisel the words into my skull.
My mind is mine alone.

Donna’s not the real threat right now.
My mind is mine alone.
I can’t be a weapon for any faceless emotion.
My mind is mine alone.
Or any person.

If only I could be sure that were true.

Al Sterling pokes his head into our den and slaps his hand against the wall. “Frank wants everyone in the break room.”

I follow Donna and Marylou with leaden feet. This time, the whispers swirling around me are no hallucination. The entire PsyOps team—my team, I think feebly—is gathered around the cigarette machine, the coffeepot, the curved Frigidaire. And at their heart looms Frank Tuttelbaum, his bloodshot eyes fixed right on me.

“It has come to my attention,” Frank says, his gruff tone quelling the whispers, “that the powers that be did not vet our Russian ‘friends’ here as thoroughly as they should have.”

I glance at Papa, but he’s engrossed in chewing on a hangnail, not even glancing Frank’s way. Valentin’s gaze is fixed firmly on his shoes.

“I’ve had concerns for a while now that someone within the PsyOps team was passing information to the Reds, but after your spectacular bungling of the Paris operation, there’s little room for doubt. Thank God we’ve got a diligent,
competent
psychic on this team, who overheard the thoughts of one of you traitors.”

My jaw hangs as I look toward Donna, whose cheeks burn red over a nervous smile. I was barely conscious when she overheard me, and certainly not capable of rational thought. “Sir, if I might explain…” I glance around for Winnie, but she’s nowhere to be found. My throat spasms shut. I need Winnie to explain for me. How can I make him understand?

“Explain?” Frank wheezes with laughter. “What’s there to explain? Do you deny your willingness to see your mother rescued?”

“But what if she’s on our side?” I ask, but the words have all the weight of smoke.

Frank’s smile swells like a tumor. “I’m sure. And that’s why she’s creating this army of scrubbers, right at General Rostov’s disposal.”

What can I say? I look to Papa, not really expecting him to speak in Mama’s defense—not anymore—but hoping he might look at least somewhat incensed. But he’s nothing. He’s as still and emotionless as the formaldehyde-soaked Lenin in his tomb.

“Now, Andrei, you and I go way back, and I’d like to think we understand each other. But we’re on the brink of war with North Vietnam, and we don’t need meddling from more Commies at home.”

Cindy clears her throat. “We’re still a long way off from declaring war on the Viet Cong, sir. In fact, they just announced a new round of eight-party talks next week. The Pathway for Peace summit—”

“Are you looking to get reassigned, too, Conrad?” Frank asks. His upper lip curls back. “I hear the boys in the bayou have been missing you something fierce.”

Cindy’s face blanches and her eyes bulge as she seizes her pearls as though they were trying to strangle her.

“As much as my gut tells me to throw the three of you Russkies in jail, the man upstairs would rather investigate such charges fully before we act, which would only bog down our urgent work needlessly with all that gobbledygook. So I’m pulling you three off the case until we can spare the time for a formal investigation.”

Off the case.

Off the trail that leads straight back to Mama.

Off the task of hunting for a mole.

Frank bares his teeth in a rough grin. “I’m sure you will cooperate fully, and allow us to do what needs to be done.”

I look back to Papa. If there was ever a time for him to use his powers, it would be now. I think I could forgive him for that. But he turns without a word and leaves the break room.

“This has to be some misunderstanding, right?” Judd asks. “I mean, me and Val were making great progress tracking down potential targets, and we—”

“Put a sock in it, Opie, before I slap you back to Mayberry.” Frank wags a thick finger at Judd. “That’s the thing about these Reds—they’ll win you over, but they’ve always got a trick up their sleeve.”

“Mister Tuttelbaum,” Valya says. “Frank. I assure you, our desire to stop Rostov is just as strong as yours. Perhaps more so.”

“Then you’ll have nothing to fear from the investigators. Until then, you’re benched, got it? You report directly to me and no one else. And I do not want to hear any complaints unless you want a free ride on the next U2 to cross Soviet airspace. Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly,” I say through clenched teeth, and follow Valya from the room.

CHAPTER 18

IN MY DREAMS,
Mama is walking me to school one morning; at age nine, I am still wearing the blue jumper and white blouse that all schoolgirls wear, and my hair has been braided and topped with a white puffy barrette. As we shuffle down the sidewalk, my new loafers scratch and
schick
against the concrete covered in salt poured out in anticipation of the winter’s first snow.

Mama’s hand is tight around mine; I can feel her agitation building without even looking at her. It itches against my skin like a spreading rash.

“Why do you keep staring at the sidewalk?” She yanks my hand, sending my head snapping up. “Do you think it’s going to bite you if you don’t keep your eye on it?”

I bend my head down with force now and scrunch my face into a scowl. “Everyone else walks like that.”

“Do you know why they do that?” She tilts my chin up, forcing me to see all the other pedestrians: bent-over babushkas with faded scarves tied tight around their hair, factory men with their coat collars turned up, women in padded parkas and ill-fitting slacks.

“Sure,” I say. “Because it’s cold.”

“The cold doesn’t matter. It could be the middle of July, and they’d be walking the same way. It’s because they’re scared.”

I crinkle my nose. “When I’m scared, I pull the covers up over my head.”