2004: St. Petersburg
It is Thursday, which means that Uncle Misha is visiting.
It is 2:36 p.m., which means that six minutes ago, Uncle Misha and Ivan retired to the den to talk privately.
And all of this means that four minutes ago, Nikolai took the long way through the house to the third floor, which leads to the attic, where he is now.
In fact, currently Nikolai is balancing precariously across two boards, trying to remember which one will creak and groan if he leans too far to the right. He has no idea whether the creak can actually be heard through the ceiling, but doesn't want to risk the possibility that it will. Inching across the beams is excruciating; he is losing precious minutes of a conversation that is never more than 30 minutes long. This pisses him off, but getting discovered would piss him off even more, because it would mean losing not just today's but any future chances of finding out what it is they are talking about.
* * *
Nikolai discovered his first Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб at seven, exploring the servants' quarters in the house they'd moved into when his mother was assigned to Minsk. His parents had been in the den, directing the movers this way and that, but here, all the way across the house, he could hear them plain as day. That they couldn't hear him back became obvious when he'd accidentally – and calamitously – knocked over one of the lamps on the dressing room table trying to discover if the sounds were maybe coming from a microphone or intercom hidden somewhere. The crash seemed allowance-threateningly loud to him, but his parents carried on as if nothing was wrong.
At the time, he was young and uncalculating enough to tell his parents what he'd discovered – after hiding away the remains of the lamp, of course.
"Back in the Cold War, everyone was more paranoid," his father had explained. "Important government officials had to be checked up on every so often to make sure they were loyal to the government, and had not been compromised by American spies."
"Did they do that in America, too?"
His father laughed. "Oh no, in America it was far worse. There they videotaped every room, listening devices and hidden cameras, all recorded to be used against you later. Here in Russia, it was more civilized, just a room that might or might not have someone listening in it at any given time. It was more a matter of... formality."
"Why didn't they just have their discussions in a different room?"
"Well, half the time they didn't know these sorts of things were there, Kolya. But still… it would have been more suspicious, a sign of disloyalty, to do so."
"But wouldn't the servants have gone in the room and heard it all?"
"Oh, only the ones who were supposed to."
"Supposed to?"
"Be listening in."
"Oh."
Nikolai sat in silence for a moment, listening to the workers make crass jokes while his parents were out of the room. Most of them he didn't understand, although his mother did turn bright pink at one point and storm out of the room.
"Did they tell you which ones they were?"
"Which ones who?"
"Who were allowed to be listening in."
"Of course not. That would defeat the purpose."
Now he could hear his mother through the Ñ?толб, angrily yelling at the workers. "So how did you know who to trust?"
His father laughed. "Nikolai, the loyal government worker had no reason not to trust all of his staff. Only the disloyal or corrupt employee would have anything to fear. You just assumed everyone was one of those people and acted accordingly."
"So you didn't trust anyone?"
His father shook his head and smiled. "Trust everyone or trust no one, there is no difference."
Being Russian, that didn't seem strange to Nikolai.
Being seven, the fact that his parents never discussed much of anything important in the den for most of the two years they lived there didn't seem strange.
By the time he was nine, the fact that his parents were fighting openly in any room of the house, including the den, didn't seem strange either.
* * *
The middle step is the tricky one – balancing across the wooden planks that crisscross over the attic's fiberglass insulation. Nikolai knows first-hand how itchy it is, and how hard it is to remove, once you get it on your skin, and he has absolutely no wish to repeat that experience. Plus, a misstep might send him not just into the insulation but through the thin ceiling below it, which would not only end the game but would also be excruciatingly humiliating.
Ten minutes have passed now, which means they should be done with the small talk and onto the interesting stuff, the real reason why Uncle Misha visits with such frequency, the enigmatic Project 21.
* * *
Nikolai found two more Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб among the eight houses they had lived in since Minsk, although his father – who also looked for them – had each time simply turned the room into his den. Since the acoustics only went one way, it was a very practical solution to the problem. Of course, it hadn't stopped Nikolai from wanting to know what was going on; there were lots of other ways to find out what you weren't supposed to know. With few friends and nothing better to do, Nikolai became proficient with most of those ways. Even when he didn't really like what he found out.
Ivan's succession of two wives and four mistresses had dulled any sense of filial piety Nikolai had held - he had stopped calling him "dyadya" after the the second mistress - but it was anything but surprising.
That his father's fast ascension up the ranks was due to the shadow support of someone had been expected, since Nikolai knew exactly how Ivan was spending much of his leisure time and a good deal of his official time as well, and it had very little to do with work.
That Uncle Misha, one of the few adults he had ever come to respect and care for, was working with his father on some secret called Project 21… that was surprising.
That he couldn't find out what this Project 21 was about was galling and irksome. It wasn't in any of the files in his father's home office, and it wasn't in any of the unlocked files in his father's suite of offices at the embassy. He'd even checked the safe behind the portrait of the current prime minister in the den when his father had not shut it properly once, to no avail.
About that time was when he found the second Ñ?толб in the house – a post designed to listen in on the listening post itself, intrigue within intrigue. This time Nikolai was almost 10 years older, and wise with bitter cynicism. Trust everyone or trust no one, there is no difference, his father had said, and Nikolai had learned that lesson well. This time Nikolai said nothing of the Ñ?лушаÑ? Ñ?толб to anyone.
But even the Ñ?толб had not helped him discover more about Project 21. He had first heard the name while eavesdropping on a conversation between Uncle Misha and Ivan. Unfortunately, his father had caught him listening in – he had not been fast enough away from the door, and though no words were spoken, Nikolai knew from the look on his father's face that he had been noted – and more important, that there was something about that conversation his father didn't want him to know.
Which is why Nikolai is a floor above his father and Uncle Misha that Thursday, trying to out-spy Maxim Isayev.
* * *
Once across the beams, everything becomes easy. Here the platform is reinforced; he can move with less caution. Hearing is easiest, he has discovered, lying on one's back with your head nearest the point. In that position, you can stay unmoving for hours. As he stretches out on the ground, Nikolai imagines for a second that he is with the KGB, here to spy on a disloyal citizen. Then he smiles – depending on what this Project 21 is all about, he might indeed be doing just that. And if that's the case, his father will never be able to wave the threat of military school over his head again.
* * *
Nikolai has known Uncle Misha – General Mikhail Borodin Yurikov – since he was eight, when a vicious, virulent case of the mumps turned into meningitis, and Nikolai was hospitalized for the better part of a month at a private children's hospital in Novgorod. He wasn't the only child who had it, either – there were fourteen other children from areas all across Russia who had contracted similar symptoms. (Nikolai considered himself lucky, really – Josef, one of the other boys there, had developed orchitis as a side effect; he could barely walk from the swelling. Years later when Nikolai saw his first pictures of a laboratory rat, the similarity made him laugh.)
Uncle Misha was there visiting his niece at the hospital; the mumps had given her encephalitis, and wasn't responding to treatment. His parents – well, his father, really, his mother had always seemed intimidated by the tall man – had spent a lot of time talking with Misha whenever they visited. When they weren't there, "Uncle" Misha spent a lot of time with the kids, talking and reading to them. Sometimes he snuck in candy or other treats, like Gameboys. Once, when Nikolai wasn't well enough to do anything more than sit up slightly, he showed up with a remote-control car he could operate from his bed. On days when the pain was bad, a visit from Uncle Misha made anything bearable.
Two of the kids in that ward, both boys, didn't make it through the month; there would be a loud beeping noise and nurses or doctors rushed in and pulled the curtains around that bed, and then moments later they would wheel the boy away "to a private room." Misha's niece made it through, but with significant brain damage. He seemed so sad, Nikolai tried his best to cheer him up, had promised to get healthy just for him. When the doctor finally said he could go home, Uncle Misha was there to say goodbye.
They had stayed in touch after that, and when his parents had divorced, Uncle Misha had become even closer with his father. They always talked behind closed doors, but before they disappeared, Misha always had time for a kind word for Nikolai, and an endless supply of candy or other small gifts, which grew into presents like books and CDs as Nikolai matured. Unlike other adults, Misha always paid attention to him, seemed to see him for who and what he truly was. And Nikolai, in turn, despised Uncle Misha far less than just about anyone else he knew.
None of which was going to stop him from finally finding out what was being discussed behind those closed doors.
* * *
The floor is cool against his flesh, and the smell of dust and sawdust fills the air. Below, someone is pacing – probably his father. Ivan's voice ebbs and flows across as he moves, his words quick and nervous in staccato tenor bursts, as if the subject matter itself makes him uneasy. Misha's rich baritone rolls easily in contrast, simultaneously placating and admonishing.
"– Council is not pleased with the results so far, Vanya. They are of the opinion that the timeline should be sped up."
"No."
"Vanya, be reasonable. Out of all the projects, yours is the only one with no results whatsoever to show for it. The Council is well within its rights to ask–"
"The council knows damn well what will happen if we push things any further. Have they forgotten about Belgorod?"
"The council feels Belgorod was an isolated in-"
"Belgorod accelerated growth too fast and you know it, Mikhail. The results are right there on paper – yes, they were able to stimulate power beyond all original projections, but the subject had a total lack of ability to control it. More than 10 people died before they were able to abrogate 13."
"They knew the risks."
"That doesn't negate anything, especially the fact that 13 was a complete and total failure."
"– And an isolated incident. Official findings."
"Postmortem indicated a yield on par with RDS-37 if 13 had not been successfully terminated."
"Not exactly the tsar bomba, though, and easily contained."
"Tell that to the families of the staff who died."
"Yes, well, luckily for us, 13 had also demonstrated significant yield prior to acceleration, whereas 21 to date has demonstrated... none. The risks are minimal."
"Are you taking over control of 21, Mikhail? Don't you think I know what's best for my s-"
"I never said that, Vanya. Calm down. It is my job to see that the council's wishes are carried out, and I will do that job. But you know how I feel."
"That has never stopped you before from doing what you're told."
"No, but I do feel bad about it." Nikolai notes that the laughter in Uncle Misha's voice speaks otherwise.
"Yes, yes, it's just... It's not just the project the Council is putting in danger with this crazy idea, Mikhail. I'll be as happy as you will be see to see this project finish, but I have other things to consider – my career, Katka's safety-"
"– Both of which you owe to Prosvyat..."
"Not to mention 21's stability."
"Ever the doting father, Vanya?" Nikolai has not failed to notice that his father did not list him among his considerations.
"You of all people should know how I feel about that. Of course I have Kolya's welfare in mi-!"
"What about a catalyst, then?" Misha suggests it excitedly, spur of the moment, as if it has just occurred to him, although Nikolai can tell he had had this in mind all along.
"A what?" Ivan, agitated, has no idea how easily the other man is herding him. Nikolai, on the other hand, is impressed.
"Maybe it's proximity that's missing, not speed," Misha continues. "Move the project where it's closer to other similar –"
"Yes, I see," the fear is draining from his father as excitement wells in its place, "you know, that might be a factor we had overlooked. After all, 13 imploded –"
"– once contact with 9 and 15 had occurred, yes."
"Did you have a spot in mind?"
"I was thinking of Freedom City."
"In America? Isn't that a little risky?"
"A little, yes, but it is also a highly logical choice."
"It has always registered significantly higher on the pneumetric readings… yes, and it would be a nice post assignment. There would have to be a promotion, of course..."
"Of course, although you'd probably be traveling a lot, so it would be better to board Kolya somewhere."
"Ah, indeed."
"And Katka could of course travel with you as your assistant." That's right, Nikolai thinks, offer him what he never refuses.
"If you think it best, I – I suppose that is the best solution, isn't it? The Council would be happy, the project would be more controlled..." His father is beginning to sound positively jubilant until Uncle Misha cuts back in somberly.
"If you so wish it, I can arrange it. Although... no, no, it won't work. Now that I think about it, with the travel you wouldn't be around as much to monitor the project's growth. Should proximity catalyze –"
"We could arrange regular check-ups, a monitoring device, it wouldn't be too difficult even if I was remote..." – and out of range of its potential meltdown, Nikolai adds silently.
"No, maybe you're right, Vanya, this project should be monitored more closely. This move would make it harder to failsafe. We don't want another 13."
"No, no, I think it could work." Nikolai's regard grows as Mikhail maneuvers Ivan into arguing his case for him. "Assuming catalyzation, growth would be measurable but slow at first. With good monitoring any changes would be detectable before crisis could occur."
"But what if it's not the right thing, Vanya?" Misha doesn't care if it's really the right thing at all, Nikolai thinks with admiration. "What if -"
"Misha, if we do this the Council will be happy. If nothing else, it will give me months to prove my position before the Council decides whether 21 still needs to be accelerated. It is a lucrative post, I admit, but it would be good for the project, for everyone. It would even be good for Kolya – a fresh start, a new school – God knows he needs one after that last stunt."
And of course if anything does go wrong, I'll be right in the blast radius, Nikolai adds silently. You'd play the dutiful, grieving father and be glad that I was out of your way. He makes a mental note to play up the fact that his father is gone, use it to get more money in his allowance, maybe even a motorcycle or something. Not that his father would actually feel guilty, of course. No, the payoff would be to keep Nikolai from complaining where other ambassadors might notice.
"You're right, of course, Vanya. Something does have to change." And now it'll go down on the record as my father's idea, so you won't take any blame if things go wrong, Nikolai thinks, impressed with his uncle's deviousness. In a moment of weakness, he wonders what it would be like to have had Misha for a father, how different things might have been.
"You know, Vanya, I can probably pull a few strings, make sure Kolya's old record is... adjusted to fit this new start."
Well, that could make things more interesting, Nikolai thinks to himself. Much easier to operate if they aren't watching your every move from the start. This had potential.
"Come, let's drink on this to celebrate, and then you can go tell Kolya the good news."
This should be Nikolai's cue to withdraw, as their voices and footsteps fade into the other room. Instead, he remains on the attic floorboards, breathing in the dust and trying to memorize everything from the conversation. He's covered his tracks decently well; they may very likely just think he'd left to go to the mall.
Besides, what does it matter if they find out where he is now? They'll be leaving this house soon, and nothing interesting will happen until then, he is sure.
He's learned so much, and yet understands so little – an incredibly frustrating situation, and one he hopes not to be in much longer. No, this won't do at all, he thinks, trying to process what he knows.
Uncle Misha.
Project 13, whatever that was, and the mysterious conditions surrounding its termination. If Ivan is shepherding Project 21, does that mean there are 19 other projects out there?
Freedom City. Starting over.
It is as good a place as any, Nikolai supposes. With his father merrily absent with his latest mistress, he'll be able to do as he pleases. With a clean record, he'll have months of relative freedom before they tag him as a problem and clamp down. And somewhere in there, he'll find his chance to find out exactly what Project 21 is.
And if he doesn't like what he finds out?
America is a very big country. Surely there will be room for one teenager to disappear if he wants or needs to badly enough.