Greg Ahlgren - Prologue

Natasha waited for him to continue.

Igor stood up and sat on the corner of his desk. “You’ll have a good time in Boston,” he continued, softening his tone. “I was posted there once myself, and it’s a challenging place to be, you know. That’s why we chose the best person we could put in the field.”

“Thank you.”

He waved. “Hey, let’s get out of this overgrown cubicle and go over a few things in the conference room. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

Igor buzzed for two cups of tea to be brought to the conference room. He opened a connecting door and ushered her in. After tea and pleasantries he switched off the lights, and she turned to face the screen.

“Boston,” Igor said from behind her. He touched the laptop and the Boston skyline appeared on the projection screen. “Hell of a pretty place, but also the most dangerous place on earth for a Central Agency operative. We’ve lost more promising agents there than anywhere else in the world. Some are killed by hooligans, some defect, some have to be prevented from defecting.”

He turned to look at her. She avoided his eyes and studied the screen.

Click. “The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Department of Astrophysics. Outside of work the faculty here can’t mention the titles of their papers without losing listeners. Only the best of the best work here. And one of them is…”

Click. “Professor Paul deVere.” Natasha scrutinized the face. About the age her father would have been, she guessed, early fifties. A nice face. Lacking that hard, protective shell Soviet males acquire by their late teens.

“One of the most brilliant minds in MIT. Family man, lives a quiet life in Concord, faithful to his bitch of a wife, dotes on his teenage daughter.”

Click. “The Astrophysics research lab at MIT. Tallest high-rise in Cambridge. Secured building. DeVere is one of five professors with complete security clearance.”

Click. “Six months ago deVere began staying later at the lab. He didn’t have any new research projects or classes, which is to say, there was no obvious reason for his doing so. He had been reading up on time travel intensely during that time as well.”

“Time travel?”

“Hawking, Sone, David. Seems absurd, of course, but we’re not sure where it will all lead.”

“That isn’t his area of expertise, though,” Natasha said.

“I see you read those stupefying briefing books,” Igor said. “Yes, but coupled with his new hours in the lab, we are, naturally, curious.”

“Naturally.”

“Cameras can only show so much. And even people in the Northeast District know better than to discuss anything sensitive over a phone or Gorenect-mail. We need an operative in the lab. That is where you come in.”

Click. “Your background in physics is suitable for this assignment, which is why you get to sample the joys of freedom,” Igor said, his voice dripping sarcasm, “while you find out what deVere is up to.”

“He’s working alone?”

Igor nodded. “At this time we don’t have reason to think there’s anyone else involved. Another department member is Lewis Ginter”—click—“a veteran of the Balkan Wars of ’04, Special Operations and a known anti-Soviet, as you might guess. From what we can tell, he’s deVere’s only real friend in the department. They appear to be drinking buddies, they meet in sports bars after work and when deVere absolutely has to get away from his wife he’ll go to sporting events with Ginter. They seem to have some sort of attraction for the Boston Baseball Club although Ginter, being from New York City, appears to be a fan of the New York Metropolitans baseball team. And for a Negro, Ginter’s unusually bright. It’s my personal belief he’s colluding with deVere, but I really don’t know since he’s single and his social life tends to be rather, ah, colorful. Difficult man to keep up with, being former Special Ops and all.”

“Balkan Wars?” Natasha asked. “Did the former United States fight in the Balkan Wars? I thought that—”

Rostov’s snort interrupted her. “What was left of the old United States sent a force of volunteer military adventurers. It made no difference.”

“I see.”

Click, click, click. Igor showed a few other department members, all under appropriate surveillance and none suspected of anything other than working for tenure or research grants. “Not like the old days of the gulag,” Igor said a bit wistfully, “when we had the Jews and other dissidents to watch. Those were the days.”

Click. The screen went white. “Any questions?”

“None right now.”

Rostov nodded as he turned the lights back on. “I expect they’ll come fast and furious once you’re in the field. One thing about deVere…”

“Yes?”

Rostov put his hand to his lips, searching for the best way to put this. “Professor deVere has an animosity against the Soviet Union. He doesn’t only resent us, they all resent us. He hates us. The file doesn’t explain it, and that worries me. I can deal with what I understand. But I have no idea why deVere has this visceral hatred of the Soviet Union.”

“He lived in New Hampshire before the Second Revolution,” Natasha said. “His family were farmers. There must be something in his history to explain the abnormality.”

Igor snorted again. “His extraordinary abilities in math and science were detected while he was young, and he was sent to the best schools. His family were members of the old Democratic political party. Of course, having been Democrats in New Hampshire was probably enough to have made anyone feisty. Sometimes these things really do have simple explanations, but to hate us so… well, it would appear that he has no justification for hatred of the Soviet Union after all we did for him.”

Natasha nodded. “I’ll see what I can find. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

Igor shook his head. “Sit down.”

She looked up at him. He closed the blinds and locked the door. He sat across from her and looked into her eyes. “Comrade Nikitin, why is the Northeast District allowed to exist?”

“The Soviet Union believes in allowing people the right of self-determination, and we never compel anyone to—”

Igor waved his hand, cutting her off. “Skip the propaganda.” He stood and stepped back to a large map of the American S.S.R. mounted on the wall behind his chair. Natasha noted that all 37 Communist states of the A.S.S.R. were shaded in deep red. The three semi-autonomous zones were colored light blue.

Without looking back at the wall, Igor tapped his finger in the middle of the map, landing on Kansas. “We give the people here what they want,” Igor explained. “They are indeed allowed their ‘self-determination’ as you phrased it. We have learned a lot about governing other peoples since the 1930s, you know. That’s why we are called neo-Soviets. We let them teach Creationism in their public schools and ban the teaching of evolution. They want to outlaw abortion? We tell them we value life too and let them. We let them have their silly prayers in their schools. What do we really care? They see us as the protector of their values and believe we are on their side. They appreciate the security and peace that we have given them for over 40 years. They are loyal citizens.”

Igor drew a deep breath. “But the districts are troublesome. Of course there are hooligans everywhere, but they are especially concentrated in these districts, which is why we do not annex them. You know as well as I do why the Northeast District exists as an autonomous entity, when we could annex it before lunch tomorrow. Same reason the rest of the Free Enterprise Zones do, Great Lakes states and the West Coast—they make a hell of a lot of money, which we need. And their schools, MIT, Syracuse, Yale, produce some of the best minds and products. As you know, Comrade, industrious enterprise isn’t a natural by-product of the Soviet system, neo or not.”