A History of What Comes Next

40 You Belong to Me

Nights are getting colder. I should have brought a scarf. Here it is again. Big armored Packard limousine. It’s the third time I’ve seen it since I left Korolev’s house. Whoever it is, it’s someone important. Tinted windows. I can’t see who’s inside, but the car slows down every time it drives by. I’m pretty sure it’s me they’re looking at. I’ll take the long way home. No way I’m walking the alley by myself.

It could be nothing, but with the day I had, my guess is it’s more bad news. Korolev and I had a fight. I told him we should scrap the R-3 project altogether. That didn’t go well. I had to throw some math at him and, well… He doesn’t like it when I’m smarter. Makes him feel… I don’t know how it makes him feel. All I know is he was mad. It might have something to do with that marriage proposal. He said I owe him an answer. Owe. What’s the hurry? Oh, yeah. I told him I won’t sleep with anyone before I tie the knot. Anyway, he can find someone else if he doesn’t like it. It’s also not my fault his rocket’s a mess. Glushko built a nineteen-burner engine for the R-3, but the mixing chamber is too big to survive the pressure. He says he’s solved the problem, but I don’t want to build another engine for a rocket that won’t cross the ocean. If we’re going to do this thing, we’re going to do it right. I want to go straight for the prize and build an intercontinental ballistic missile. A short-range missile is just that, a missile. It can’t be used for anything but killing people. I want to build something that will get us to space. I want to build the perfect rocket.

Where the hell is everyone? Another car slowing down. Black sedan this time. Looks a hell of a lot like the secret police. Oh shit, this one’s stopping. Two men getting out. They’re… Yep. They’re secret police all right. I hate the MGB. There’s an alley behind me twelve meters to the right. It’s too far. I’d need to slow them down first.

—You need to come with us.

They’re both large and heavy. It’s intimidating but it usually means slow and clumsy. I could push one on the other, duck behind cars, and make the alley before they draw.

—Who? Me? This must be a mistake.

Forward might be better. I’ve got high heels. Push one down, kick him in the eye. Take his weapon. I can probably puncture a kidney with a hard kick.

—It’s no mistake, ma’am. Just get in the car.

Could it be because of the clinic? Maybe Billie talked. I need to decide now…. Pistols are holstered, straps are on. Shoulders are relaxed. Whatever they want, they don’t see me as a threat. There’s no point in taking them on now.

—I’m coming.

I’ll reassess in the car. I’ll fare better in there anyway. Confined space, limited freedom of movement. Holsters aren’t made for sitting. Drawing is awkward when you sit. They put me in the middle, one man on each side. The doors are unlocked, so I could push one out if need be. We’re moving now, but where to? I guess I can just ask.

—Where are we going?

—Just sit back and relax, ma’am.

Of course. I’ll relax. Who doesn’t like being driven to an unknown location by the secret police? One of them is pouring himself a drink. He’s relaxing, that’s for s—Oh, he’s handing it to me. I guess he was pouring me a drink. This is crazy. I don’t know what’s going on but, clearly, I’m not getting arrested.

I wonder how far we’re going. I hope it’s nearby, because neither of these guys is the talking type. It’ll be a long—EWWWWW. Warm vodka. A whole juice glass of it. For once, I agree with Mother. I don’t think I should be drinking this. Then again, I could be on my way to a firing squad. I’ll have one more sip.

Music would be good…. Anything….

Shit. I forgot about dinner. Billie probably spent the whole day cooking. She’ll have to eat alone. I hope she doesn’t stare at the clock while our food’s getting cold. Not that it makes a difference, Billie can’t cook to save her life, but I like it when she tries. I know she does it for me. She couldn’t care less about everyday things. I wish I were like her, but I need a bit of normal in my life.

I think this is it. We’re pulling into a driveway. It’s a big house. Big big. Here’s the limousine I saw earlier. This has to be a party official, a general maybe. This whole place screams: “Look at me! I’m important!” What the hell am I doing here?

—You can get out now, ma’am.

Hand on my back. I could turn fast and break his arm, shoot the other one and take the car. This might be my last chance. He’s guiding me towards the door. I’ll play along. At this point, I’m more curious than scared. I have to know who went through all this trouble just to meet me.

It could be someone saw me with Korolev and wants to know what he’s working on. Maybe someone from another bureau. Glushko? It’s no secret he and Korolev aren’t fans of each other. Maybe it’s one of the Germans. There are only a handful left, but Korolev doesn’t trust them. He’s had them working on rockets that will never be built. He’ll cherry-pick a few things from their designs, but that’s about as much as they can hope to contribute. I’m not sure any of them has enough pull with the party higher-ups, though. Maybe Gröttrup. He must know someone. He lives in a villa outside of Moscow. This could be it for all I know. Everyone else sleeps in crowded barracks. “Communal apartments,” they call them. Has a nice ring to it.

—This way, please.

Again with the hand on my back. I don’t like being touched, especially by MGB goons.

We’re inside. This is not Gröttrup’s. I’ve met his wife, and whoever lives here isn’t married. I’ve only seen the lobby but I know a man decorated this place, an insecure one at that. Ostentatious doesn’t even begin to cover it. Is that a fucking Fabergé egg? Seriously, who puts that in a lobby? Someone who thinks it’ll look great next to medieval armor, I suppose. There is so much ugly here, it feels like a yard sale for stupidly rich people.

We’re walking now. They’re taking me to another room, the dining room. Not as crowded as the entrance, but more pretentious if that’s even possible. This room is meant for guests. I bet whoever lives here never set foot in here alone. Goon number one is pulling out a chair for me. Goon number two is pouring me some wine. These guys really want me drinking. Nice glass, though. I can still run, but I really want to know whose house this is. The table is set for two. White porcelain with gold trim. I suppose all I have to do is wait. Ewww, that wine. I really shouldn’t be drinking…. Anyone who serves this to guests has to be evil.

The Tracker. What if it’s him? I doubt the devil lives in the suburbs, but why not? He… wants to see me before he kills me. He’ll torture me until I give up Mother. Stop it, Mia. This is stupid. There’s no— Oh, someone’s coming.

… Beria? Lavrentiy Fucking Beria? Now I know why the MGB is here. He doesn’t run the agency anymore, but he is the—what’s that stupid title again?—Curator of the Organs of State Security. He’s not the Tracker, that’s for sure. Mother said they’re stronger than us. Beria’s an… emaciated little rat. What could he possibly want with me? Is he after Korolev? I’ll know soon enough. He’s sitting down.

—How do you like the wine?

He’s waving the goons away. Whatever he needs to discuss, he wants it to be private.

—It’s very good, sir.

Worst thing I ever drank. Warm vodka was better than this.

—Château Trotanoy. A ’45. The soil in the region consists almost exclusively of black clay.

How la-di-da. Now I know who decorated the house.

—I did not know that, sir. Thank you.

—I’m terribly sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Do you know who I am?

—Yes, sir. I do. It’s an honor to meet the deputy chairman.

—Oh, please. Call me Lavrentiy. We’re amongst friends here.

Friends? He’s been drinking more than me if he thinks we could ever be friends. This man kills and tortures for a living.

—I couldn’t possibly, sir.

They’re bringing us food now. The secret police are bringing me food. Why? This house is so big, I know he has staff. Why aren’t they serving us? What is this thing? Is this a fucking bisque?

—Please. Eat.

It smells fine but I’m too nervous to eat. Anyway, I’m not sharing a meal with this man. I just want to know why I’m here and get the hell out.

—I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know if I’m coming down with something or if I’m just very tired but I seem to have lost my appetite.

—Are you sure? I had the chef prepare his veal blanquette for us. It is absolutely divine.

—Please send the chef my apologies.

—I will. Shall we get on to business, then?

Finally.

—Yes. Please.

He’s getting up. He’s thanking the MGB officers. I guess they’re not coming with us. There’s a large double door ahead of us. That’s where he’s taking me.

—After you.

It’s his office. It’s oddly empty. There’s a large wooden desk—dark wood; it’s actually pretty—but not much else. A rug, a couple of chairs. A red sofa, velvet. There’s something odd about this room. It’s the walls. There are no books here, no bookshelves. There’s nothing on any of the walls. They’re all padded. Red velvet with crystal buttons. The man loves his velvet. He even put some on the inside of the doors. Speaking of, he just closed them.

—You should get comfortable.

Comf—I’m sorry, what? Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I meant to, though. This is…

The walls. Now I know what’s bugging me about the walls. The padding isn’t decoration. It’s soundproofing. Beria is taking his jacket off.

—I should go.

—When I say so.

Whoa. So this is his thing? He prowls the streets at night. He brings girls to his home, wines them and dines them, then he rapes them in his soundproof office. I thought this had something to do with Korolev, with my work. I bet this asshole doesn’t even know who I am.

—Let me go now or I’ll call for help.

—Oh dear. Scream, or not. It doesn’t matter. You are in my power now. So think about that and behave accordingl—

Fuck.

What did I do? I didn’t think. My hand just… flew. One right hook to the jaw and Beria crumpled to the floor like a wet towel. I’m glad I knocked that little rat’s lights out but I’m in trouble now, serious trouble.

It’s getting hot in here. Think, Mia. Beria’s not going to stay unconscious forever. The right move is to kill this piece of shit, him and everyone in here. Survive at all costs. We can be out of Russia by morning. That’s what I should do, but I won’t. I don’t want to kill anyone anymore, not unless I have to. I’ll lose everything. Billie. My research. I’ll lose myself.

Don’t draw attention to yourself. That’s also a rule…. Assassinating the highest-ranking military officer in the Soviet Union is probably not the best way to keep a low profile. Beria will be mad but he’ll get over it. I mean, the man has other fish to fry. I can continue my work, see my project through to the end. I can see Billie. That’s the plan. The little rat gets to live. I get to walk out the front door, hopefully.

Here we go. Open the office doors, no one’s here. That corridor seemed much shorter when I came in. I’ll trace my steps back. I don’t want to get lost in the house and walk in on an MGB poker game…. Dining room is clear….

One of the goons is in the lobby. Smile, Mia. Big smile. He’s not doing anything. I think this might just w—He’s reaching for something! There’s nowhere to run but the way I came in, nothing to duck behind. Flowers? He’s handing me a bouquet. Why on earth would he give me a bouquet?

Consent? Any girl who walks out of here is a threat to Beria. But if they accept a bouquet, it will be that much harder for them to claim it wasn’t consensual. All right, I’ll take your stupid flowers.

—Thank you for the bouquet.

More smiling. He’s opening the door for me. I wonder what happens if you refuse to t—

—IT’S NOT A BOUQUET! IT’S A WREATH! MAY IT ROT ON YOUR GRAVE!

Shit. That was Beria. I need to not be here right now. The MGB asshole is closing the door. I guess he’s not afraid to turn his back on an unarmed girl. Bad call. He’s only five feet away but that should be enough to get some momentum. Elbow up. Slam his face into the door. Bam! Left arm around his neck, grab his pistol with the right.

Where’s Beria? Good. He ran when he saw me grab the gun. Deep breath. I’m burning hot but I’m in control. Take a couple of steps back and open the door. Let’s see what’s out there.

One more MGB at the bottom of the steps. One reading in the car. I’ll use the guard I’m choke-holding as a shield. He’s getting harder to move, he must be coming about. I’m pushing against his back as hard as I can. I can’t see a thing now but we should hit the stairs right about…

*TAK*

*TAK*

Gunshots. Shit. My human shield just took two to the chest. He’ll go limp soon and I can’t shoot back while I’m holding him. This asshole must weigh close to two hundred pounds. I need to cover some distance before I drop him. Damn, he’s heavy! PUSH, MIA! PUSH!

Guard number two is right beside me now, raising his gun hand. His arm is thirty degrees ahead of me, but he’ll aim for my chest before he pulls the trigger. I have a smaller arc to cover if I aim for his foot.

*TAK*

His hand dropped. His whole body’s bending in pain. The foot is a complex machine: twenty-six bones, loads of muscles and ligaments. A hundred things send pain signals at once when a piece of metal shatters them at the speed of sound. I’ve got the tip of my gun on his head.

*TAK*

So much for not killing anyone. Where is the last one? Is he still in the car? No, the car door’s open. Where the hell is he? To hell with him, I’ll just take the car….

Crap. The keys are gone. I can’t leave on foot; we’re in the middle of nowhere. They’ll have two hundred men combing through these woods in twenty minutes. The good news is he doesn’t have a gun or he’d have used it by now. I’ll put my head to the ground, see if he’s hiding anywhere.

Oh yeah, I see your ugly black boots behind the limo, asshole. You better have the keys on you or I—Wait… I don’t need his keys. The limo keys are in a bowl in the lobby. He’s closer to the door but he won’t see me until I run by him. RUN!

Now he sees me. The door’s still open but he’s… right behind me. Up the stairs and—

—AAAAAGH!

He’s got me by the hair! I’m in midair staring at the ceiling. This is going to hurt.

The gun! I dropped it when I hit the ground. Where is it? Ugh. Asshole stepped on my hand. GET UP, MIA!

He’s found the gun. He’s on one knee, picking it up. Fight or flee? He’ll shoot me in the back if I go for the door. The suit of armor! That ugly thing is holding a sword. I just hope that thing’s real. Yes. The sword weighs about four pounds. The center of percussion should be about two feet from the hilt. If I swing hard enough, it should remove a head. The gun’s in his hand now. One! Big! SWING!

Gotcha….

Beria’s back at the end of the corridor, staring at his headless henchman on the ground. Do I kill him now? I’ll never see Billie again if we have to leave Moscow. Screw him. I’m not giving up everything I care about for this jerk. I’ll just throw the sword down and give him a nice wiggly hand wave.

I’ve got the keys. Time to go.

41 Night Train

I shouldn’t have told Mother. I should have just kept my mouth shut and went on with my life. Best I can do now is stare at the window, eat my cereal and Butterbrot while she tells me we have to move.

—We have to move, Mia.

Here we go.

—…

—We have to pack our things and get out of Russia. Tonight.

I probably can’t ignore her all morning. Deep breath.

—I’m not going anywhere, Mother. Not after all the work I put in. And we need milk. This one’s gone bad.

—Perhaps I need to remind you of recent events. You just killed three people, inside the house of Stalin’s right-hand man. You did it right in front of him, and you let him live.

—I let him live precisely so we wouldn’t have to move! That was the whole point.

—You are not thinking straight.

Maybe not. But I’m still not going anywhere.

—He doesn’t know who I am, Mother. He’s the only one who’s seen my face. What’s he going to do? Knock on every door in Moscow himself on the off chance I’ll open the door? Besides, what would he arrest me for? I don’t think Beria will want to draw attention to his extracurricular activities.

—I think you gravely underestimate the lengths to which a man will go to reclaim his pride.

—Oh, Mother. That’s what he does all day, every day. He’ll arrest a couple more people, torture them a little longer. If that doesn’t do it, he’ll find himself a revolution he can crush. Trust me, he’ll be back to his old self in no time.

—I will not take that chance, Mia, not with the Tracker closing in on us. We have to move.

This again.

—Enough about the Tracker, Mother! He’s…

—He is what? A myth? Do you truly believe our ancestors were killed by a figment of their imagination?

—No, Mother. I don’t. But I won’t give up everything because of him. I’m sorry. Fuck him.

—MIA! The Tracker will slaughter us if he gets the chance.

—So will any number of people. There’s evil everywhere, plenty of it. World War II is barely over and they’re at it again in Korea. Five years, Mother. That’s how long they waited before sending more people to die for nothing. Sixty million dead wasn’t enough, apparently.

—I under—

—Seriously! I just left the house of a man who ordered hundreds of thousands of people killed. Lord knows how many he sent to their grave himself. As if being a mass murderer and a sadist wasn’t bad enough, it turns out he moonlights as a serial rapist. Just tell me, Mother, how bad can this fucking Tracker be?

—Mia—

—I’m not running from him, or Beria, or anyone else.

This is the first time I have something that remotely resembles a life. I’m not giving that up for this man or any other. Enough.

42 Thinking and Drinking

—What can I get you, hon?

—Do you have any tea?

—Tea? Look at the sign, dear. What does it say?

—It says… all patrons must be twenty-one or older.

—Not that sign, dummy. The big bright one. This is a bar, not a tearoom.

—I’m sorry, I never drink before noon.

—Well, that’s sad. But seeing as you’re my only customer, how about a soda?… Yes? Come on, my treat. You can’t leave a lady alone in a bar, now can you? I’m Sue, by the way.

—You can call me Charles.

—What brings you to the city?

—How do you know I’m not from here?

—Oh, hon. That’s very cute. Do you mind handing me that knife over there. I have to cut these lemons before people come in…. Thank you. Seriously, why are you in Washington?

—I’m looking for someone.

—You’re not chasing after a girl, are you?

—Two, as a matter of fact. They lived around here not that long ago.

—Maybe I know them.

—Sarah and Mia Freed.

—Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.

—They might have changed their names.

—Hmmm. That sounds to me like maybe they don’t want to be found.

—Oh, we’ll find them. My brothers and I are getting close.

—That’s… kind of creepy. But none of my business. Let’s talk about something else. How many brothers do you have?

—Three.

—And they’re all here with you?

—My brother Leonard is. George—he’s the eldest—is in Europe, probably drunk. Billy, the cadet, was just arrested in Chicago.

—Oh no! What did he do?

—Burglary. Someone saw him breaking in. Billy ran, but he didn’t get far. Some off-duty cop dropped three flowerpots on his head from two floors above.

—Seriously? You’re pulling my leg. That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard in my life. I’m sorry about your brother, though. I’m sure he’ll get out soon.

—He won’t. George said we should leave him behind.

—I don’t know how they do things in Chicago, but here, they won’t keep you long just for a break-in. Either way, you can’t just abandon your brother. Family’s forever, right?

—They say he killed three people.

—Oh my God.

—They worked on him for six days straight before he signed a confession. I think someone else had confessed before him but they didn’t care.

—These cops. They’ll pin anything on anyone…. They beat it out of him, didn’t they?

—They drugged him, too, but Billy wouldn’t have talked if he didn’t want to. I think he wants us to leave him there.

—Why would anyone want to stay in jail?

—It’s not… this.

—What’s that supposed to mean?

—How can I put this? You’ve seen parents screaming at their kids during a Little League game? The same parents that make their five-year-old practice four hours a day instead of playing with their friends. Our life is kind of like that. Some kids just can’t handle the pressure. Besides, Billy was always—I’m not sure how to say it—different. Our mother died giving birth to him. Father raised him by himself, the way he wanted. It was… difficult for Billy.

—Wait. Did he do it?

—One of the women Billy confessed to killing was shot in the head. That’s not Billy. He was always afraid of guns.

—If he didn’t do it, he can recant, can’t he? He can say they forced him to talk.

—There’s another woman that was dismembered. They found her head in a sewer, her torso in a storm drain. They kept finding body parts for weeks.

—That’s hor—

—I thought: Now there’s my Billy! He carved our dog into pieces when he was seven, tried to put him back together afterwards when he saw we were angry. Billy likes to chop things up. Speaking of, you cut yourself…. Your finger’s bleeding.

—It’s nothing…. I think you should leave now.

—Leave? No, I can’t leave you like that. Let me see. That’s a pretty deep cut. Run some cold water on it before you put a bandage on.

—I’m fine. I really think you should go.

—I can smell the blood from here…. That’s what set Billy off, every time. He was always so calm, ice-cold. Even as a kid, people picked on him, pushed him around. Billy was bigger than other kids his age but he never did anything, never fought back. If there was blood, though, a scrape, a small cut, anything red, Billy would just lose it. I saw him pound on someone twice his size until the man had no face left. Father said it was the smell of iron. I always thought it was the blood, you know, the symbolics of it, but it’s a physical reaction to whatever chemical is released when your skin touches metal. We didn’t believe it, so we experimented on our little brother. Sure enough, if you rubbed Billy’s hand on silverware long enough or had him count a jar of pennies, he’d start throwing things around.

—Please go, sir. Leave, before I call someone.

—You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about Billy, or my father. I don’t open up a lot around people. I’m not sure why. Somehow I feel comfortable talking to you. It’s like we have a connection.

43 Blue Moon

I thought I would have a ton of data from ice core samples by now. We funded a research project in Copenhagen, but it is taking longer than I thought. I see now that I am not as patient as I used to be. I want to know if the level of carbon dioxide slowly increased over millennia, or suddenly, presumably with the advent of industrialization. I thought all I needed was to measure CO₂ concentration from different time periods. Getting air from the past seemed hard enough, but Dansgaard—the man spending the money in Copenhagen—said I also need to know the temperature at the time. It makes sense. If I am to explore the correlation between climate and carbon dioxide levels, I would need to know both.

Thanks to Mia, I know how to find old air, but it does not come with a weather report. Yet I believe the answer might still be found in that ice cube tray. I was so focused on the air bubbles— if I got old ice, I would have old air—I forgot I would also have ice. Perhaps the frozen water has something to say about the temperature.

There are only so many things one can look at. Water is just hydrogen and oxygen, but both of these come in different flavors. Hydrogen has a heavier cousin called deuterium. The same is true of oxygen. There is hefty O out in the world with two extra neutrons. It takes more energy, more heat, to evaporate water that contains heavy isotopes. It should therefore rain more of it in warm weather, less when it is cold. If that is true, counting the heavy oxygen in the ice core samples would allow us to calculate temperatures in the past. More would mean warmer, fewer would mean cooler. Dansgaard is following that theory. Unfortunately, it will take months, maybe years, before we find out if it works. I require something new to keep my mind occupied.

Truth be told, all I can think about is Beria. That monster tried to rape my daughter. Mia wants me to let it go, but I cannot. She should have killed him when she had the chance. We should have moved. I understand why she did not want to. She is in love. She and Korolev are making real progress for the first time. What I fail to understand is why I did not force her to leave.

Of all the people who saw her face that night, Beria is the only one still breathing. He does not know her name—he never thought to ask. There is no reason for Beria to visit Korolev, at least for now. That was, more or less, the extent of my daughter’s argument. It is flawed in so many ways. Beria prowls the same streets she walks on every day. It is only a matter of time before he runs into my daughter again. And yet we stayed. We broke the rules.

I could not bring myself to rob my daughter of what she loves. I put her happiness ahead of our survival and I should be ashamed but all I feel now is anger. I watch the sun set and I think of Beria telling his chauffeur he wants to go for a ride. I dream of the girls he lured to his home and I wake up screaming. Mia let her girlfriend live because she needed her faith in humanity restored. Now it is my turn to search for solace. I do not believe in a moral universe, but even I need to feel some semblance of justice. I need to restore some cosmic order.

44 Hound Dog

—No, Nina. Tikhonravov’s packet design is better.

Korolev is stubborn as a mule. I should be flattered; it was my design. Two rockets with giant tanks strapped around a third, all of them sharing fuel. Drop the side rockets when they’re empty. Like the milk churns on that bicycle I rode downhill in the Bavarian Alps.

—Sergei! You’re not listening.

It was a good design, but I had the government commission a study to figure out exactly how much we could extend the range by dropping parts of the rocket during flight. One of the researchers there really ran with it and came up with a smarter version of what I had. I like it. It’s robust, elegant.

—You are right. I am not listening.

—It’s still the same! Only simpler. Remember how much trouble we’re having with the R-3? Simpler is better, Sergei. Pumping fuel between rockets will be a mess, you know that. This way, we’ll have four boosters, each with its own fuel. We jettison them when we’re done. It’s the same thing! Except it’s lighter, easier to build, and it won’t break every twenty minutes.

—You said “we” again.

—I guess I did.

—If the rockets are carrying their own fuel, why not put the second stage on top of the first, like the Americans are doing?

Oh, that thing. The US stuck a smaller rocket on top of a German V-2. It failed a bunch of times, but it went pretty high when it worked.

—You mean Bumper?

—No! The ferry rocket!

Ha! So that’s what it is. This is funny. There was a symposium on space travel in New York City, and Collier’s magazine covered it. “Man Will Conquer Space Soon.” Twenty-eight color pages full of the craziest ideas. Von Braun must have turned on the charm, because most of them are his. There’s a circular space station, and this insane three-stage rocket straight out of a pulp magazine. It was meant to make the average Joe excited about space, but I see it turned into a dick-measuring contest for a certain Soviet chief designer.

—That was a magazine, Sergei. It’s not real. If we put our boosters around the main engine instead, we can ignite them at the same time, on the ground. You know, where there’s air? That way we won’t have to worry about lighting a fire way up there in near vacuum.

—I still think—

—Four bullet-shaped boosters, Sergei. Four! It’ll be so badass. Like some souped-up space hot rod with four. hundred. tons. of thrust.

—…

Aaaaaand I win. That’s the upside of working with a five-year-old. I’ll admit, I kind of feel like a kid myself. This whole project, it’s… It fits. All of it fits together perfectly.

—We’re going to need a bunch of tiny rockets for steering that hot rod. Did you ask Glushko?

—His answer was a resounding no. “It would be impossible to control a rocket by such thrusters.”

—Someone else will make the tiny rockets, then. Your Glushko impression was spot-on, by the way.

—Thank you, Nina. You only have to make the most mundane thing sound like a presidential address. Try it.

—It would be impossible—Hahaha. I can’t.

—We make a good team. Don’t we?

—I think so.

I know so. I’m good at math, physics. He’s good at the real world. People. Getting things done, knowing what everyone can and can’t do. He’s a dreamer, and a realist. It’s a rare thing to have both. I can draw a combustion chamber—I see it in my head, clear as day—but I don’t see the men bending sheet metal to get the nozzle just right. He does. He sees them tired on a Friday, with a sick kid or marriage problems. These rockets, what we’re building, they’re part science, lots of math, but they’re also giant, clunky metal machines. They’re made of steel, sweat and tears, late hours at the shop because you don’t want to face whatever’s waiting for you at home. Korolev gets that and I admire him for it.

—I know how much that rocket means to you, Nina, but it will not come cheap. I truly hope we can get the project approved.

—Now you’re the one who said “we.” Just tell them it will drop a five-ton thermonuclear warhead in the middle of Chicago. They’ll be all smiles.

—Like you are now?

I am smiling. That rocket will put a man in space. I know it. Why is he staring again?

—Stop looking at me that way!

—You are going to break that chain if you keep twisting it.

My necklace. I didn’t even notice I was playing with it. His fault. I get nervous when people stare. He knows, too. That’s why he does it.

—Then stop looking at me like I have something in my teeth.

—Maybe you do. Did your mother give you that necklace? It looks old.

—It’s been in the family for a while.

—Is it worth anything?

—I don’t think so. I thought it was a garnet.

—I can have someone look at it if you want. Oh, before I forget, I am having drinks with Mishin and his wife tonight. Would you like to join us?

—Thank you but I can’t. Not tonight.

I wish I could, but I told Billie we’d meet after work. I want to see her, but I love these get-togethers. Turning colleagues into friends. I see these people’s math every day, their brains put to paper, but I know almost nothing about them. I suppose what I like most is that it makes me feel like a normal person for a few hours.

45 All Night Long

I’m waiting for it. I don’t know what it is, but she’ll ask me something in the next minute or so. Billie asks for things right after we have sex, and now she has that look.

—It’s the third time you’ve spent the night this week. Anything you want to tell me?

It must be something big if she’s tiptoeing around it.

—Not really. Mother works late every night these days. I hate being alone in that house.

—So that’s why you’re here. I feel so special.

—You should! You’re amazing, and special, and smart. And special, did I mention special?

—You could spend the night at your man’s.

Shit. So this is what we’re doing. Why now? She’s known about Korolev for a while, but she never made it an issue. I know she sees other people. What does she want?

—Billie, we talked about this.

—I know! I know! I’m not being jealous. I’m just… How long has it been since he proposed?

—Billie! No! I don’t want to fight!

—We’re not fighting! How long?

We’re not fighting. That’s good to know. It still sounds like a trap, though. It sure as hell feels like a trap.

—I don’t know. A little over a year. Why?

One smile and I walked right into it. I deserve whatever comes next.

—I think you should say yes.

I didn’t see that one coming. It’ll take more than an orgasm to make me agree to that. What the hell is wrong with her? Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t.

—Billie! What the hell is wrong with you?

—You should! I know you like him.

—I like him, but I don’t like him like him. I want to be with you!

—But you also want to be with him. It’s okay. I get it.

What is there to get? Yes, I like him. He’s brilliant. He’s moderately romantic and most of the time he makes me feel like a regular human being. I like that, but I’m not going to lose Billie for it.

—No you don’t. I said I want to be with you. I choose you! I. CHOOSE. YOU!

—Shhh. You’ll wake up the neighbors. It’s not a choice, Mia. You’re not going to marry me. You can’t. We have to hide to see each other. You can marry him.

—But I want to see you.

—Then see me! Why is this so hard to understand? I must not be saying it right. I don’t own you, Mia. I don’t want to. You say you want to see me, so see me. No one’s stopping you. But I know you also want some sort of normal life, at least a part of you does. Holding hands in public. Dinner with the neighbors, that sort of thing. You’ll never get that with me, not here. Get it with him.

I love that woman with every fiber in my being. I look at people, couples, and all I see is selfishness. People stick together for how it makes them feel. Keeping the other happy is just a way to make it last. Not her. She sees me.

—It doesn’t bother you?

—Why would it bother me? Those are different things. A steak is great if you’re hungry but it doesn’t do you much good if you’re cold. You need a jacket. Get yourself a jacket.

—Billie, I don’t—Wait. Are you a steak in this story?

—All right, bad example. My point is I’m not jealous of your doctor, or the person who fixes your car. I want you to be healthy and have a working car. I want you to get married because I want you to be happy.

—What about you?

—I can be the sultry mistress. I know things have been… difficult at times but I can still be sultry, can’t I? Please say yes, even if it’s a lie.

—Like a movie star.

—Thank you.

—You do know that I love you, don’t you?

—You keep coming back, so I kind of figured as much.

—Good…

Billie?

—What?

—We never talked about that night.

—What night?

—You know what night, Billie. You know what I did.

—You came for me. You risked your life for me, Nina. No one’s ever done that. I was falling and you caught me. Everything else… it doesn’t matter.

46 Songs and Dances of Death: Lullaby

I wanted to cut his throat, but this had to look like an accident, death by bad luck or natural causes. I had to know his routine: what he ate, where he ate, whom he ate with. I followed him. I set up camp in the thicket behind his house. On the first night, Beria brought home another girl—she could not have been more than eighteen. I saw her walk out of the house with her bouquet of flowers, full of hate and shame.

I followed her. It felt wrong, but I followed her. It took two days before I found the nerve to approach her in a café. Her name is Natalia. She is a student, though she misses school a lot to help her ailing mother. She had never met Beria before that night. She did not know he was the one who had her father arrested and sent to the gulag. When he took her to his office, he promised her he would set her father free. The next day, she asked the secret police when her father would be released. They told her he had died weeks before. Beria must have known. He had her arrested a week later. I do not know if she is alive or not. If she is, she will die alone in a cell somewhere.

Last week, Beria brought home another one. There was nothing special about her, nothing to set her apart from all the others. Except this one never left. I waited all night for her to come out, then I waited all day. Then I waited all night again. Finally, two MGB officers came out the back door carrying a large bag. They got a pair of shovels out of the shed and started digging in the yard. He killed her.

I killed her, too. I was a coward, looking for excuses. I was afraid and I let more people suffer. More people who will live with the guilt. More people who will convince themselves they did something to deserve this. I should have killed Beria the moment Mia came home that night. I should have reached inside his chest, plucked his heart out, and had him watch as it came to a stop.

Beria will die. He will feel his insides break apart and know it is the end.

I know how. The government just approved a new blood thinner called warfarin. Warfarin is also very good at killing rats, which seems fitting. In large enough doses, it will cause severe internal bleeding, including a hemorrhagic stroke. If the circumstances of his death are not suspect, a less than zealous doctor should conclude that a stroke did Beria in. The question then becomes: How do I get someone to ingest large amounts of warfarin?

I cannot force-feed it to him, he has to consume it willingly. Wine would be perfect—it is dark and strong enough to mask the taste of just about anything—but Beria opens a bottle for each of his victims. I do not want to be responsible for another woman’s death. Fortunately, for me at least, Beria keeps the good wine for himself. What he serves his guests as pricy Bordeaux is actually plonk from Ukraine. When he is alone and not destroying lives, he has a penchant for Saperavi wines from Georgia.

That is it. I will lace a case of his favorite with warfarin and send it to him as a gift. With any luck, he will be dead within the week.

47 Jock-A-Mo

I have to tell Mia. There is no way to know if I am responsible or not but I cannot hide this from my daughter. I just need to find the words.

—What are you working on, Mia?

—The perfect rocket.

—Perfect is a strong word.

—Oh, it has plenty of flaws. I just think they’re the right ones.

—How so?

—It’ll have a range of nine thousand kilometers. As it is, it will carry a payload of over six thousand pounds, but I think I can get it to ten. That means we can put a manned capsule on top of it and send people into space.

—Or a very large nuclear warhead.

—That’s how we get the development approved. It’s also going to be over a hundred feet long and weigh close to three hundred metric tons. The launchpad for it will need to be gigantic, insanely expensive. The engine runs on kerosene and supercooled liquid oxygen. It’ll take a long time to set up, and they won’t be able to keep it on standby for long before the fuel starts eating at the seals.

—Those are serious limitations, Mia.

—YES! What I’m designing isn’t a viable weapons system at all. It can’t be used as a deterrent because it won’t stay on alert for more than a day. The launchpads will cost so much, they’ll never build more than a handful of them. This thing… well, it will be completely obsolete as a missile by the time we build it. Its only future is as a space vehicle. It’s sturdy, powerful. You could base a whole space program on it.

—What do you call it?

—Semyorka.

—Seven. How poetic. I am proud of you, Mia, always. I am grateful for all that you are doing.

—You can thank Stalin for dying. Khrushchev is a smart man. He and Korolev get along for now. That’s the only reason we were able to drop the R-3 for good.

Now is probably a good a time to tell her…. Somehow it feels as if our roles were reversed. I am the child about to confess I broke a vase.

—Wonderful. Speaking of Stalin’s demise, I—

—You what?

—… Are you aware that Lavrentiy Beria died yesterday?

—Yeah. The little rat went to his knees and begged for mercy. I heard they had to stuff a rag into his mouth to stop the wailing before they shot him.

—Indeed. You should know that I tried to kill him last year.

—Mother, no! We talked about this. If I wanted him gone, I would have killed him myself.

—I know, but—

—There’s no but. You said it yourself. We kill to survive, like every other living thing. We don’t hunt people.

—I did not hunt… I gave him a dozen bottles of Georgian wine laced with rat poison. Warfarin.

—Mother!

—It did not work.

—That’s not the point!

—I know, the point is…

—You mean there’s more?

—Perhaps…. I did not give it a thought when they announced Stalin’s death in March. The papers said he watched a movie at the Kremlin on that Saturday with Khrushchev, Malenkov, Bulganin, and Beria. They all went to the dacha afterwards and drank all night. Stalin had a stroke. They found him in a coma the next morning. Four days later, he was dead. End of story.

—So?

—So I never saw the autopsy report but I heard they also found intestinal bleeding, which is not all that common with a stroke.

—I don’t like where this is going.

—It could be nothing.

—Or…

—A hefty dose of warfarin would account for both the stroke and the intestinal bleeding. Many things would, really, but perhaps Beria brought a bottle as a gift that night and Stalin had a nightcap before going to bed. I heard Georgian wines were a favorite of his.

—You fucking killed Stalin?!

—Language, Mia. And no. I mean… there is a very remote possibility that I did, but perhaps Beria found out the wine I sent him was poisoned and he gave it to Stalin on purpose. They say that after Stalin died, he bragged to members of the Politburo that he had done it and saved them all.

—A remote possibility?

—Very remote.

—You fucking killed Stalin!

—I did not.

—You keep telling yourself that. I’ve got to go, Mother. Korolev and I are having dinner with friends.

Mia is not nearly as mad as I thought she would be. I do not know why this surprises me. It was always I who thought the rules could not be bent. Mia chose her own path. She wanted a normal life, and I wanted it for her. We broke every rule to get her there. She will not condemn me for breaking one more. My daughter is happy. She has a husband, a lover. She is passionate about her work, and we are making great progress towards our goal.

I did not think this was something we could have. Perhaps I, too, could have the life I want, see my granddaughter born and watch her become us one day at a time. I could tend a garden, do the small things other people do while they watch the years go by. I would love to grow old. None of us ever have.

48 Earth Angel

Shit. I’m late for lunch. Billie’s going to give me a mouthful. Where the hell is it?!

—Sergei! Did you see my necklace?

Where did I go? Nowhere. I was here all day yesterday. I took it off the night before. I remember that.

—SERGEI!

—WHAT? WHAT?

—My necklace! Have you seen it?

—Green jacket. I am coming.

—Your dress uniform? Wh—Oh there you are. What’s my necklace doing in—

—I took it to an expert like we had talked about. Get dressed!

—I am dressed. I have to go. Why are you out of breath?

He’s sweating like he just ran a marathon.

—I ran downstairs. I—

—You ran—

—I meant you should put on a dress. I will open some champagne.

—It’s eleven, Sergei.

I think my husband is broken.

—That is perfect, because at ten forty-five, the USSR Council of Ministers officially approved our draft for the R-7 intercontinental ballistic missile.

—They said yes?

—You have your rocket, Nina. You did it. Whoa! No! You are too heavy!

I don’t want to let go and let him see me crying. I worked— We worked so hard on this. It’s…

—It’s your project, Sergei. You did it.

—Nina, I do not know exactly why you agreed to marry me but I—

—I—

—Let me talk. But I hope… I like to believe it was in part because you think of me as a fairly intelligent human being. I see you working, Nina, always. You jot down equations on napkins when I am not looking. My office is full of them. I pick them up from the trash can when you leave. When the car windows get foggy, I see the math you last did with your finger and I cannot understand the half of it.

—Sergei, that’s—

—I am not an idiot, Nina. I read all those papers. Unlike you, I actually know Mikhail Tikhonravov, personally. He is a smart man but he could not write a coherent sentence to save his life. He also cannot do what you do. No one can. I do not ask because I assume you would say something if you wanted to. That and you make me look incredibly smart. The rest of us helped when we could but this is your rocket, even if you and I are the only ones who know it. You did an amazing thing, Mrs. Korolev. I think you should celebrate, and I would be honored if you let me celebrate with you.

I absolutely adore this man, but this is so not helping with the crying. I suppose if I’m going to sob like a child, I might as well do it over champagne. I’m a couple of days late, but one glass can’t hurt, can it?

—I’ll get the glasses. You said you had someone look at my necklace?

—I did.

I hate it when he does that.

—… And?!

—He could not tell me anything about the metal, but the gem in the middle comes from a meteorite. Fitting, don’t you think? You dream of sending things into outer space and you are wearing a piece of it.

—He said it was a piece of meteorite?

—Well, not exactly. He said that mineral was not from Earth. It had to come from somewhere, right?

Shit.

49 Mr. Sandman

I better hold on to something. I can’t feel my fingers it’s so cold up here. I don’t know why I agreed to this. Well, I know why. Korol—My husband asked me to and I said yes. I must be losing my mind, like the last manager did. They wouldn’t tell the excavation crew what they were building. They told them it was a “stadium.” Typical Russian nonsense, we’re in Nowhere, Kazakhstan. Their surveys said there was nothing but sand here, but they hit some heavy clay right from the start and they fell behind. The generals in Moscow were quick to blame the manager, a kid from the Academy of Military Engineering. He went crazy, literally. He’s in a mental institution now. Maybe that’s where I should be. Instead I’m… fighting the wind a hundred and fifty feet above ground, watching tiny people below pour concrete into a giant hole.

We have to work through winter now if we’re going to make it in time. The pad itself is a forty-meter-square block of concrete, about the width of a football field, so they’ll be pouring for a while. Still, that’s where my rocket will launch from. I’m here to inspect the gigantic steel platform hanging above it. Me. My husband is scared of heights. I told him it was ironic, building rockets, scared of heights. He doesn’t get it. Russian humor is its own thing.

I wanted to use the alone time to think. Hard to do in thirty-mile-an-hour winds. I haven’t told anyone yet but I’m beginning to show. I’m not sure I’m ready. I could wait. There are places that take care of this sort of thing. There’s so much to do still. I don’t know if I can do all of it and raise a—WHOA! Big gust of wind!

If the R-7 flies like it’s supposed to twice, we can go ahead with my satellite project. I’m sure there’ll be some setbacks, but we’ll get it done in a year or two. I can’t wait to—Shit. That truck will hit the power line if it keeps backing up. I need someone with a radio.

—You! Hand me that walkie-talkie, will you?

—…

Nothing. I guess he didn’t hear.

—Hey! Can you hand me your radio?

He’s not in uniform. I wonder—I’ve never seen him before but there’s something—

—Hello, Nina!

—Fuuuuuu—

UGH! Straight kick to the stomach. I can’t breathe. I’m in midair, falling backwards. I’m staring at the sky, but I know there’s no platform beneath me. A hundred-and-fifty-foot drop. I’ll hit the ground at seventy miles an hour. Inelastic collision with a concrete slab. At that speed, even I won’t survive.

…

…

Sharp pain. I should have hit concrete by now. I haven’t. I stopped. I… There’s a…

There’s a piece of rebar sticking out of me. I don’t— There’s a fucking steel rod coming out of my stomach. I impaled myself midway down on the platform frame.

I have to stay conscious. I’m dangling in midair eighty feet above ground. I need to get down.

Both hands around the steel rod, I can pull… myself… up.

—AAAAHHHHH!

I can’t. It’s no use. They’ll need to take me down but I’ll be long dead by then.

That’s not how I imagined it would end. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I wonder what kind of mother I’d have been.

It’s getting dark. It won’t be long now.

50 The Great Pretender

ENTR’ACTE Rule #1: Preserve the Knowledge

King Shalmaneser III of Assyria invaded Anatolia to expand his empire. One by one, the states fell, but the small kingdom of Quwê refused to surrender. Perhaps it was the sense of pride she found in Quwê that attracted Ishtar, the tenth woman to call herself the Kibsu.

Ishtar’s mother had been killed on their way to their new home. The Tracker had ambushed them, and her mother stayed behind to ensure Ishtar and her daughter Nourah got away. The Tracker tortured Ishtar’s mother for days hoping to lure Ishtar back into reach. Ishtar covered her daughter’s ears until the screams faded into silence.

Ishtar had learned everything there was to know about horses from her mother. Horses had taken her from Scythia to Anatolia. Breeding those same horses would put a roof over her head and feed her family. When Nourah was five, King Jehu of Israel sent emissaries to Quwê to procure some horses for himself and his family. The king’s envoy spent days examining every mount in the capital. When it was all over, he settled on five stallions and two mares from Ishtar’s stable. The king paid a premium price for his horses, and that one trade would change their lives forever.

That evening, Ishtar prepared a sumptuous meal: fish with her garlic sauce, maza, asparagus. She even bought some figs, Nourah’s favorite. Mother and daughter ate together, and for a brief moment, Nourah felt like a princess.

The next morning, Nourah was awoken by a voice she did not know. There was a man standing next to her bed. Nourah flinched, thinking this might be the one who killed her grandmother, the one they called Rādi Kibsi. The man smiled and told her she had nothing to fear from him, that they had met the day before when he examined their horses.

Nourah asked where her mother was. The king’s envoy said she was gone and would not come back. He explained that all the money from the horses had been returned to him. In exchange he promised to take care of Nourah as his own. Nourah ran outside and screamed her mother’s name. She screamed and screamed until she couldn’t. Lost and hopeless, she packed her small belongings and sat in one of the chariots next to a father she did not know. She did not look back as the caravan left Quwê, never to return.

A few miles north, Ishtar cried herself into oblivion. She woke alone at sunset and prepared a fire. Ishtar looked to the stars and begged the dead for forgiveness.

—I have betrayed you, Mother. I have broken my promise. I have abandoned our ways and forsaken my blood. I do not expect absolution, for I would not offer it in your place. What I did, I did for my child. What comes of my soul is irrelevant. My daughter knows nothing of our past. I have not told her where we came from and why. She will never hear our stories, for that knowledge is a death sentence and my child is innocent. I have seen our blood spilled, our homes burned. I have heard our screams. Our ways have brought us pain and death and I refuse to watch my daughter suffer for a promise she did not make. I will not force her into a life of fear and violence. I will not deprive my daughter of the peace she deserves and guilt her into doing the same to her child. The cycle ends now. I have betrayed nine generations of us to save the next hundred. I give my life for my daughter’s, as you have done for me. We are the Kibsu. We are the Ten, and we shall be the last.

When the fire went out, Ishtar had taken with her all the knowledge she possessed.

Nourah spent only a few years with her adoptive father. The king’s envoy died of consumption when she was ten. He had made her feel at home as best he could, but Nourah never stopped longing for her past. Every night, she rocked herself to sleep reciting the rules her grandmother had taught her. Nourah buried the man she had spent half her life with and rode her horse back to where they first met.

She bred horses in Quwê, as her mother had done before her. She met a man, had a child of her own. Nourah looked at the infant and knew that she was more than a mother. She was the eleventh. The eleventh of what, she did not know for certain, but she was part of something larger than herself. She was one and many, and neither she nor her daughter would ever be alone. Nourah spent her nights studying the sky. She lived a quiet life, careful not to draw attention to herself. When her daughter was of age, Nourah gave her all that she had to give: the necklace her mother had left her, and a handful of rules that had guided her home when she was lost and alone.