It was very early morning as I made my way to headquarters. It had been a long flight, but I had finally arrived. Striding through the familiar alleys in the industrial side of
I turned another corner and entered one of the massive nondescript buildings lining the street. In the dim interior a man appeared and greeted me in Russian.
"I'd like to see the special stock of teapots," I said.
The man nodded. "You know where to find them," he said.
And well I did. I walked down the aisle past the 3rd stack of crates, turned right at the 7th row, and approached a wall lined with boxes of electric irons. I pulled down a box off the 4th shelf, and removed a loose brick from the wall. Behind it was a keypad, into which I entered the secret combination. A small opening appeared in the wall for a brief moment, and I slipped through it.
I descended a flight of concrete steps, lighted by flickering lamps in sconces on the walls. At the bottom, Grisha, Karimov's private secretary, was waiting for me. Without saying a word, or altering the grim expression on his black-bearded face, he jerked his head for me to follow him. He led me straight to Karimov's office. We halted outside the door. Grisha knocked, waited a moment, then opened the door.
I had been in Karimov's office only a few times before, the last time being just before I was sent to America on my mission. It was a large room, the walls crammed with bookshelves, maps, charts, and a lifesize portrait of Brezhnev.
Karimov rose as I entered, the light from the chandeliers casting shadows in his granite-like face.
"Buchkiev. Glad to see you're still alive. Give me your report since our last contact."
I held my chin up firmly. "I have been closely following the suspect. By snooping in her belongings, I found evidence that she is very close to completing plans for a moon-going rocket. However, it is impossible to retrieve the bulk of the material until she takes me into her confidence. Therefore I am continuing in attempts to become more intimate with her, while biding my time until the rocket plans are finished."
Karimov took in my report calmly. My eyes followed him as he paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind him.
He stopped and looked at me sharply. "Is that all? Do you have any details? Did you not bring back one bit of calculations that could help our researchers in their plans?"
I tried not to show my slight trepidation. "Yes sir. I wanted to make sure the plans were complete before I brought them to our scientists."
"Hmm."
He paced back and forth some more. Was he displeased with me? Had I really done the right thing in trying to get into Luna's confidence, or should I have taken it all and run?
Finally Karimov stopped pacing. "Come back tomorrow, Buchkiev, for further orders. You are dismissed."
I exited the room, and made my way back out into the daylight. Pushing thoughts of self-doubt out of my mind, I thought about how I should spend my time until I returned the next day for orders. It had been so long since I had been home. I still remembered the streets and buildings, the landmarks and bus stops as if it had been yesterday. But I felt disconnected. I had tried so hard to become American that I had severed every visible tie with my country. My friends had all forgotten me, and my family. . . But I didn't want to think about my family.
The city was beginning to wake up. As I wandered the streets of my beloved Moscow, my heart swelled with pride. This country was all I cared about now. I would do whatever it took to make it, and me with it, the greatest country on earth.
I passed an antique shop, and something in the window caught my eye. I stopped and looked up, only to see Kisa's haughty black eyes staring down at me from a poster. She was dressed in a glizty, colorful tutu, holding a graceful pose. The words said something about an upcoming ballet, but I ignored them. Rage welled up inside me. Not her! I had come back only to see the person I hated lauded by the public, while I was forced to work in secrecy. It's not fair! Leave me alone Kisa! My thoughts were incoherent. Furiously, half oblivious to my actions, I rushed into the store, pushing things out of the way to get to the poster. I ripped it from the glass, tearing it into shreds.
Someone grabbed my arm. An angry face spat words at me. I threw off the hand and ran out of the store.
I marched down the sidewalk, allowing my fury to cool. I shouldn't have done that. I am supposed to be the master of control. But I couldn't push the angry thoughts out of my head. It's just like our childhood all over again. She does stupid stuff and gets the fame while my efforts aren't even acknowledged.
I had to do something to calm myself down. I entered a nearby bar and sat down at an empty booth. This early in the morning it was nearly deserted. The bartender asked what I wanted.
"Straight vodka," I snapped.
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