Glen Allen - The shadow war

Just then Natalya came out of the bedroom. She'd changed into a white pullover and black jeans. Her feet were bare, she'd taken off the necklace and most of her makeup-and Benjamin still thought she was achingly beautiful.

"Nothing?" she asked. She came into the kitchen and poured herself a small snifter.

"No," Benjamin said. "Either he's not there, or not answering."

"Well," Natalya said. She went to a chair by the window and sat down. "Please," she said, "sit down."

Benjamin went to the couch. Before he sat down he removed the tuxedo jacket, folded it neatly over the back of the couch-and as he did, an envelope fell out of the pocket.

He threw the jacket over the back of the couch, bent and picked up the envelope.

"What is that?" asked Natalya.

"I don't know," said Benjamin. "It was in the jacket, which belongs to Anton's son. Perhaps it's his." Then he turned the envelope over and saw BENJAMIN written on the outside.

"Anton must have put it there," he said. "But why?" He looked at Natalya, shrugged, tore open the envelope. Inside was a brief note in the same scratchy handwriting Benjamin had seen on Anton's blackboard. Benjamin quickly scanned the message.

"I'll be damned," he said.

"What does it say?" asked Natalya. "Unless it's too-"

"No, no. Here." He handed her the note. Benjamin- Maybe you will need this. Anton

Below that was a name and address.

Henri Vielledent

Credit Agricole Bank

Washington, D.C. Account Number 07041776

And below that was Anton's signature.

"It seems," Natalya said, "you have a benefactor."

"Apparently," Benjamin said, taking back the note. He felt for his wallet, carefully folded the note, and placed it inside. Then he looked down at his too-long trousers.

"I feel a little ridiculous, still in this monkey suit," he said.

"Monkey suit?" Natalya asked.

"Slang for tuxedo," he said, sitting down heavily, the fatigue-to say nothing of the champagne and brandy-catching up with him. "I didn't bring any clothes from the Foundation, my suit is at Anton's. I feel quite the orphan."

Natalya took a sip of her brandy. "Are your parents nearby?" she asked.

"No," he said. "They're both… they were killed in a car accident. About five years ago."

"Oh, I am sorry."

"I miss them," Benjamin said-and was immediately surprised at how quickly he'd admitted such a thing to a near stranger. "My father was an historian, too."

"Another academician," Natalya said. "A family tradition?" She smiled.

"Not quite," he said. "I have a brother who lives out on the West Coast. He does something in Hollywood, I've never quite understood what. And a sister who's what you would have called an 'imperialist exploiter.' She's a stockbroker, in New York."

"These days," she said, "such a person is a hero of the new Russia."

"You don't approve of the new Russia?" he asked.

She looked down into her brandy, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger as she spoke.

"You grow up in one country, you are accustomed to it, whatever its flaws. Then one morning you wake up, that country is gone, and in its place is a country whose people you do not recognize." She looked up at him. "Sometimes since then I feel like an orphan, too, Benjamin."

He liked the way she said his name. "Natalya," he said, "you said your father was a…"

"A rocketchiki, " she said. "That's what they called themselves. It would translate into English as something like 'rocketman.' "

Benjamin laughed.

"What is funny?" asked Natalya.

"Nothing, it's just that there was an American comic book character by that name. Rocket Man." She wasn't smiling, and he continued. "Then your father was one of the men with his finger on the red button?"

"Actually it was a white button," she said. "And yes. He was in the first graduating class of the Kamishinsboye ryssheye artileriyskoye uchilische, the Kamishin Artillery Academy."

"Artillery?" asked Benjamin, confused.

"You have to remember those times," Natalya said. "They disguised their purpose, you see. The only insignia they wore on their uniforms was of the artillery division. Anyway, he was assigned to one of their first underground missile bases. It was considered a posting of considerable prestige. But it was a city in the wasteland of Siberia, a town built practically overnight. It was given the name of a village nearby that had existed for hundreds of years, but the town itself didn't appear on any maps."

"What was it called?" Benjamin asked. He leaned forward and put his snifter on the coffee table, rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up. But he couldn't repress a yawn. "Sorry," he said. "I'm interested, really." He leaned back against the couch.

"The village was named Uzhur," Natalya said. "But the military base was called Uzhur-4." She looked down at her own drink, was quiet for a moment.

"Very," Benjamin searched for the right word, "cryptic." And then he remembered something Anton had said. "Uzhur-4, you said?"

Natayla nodded. "Why, you know of it?"

"No, not me. But Anton mentioned it tonight… or this afternoon…" Again he rubbed his eyes. "Anyway, go on."

Natalya looked pensive as she continued. "It was both a terrifying and a protected place," she continued. "We were surrounded by electrified fences, and there were soldiers everywhere. But on the other hand, we had many amenities other citizens of the 'socialist paradise' could only dream of. I remember how proud we were when a telephone was installed in our apartment, the first private line in the city. Of course, we knew it was monitored. But who was there to call?" She smiled. "When we went on vacation to Sochi, we were flown to the airport in a large helicopter. I thought of it as my helicopter. And when we took a train, we always had our own private compartment. Strange," she said, "but for all its forbidding atmosphere, I was happy there."

She looked up at Benjamin. He was slumped against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. He was sound asleep.

Natalya went into her bedroom, came back out in a moment with a blanket and pillow. She lifted Benjamin's legs onto the couch, took off his shoes, then placed the pillow under his head and pulled the blanket over him.

She stood looking down at Benjamin for some time, as though she was balancing some kind of decision. Finally, she turned off the lamp next to the couch and walked off to her bedroom.

Benjamin woke to Natalya's face above him. She was holding a cup of coffee in one hand. The scene reminded him of Wolfe getting him up early, shoving coffee in his face. He preferred this version.

"Good morning," Natalya said. "Did you sleep well?"

Benjamin looked down. Apparently during the night she'd pulled a blanket over him, placed a pillow under his head.

He sat up, accepted the coffee.

"Yes, for the first time in several days," he said. He took a drink of the coffee-it was quite strong, and he winced.

"Too strong?" she asked. "I am afraid I like it very strong. American coffee, well, to me it usually tastes like weak tea."

"No," Benjamin said, taking another sip. "It's good." He looked around for a clock. "What time is it?"

"About seven thirty," she said. "I woke up at six, but you were sleeping so soundly, I decided to let you rest."

"Oh," Benjamin said. He smiled at her. "I'm afraid I dropped off while you were speaking. Sorry to be so rude. These last few days at the Foundation… well, there wasn't much time for rest."

"So I understood."

She went to the kitchen, returned with a plate with some croissants and a bagel, a dab of cream cheese, another of red jam. "I was not sure what you would eat for breakfast, so I went to the Starbucks across the street." She set the plate on the coffee table. "But perhaps you would like to wash and change first."