Theories of Flight

10

Since Oshicora’s star had burned itself out in a single night, Marchenkho’s had quietly risen again. No more domik life for the Ukrainian: he had bright, warm offices, and Soviet-styled secretaries in severe suits and seamed stockings.

One held the door open for Petrovitch as he stepped through. Her scent was distracting, enough for him to miss thin-faced Valentina sitting quietly in the corner of the room.

Marchenkho turned from the window, his red star lapel pin glinting in the low winter sun.

“Ah, my boy. Is good to see you.”

“Yeah. I’m surprised to find the feeling’s mutual.” Petrovitch held out the pot plant he was carrying. “Present from Harry Chain.”

“Is looking a little worse for wear. Not unlike you. You are, as they say, foxed?” He took the plant in his fat fingers and ruminated on its previous owner. “Bad business, bad business all around.”

Grigori stumbled in behind Petrovitch, carrying the cardboard box, and placed it on Marchenkho’s dark wooden desk: some things, at least, didn’t change.

“Thank you, Olga,” he said to the waiting secretary. “Make certain we are not disturbed.”

She strutted away on her high heels, and the door swished shut behind her.

“Olga?” said Petrovitch.

“Is not her name, but is good Soviet name. They are all Olga, da?” He chuckled, but Petrovitch didn’t feel the need to join in. “You know Tina?”

“Yeah. Last seen blowing stuff up.”

“She is smart. She will help us look at what we have.”

Valentina’s smile was brief and ironic. “Comrade Marchenkho tells me you have bad case of Americans.”

Petrovitch tore at the tape securing the lid of the box. “They killed Chain. They nearly killed me. I’d like to get a few steps ahead of them before they come for me again.”

“And this is likely?” she asked.

“Yeah. It is.” He picked up the prowler file and presented it to her. “Unless they’re congenitally stupid, that is.”

“Is always possibility,” said Marchenkho. “Reconstruction has made them a little bit, you know.” He tapped his temple.

“What they might lack in intelligence, they make up for with sheer quantities of high explosive.” Petrovitch retrieved the other file and opened it up, taking time to read the information inside. A list of codenames, a copy of a memo to the director of the CIA from someone whose name was a string of “x”s, a single sheet giving the mission parameters for what they’d called, in their ludicrously overblown way, Operation Dark Sky.

“So, what is it the Amerikanskij want?” Marchenkho rumbled.

Petrovitch looked up from the paper with “ultra top secret” overprinted in red. “In order: work out what the chyort happened during the Long Night, decide whether it represents a threat to the U.S.A., then neutralize it. With extreme prejudice.”

“Hmm.” Marchenkho stroked his mustache. “We have not had the appropriate conversation yet.”

“No,” said Petrovitch emphatically.

“You are asking me to commit personnel, materials, to help you: I think you need to tell me why.”

“I…” He looked around for a chair. Aside from the one Valentina occupied, and the one behind the desk, there were none. “They’ll kill you if you know.”

“A risk for me, surely?” Marchenkho was standing uncomfortably close, his breath sharp and mint-fresh. “Come, Petrovitch. As a favor to an old friend: who was the New Machine Jihad?”

“If that’s the price of your help, it’s too much.” He snapped the file shut and watched while Marchenkho’s eyes clouded over. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

“Trust works both ways, boy.” Marchenkho looked over Petrovitch’s shoulder at Grigori, who went to stand against the office double doors.

“And they really will kill you.”

“Did Chain know?”

“Yes. You might think it a coincidence that he died in the explosion that took care of the prowler debris. I don’t. You might have a low regard for the Americans. I don’t. You might even believe that I’m using you to get myself out of trouble and that your death would mean nothing to me.”

“It wouldn’t?” He seemed amused by the idea.

“Let’s just say I’ve had to readjust my priorities in the last couple of days.”

Marchenkho snorted and headed back toward his desk. “You will tell me, Petrovitch. Eventually.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Da, da. Talk is cheap. Grigori? Get coffee for us. Tina? What is your opinion?”

Valentina, quiet through the macho posturing, spoke up: “Is certain an American-made prowler was disabled by MEA forces in Epping Forest. While it is not clear precisely who was operating the machine, Americans are jealous of their technology. They do not give it away, and it does not tend to fall into wrong hands. Their prowler would have easily killed any Outies who encountered it—who would have learned to stay away, perhaps.”

Marchenkho sat in his chair and leaned back. Stalin looked down at his crown of thinning hair.

“What would the Americans gain by being in the Outzone?” The question was directed at Petrovitch.

“I don’t know.”

“Think of reasons,” said Marchenkho softly. “Use that big brain of yours.”

“Okay.” Petrovitch looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. “They had a supply dump that wasn’t in the Outzone originally, and the front line overtook them. Or they’re using the fact that the Outzone is out of MEA’s reach and they can do pretty much what they want there. Of course, when the Outzone overtakes us all, they can be as quick and dirty as they like and no one will know.”

“Then we must move quickly,” said Valentina. “Identify their agents and neutralize them. You have made good start.”

“And if I’d been thinking more clearly, I’d have aimed at his arm or leg. Alive, he was worth his weight in gold. As it is, they can’t even use his organs.”

“He would not have let himself be taken. You,” and she looked at Petrovitch with approval, “you did well.”

“Yeah. If you say so.”

“We all say so,” said Marchenkho. “But there is something wrong here, yes? Pretend you are Union man, da? You are big in Security. You have CIA all over you like a rash. What do you do? What I would do is purge. Get rid of the enemy like I was flushing the toilet. Make a big noise. Show trials. Public executions. What do we have?” He leaned over his desk and whispered. “We have nothing.”

Petrovitch patted his pockets. Chain’s front door keys. He held them up and watched the light play off the dull metal.

“That’s it. He was never a Union man. He ate information, but he didn’t share it with anyone. Just kept it to himself, building a web and sitting in the middle of it.” He moved his focus to take in Grigori, just returned from outside. “I know what he did in his spare time.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Marchenkho roared. “Go. Go! They are still one step ahead.”

Petrovitch threw the keys in the air ahead of him, then snatched them back as he caught them up. Valentina was already by the doors, briefcase in hand. Grigori let them out, and led them through the outer office. One of the Olgas was approaching with a tray of coffee in little china cups, and the three of them had to dodge around her.

Grigori beckoned them on toward the lifts.

“Do we have to?” asked Petrovitch.

“You want to take the stairs?”

“Yeah. If that’s okay.”

Grigori punched through into the cold, still air of the stairwell, with Valentina behind Petrovitch.

“What is it?” she said.

He looked around as the door closed with a clack.

“You want to talk without being overheard?”

“No. I just don’t like lifts.”

“The Oshicora Tower?”

“Yeah.” Their footsteps were hollow against the naked concrete. “Some nights, I wake up screaming.”

“But while we’re here,” said Grigori, “don’t hold out on Marchenkho. You know what he’s like. You can go from brave to stupid in an eyeblink.”

“Thanks.” Petrovitch snorted. He squeaked his rubber soles on the landing as he turned. “I know what I’m doing. For now.”

“You’ll tell him soon enough. Either because you want to, or because you have to. Understand?”

“I get it. Really. But.” He stopped. Valentina almost ran into the back of him, and Grigori had gone a half flight before he realized. He walked slowly back up, hand trailing on the banister.

“You wish to say something?”

Petrovitch opened his mouth to speak, and Grigori held up his hand.

“Remember that Marchenkho is still my employer. My boss. I owe him my loyalty.”

“Yeah. I wanted to ask if either of you has read any Tolkien?”

“What?” said Grigori, but Valentina nodded.

Petrovitch focused on her. “I have the One Ring,” he said.

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Do you trust Marchenkho enough to let him have it?”

“No,” escaped her lips.

“If it ever looks like I’m going to have to tell him, kill me.” Petrovitch looked over the top of his glasses at Grigori. “That goes for you, too.”

The man was covered in confusion. “You have something powerful? A weapon?”

“Powerful, yes. A weapon? Only if you want it to be. And you know that Marchenkho will use it.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, we’d better get moving.”

Grigori didn’t move. “This weapon: this is what the Americans are looking for?”

“It’s not a… Yeah, though they’ll never find it.”

He grabbed Petrovitch’s arm. “Did it cause the Long Night?”

Petrovitch turned his face away. “Don’t make me say any more. You’ll become just another person they have to kill.”

Grigori snatched his hand back. “I’m not happy with this. Can’t you just get rid of it?” He dug his hands into his pockets, and Petrovitch could tell he was fingering his gun.

So he took the lead. He stepped past the man and headed downward. When he was certain they were following him, he called back up: “I could destroy it. But I’m not going to.”

Grigori and Valentina hurried to catch him up, eventually flanking him as they reached the ground floor.

“Why not?”

“Because no one will believe that I have.” Petrovitch shouldered the door aside. “I could do it now, and you wouldn’t believe me. So why would the Americans?”

The foyer was gray and white, all curves and light. There were receptionists and guards, and a courier passing a packet through a portable scanner.

“Do they know you have it?” asked Valentina as they strode through.

“No. I expect they’ll work it out, though.”

“Then they will kill you,” she concluded.

“They’ll try.”

The street-side doors hissed aside. Grigori’s car was parked two wheels up on the pavement, and he opened the rear door.

Grigori got into the driver’s seat, using his fingerprint to turn the engine over. Valentina swung her briefcase into the footwell. She and Petrovitch were nose to nose over the top of the door.

“You do not appear as worried as you should be,” she said. “You have plan?”

“Not yet. I know what the plan should look like. I know what I need it to do.” His hands gripped the painted metal, cool and heavy against his hands. “I know how much time I need to pull it off.”

“Do you think,” she said, then stopped to look around her: a couple of pedestrians, another car, ancient and dented, rolling slowly by. “Do you think it will work?”

The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. It’ll work.”

She had blue eyes like he did, and cheekbones like axe-blades, but at that moment she looked supremely vulnerable. “If I can help, then I will. In any way. Vrubatsa?”

“Hey,” called Grigori, “get in, you two.”

“Okay,” said Petrovitch.

Valentina got in, and Petrovitch jogged around to the passenger seat. Grigori was frowning at him.

“What?”

The driver shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Where are we going?” He fired up the satnav module, finger poised over the screen.

Petrovitch dug in his pocket for the paper Daniels had given him. He unfolded it for the first time.

“Finsbury Park. Seven Sisters Road.”