Whenever Leo Guskov met a person of interest, he liked to ask about his or her parents. If the response was cagey, he made note, and if he thought he’d go further, then he was careful to ensure the subject’s family-history paperwork was complete. Though it wasn’t that Leo believed you needed good parents to be productive. In fact, in his line of work, bad parents were often an advance indicator of success. An early acquaintanceship with adversity, of conquering that high mountain of disappointment and dread; the desire to serve, to be loyal and exceed expectations, if only to garner the approval earlier denied.
Where he sat now, inside a university auditorium by the Moskva River, Leo was surrounded by mothers and fathers (likely most good, some bad). He slouched and let wash over him the flotsam of idle complaint that comprised the background of Moscow life: a two-hour delay on the MKAD; expensive cucumbers at the grocer; a callous dermatologist at the state clinic, who’d refused to stay late and do a body check—there was alcohol on his breath and he said he had to bring home dinner. Just because his wife cannot keep house, so I have to die . . . ?
Years earlier Leo had stood onstage in a similar auditorium, his mother in a back row, clutching tulips. A week later he’d arrived for his first day of work, at a twenty-story concrete skyscraper in the Moscow city line. Inside the lobby, a brass plaque with initials: spb. State Protection Bureau. The best of Russia’s three intelligence agencies.
Now the weather outside was warm, which meant the auditorium was near stifling. Peter Stepanov, Leo’s colleague from Directorate Eight, fidgeted to his right. Peter was tall and thin, and in the slim seat he was reminiscent of a pocket tool knife, his scissory arms and corkscrew legs all neatly confined in the space. “How about that one?” Peter asked, subtly pointing, though Leo already knew to whom he gestured. The blonde in front, with hair down to her waist.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I need more than just a pretty face.”
“You think I’m only scanning for the faces?” Peter looked insulted. “Look at her colors.” Meaning the blue-and-yellow sash over her shoulder. Leo’s own was in a box, on a high shelf in his closet.
“I don’t need a top graduate.”
“Oh, so a simpleminded one.” Peter leaned forward. “Then the possibilities widen. Over there, the redhead on the right. Better looking than the blonde, and even under that loose gown, you can still tell she has a substantial rack.”
Leo had seen the redhead when they first entered, noting her for the same reasons as Peter, though he didn’t say this. Last Friday, as he’d prepared to leave work, he’d been cajoled by Peter into a “quick stop” at a fashionable hotel bar; there Leo had nursed the cheapest drink, a bottle of Georgian mineral water, while Peter trawled awkwardly for haughty women. Leo had returned home after midnight, somehow still having gotten drunk, only to find his girlfriend, Vera Rustamova, waiting in the kitchen. Vera was a correspondent for Russia Central Media, or RCM, the state-owned news group. She had a newscaster’s voice, low and rounded, which she could adjust to the precise desired pitch of disapproval. “No, not her.”
“What, not beautiful enough? If you want something more, I don’t know if the computer science department is where we hunt.”
“I don’t need beautiful. Don’t want it, in fact.”
Peter thought about this. “So you want dumb and bad-looking, is that it? I don’t know what you’re working at, but the next time you take me on one of your scouting trips . . .”
Leo didn’t hear the rest. He’d asked Peter along only to be sociable, to share an excuse to leave the office—Leo had little pressure to recruit, as he’d had a good run this year, had already advanced multiple assets. One, a Bashkir, was still in training, while the other two, a pair of siblings, were active: the brother, a trained chef, now worked in London at a hotel frequented by Saudi royals, while the sister was engaged to a corporate lawyer in St. Louis. Leo had awoken this morning with a bad headache and had nearly elected not to come.
But now he was glad he’d made the effort. Back of the stage: fourth row, on the left. Limp auburn hair, pale skin, which, combined with small, sharp dark eyes, gave her a look of feral alertness. How long had it been? Nine years? Ten? And yet he knew her.
Julia. From the institute.
They called them institutes but what they really were was orphanages, landing zones for unwanted children. Large low-slung buildings with rusted fixtures and faded carpets; visible on the floors were the paths worn by heavy boots and wheelchairs, their adolescent owners wielding the machines like skaters on ice. The institutes were mostly located in larger towns, occasionally on the outskirts of big cities. It was on a trip to one of these that Leo first saw Julia.
He’d been in search of a boy. An older one, which was difficult, because if robust, boys were usually adopted young. The task was both delicate and important, involving the Canadian ambassador and his wife. They were religious people, the wife in particular, who’d made known her wishes to adopt before they permanently returned to Ottawa: to answer God’s call and grant some unwanted soul another chance.
But also, you know, they really wanted a boy.
So Leo was sent to seek an acceptable candidate. A child old enough, clever enough to be groomed.
The children were gathered by this institute’s director, a brittle matron of unverifiable age named Maria, into lines in the community room. Leo asked Maria to instruct each to introduce themselves, and to repeat a sentence from a favorite book.
One by one they spoke. Hello, sir, my name is . . .
My favorite book is the Bible, and here is the part that has meant so much to me, blah blah blah.
By the ninth introduction, Leo’s focus began to drift. He kept his face attentive, maintained eye contact, and when the one he’d earlier identified as most promising moved forward, the boy with straw-colored hair who came up to Leo’s chest, he returned to full attention.
“My name is Pavel,” the boy began. “My favorite book is the one with the man in blue who has muscles and can fly.” Pavel closed his eyes, as if summoning the image. “I don’t remember any of the words.”
Leo knew the man to whom Pavel referred. A Western fabrication, with Western values.
Bye-bye, Pavel. Have a nice life.
As Leo prepared to depart, he felt a tap and turned to find a girl. She was short, with long thin eyelashes that drooped toward sloped cheeks and an even flatter nose; her eyebrows, which were fat and unruly, lent a somewhat deranged note to her appearance. “You could take me.”
“I was looking for something else today,” Leo said, inwardly grimacing as he realized he sounded as if he were at the butcher, declining a cut of meat. “I’m sorry. Perhaps next time.”
“I can be very good,” she said, not moving. “I am very, very interested in doing a good job. I would not say what Pavel did. You were right to leave him behind.”
“How did you know I was interested in Pavel?” A little curious now.
“They talked about it before you came. That you wanted a boy. The adults here speak as if none of us have ears.”
He was amused by her phrasing. “Pavel is not the only boy.”
“You make a fist when you are paying attention. You did it in the beginning, when Sophia bent for the tea. She only wears that sweater when we have visitors, you know.”
Instantly, Leo thrust his hand behind his back. He slowly loosened his grip, feeling absurd. He knelt and said in a low voice: “You say you would do a good job. But you don’t even know what sort of job it is I would ask.”
Her face scrunched as she thought. “Well whatever it is, I am interested.”
“What’s your name?” He could see Sophia of the famous V-neck hovering near, looking both wary and hopeful; she knew he sought a male, but the institute was compensated for every child taken by Directorate Eight, regardless of gender.
“Julia.”
“Julia.” He nodded, as if committing the name to a mental ledger. “And how long have you been here?”
“Since I was little.”
“Oh? So you do not remember your time before?”
A shadow flicked across her face. “I have been here my whole life.” She cleared her throat. “You know, I can also sing.”
He rocked on his heels. “Go ahead, then. Sing me a song.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m so happy . . .”
“An American song?”
Her eyes opened. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. It’s never wrong to practice other languages. A very good idea, actually.” He rose, and then after a hesitation patted her on the head. “Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
She took a small step, deftly rejecting his touch. “When?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps next year. Or the next.”
Julia settled on him a hard look. “You won’t come. We will never see each other again.”
They sat across from each other now, in a room in the back of a mechanical parts warehouse owned by the SPB. The space was unofficially Leo’s—no one else from the department liked to use it, because it was far away, in Mitino. Over the years he’d rearranged the decor: he’d kept a campaign photo of the current president, in case he ever were to visit, which he wouldn’t; the Gorbachev junk he’d removed, though he’d left up a single poster, of a cartoon alcoholic mistakenly chugging silver polish. Evil for your body and soul was printed on the bottom, which Leo would occasionally chant as he poured for himself and Vera. Glug glug glug.
“Do you remember meeting me?” He shifted, and his chair made an ugly noise against the floor. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” Julia said, and Leo took the moment to study her up close. Unfortunately, Julia was not one of those plain children who grew into their features (though from Leo’s experience it was never the perfect tens who worked hardest, anyway). She wore a red wool dress with a dirndl collar, as a younger girl might, and had brought along with her a paper sack of food, from which Leo could discern the smell of hot bread and cheese. Sloykas, he guessed. His stomach rumbled.
“When we first met, you said you did not know your parents.”
“Yes.”
“Is that still the case?” Though he knew the answer, as by now—a week after the graduation—he had assembled her complete file.
“Yes. I do not know them. Or think of them.”
“And you understand what the SPB does.” Watching her carefully, as here was where some of his potentials flamed out. Though they were initially drawn by the excitement, something about hearing the actual name, the initials, seemed to move them to reconsider. As if by not working for the SPB they might exist farther from its eye, their sins unrecorded.
Julia shrugged. “As much as anyone else.”
“You understand our country is under attack. From our enemies, and even our supposed friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that any harm done to the West is a benefit to us.”
“Right. So what do you want?” Her voice brusque, as if she were busy, had many other people to meet, interviews to complete, though Leo knew better. If Julia had graduated with top marks she might have been able to land a job at a telecom, perhaps even a multinational, but her university transcript confirmed such avenues were closed.
“Nothing right now. You’ll have to finish the security paperwork, complete introductory training. Then I believe the first order of business will be a voice coach.”
“A voice coach?” She sneered. “What do I need that for?”
Over Leo’s career he’d managed dozens of men and women who mistakenly equated unpleasant behavior with an expression of power; by now he knew it was best to extinguish such beliefs right away. “The way you speak, it’s intolerable.”
Julia flinched. There was silence, and she glared at the floor. “If you think my speaking is so bad, then why did you request me?” she asked at last, her face reddening. “Because it wasn’t for my looks.”
Ah, he thought. So you want to take that away before it can be used.
“I believe you are a woman with tenacity,” Leo said, deliberately using the word woman. “That, plus creativity, is what I search for.”
She snorted and flushed deeper. “And what does a voice coach have to do with creativity?”
“What I do for my job is construct a package. A human package, for a specific purpose. I need you to be convincing beyond doubt; it’s not your voice that’s so much the issue as the way you speak. No elegance. Perhaps the problem came after so much time in the institute. Because when we first met, it was not so bad.”
“I sang that song,” she said, and Leo knew she must recall nearly every detail of their first interaction. That perhaps she’d nursed hopes of his reappearance for years after. “In English.”
“Yes, and your command of language was already decent. With a coach to refine the pronunciation you could become nearly fluent. You’ll never get rid of your accent entirely, but you’d be surprised what focused training can accomplish.”
He waited for Julia to ask why English was important, but she refrained. “And say I do the voice coach and learn the good English. Then what?”
“Perhaps we do acting training. There are no guarantees. During each step your performance would be evaluated.”
“And after?” Her fingers drummed. “A piano teacher, and then gymnastics, and I go join the circus?”
He shook his head. “If you were ready, you’d begin the next phase. To serve our country, in secret, abroad . . .”
Julia perked at this. She began to tick off fingers. “New York, Shanghai, Paris . . .”
“Not any of those.”
“Cairo, Munich, Sydney . . .”
“None of those, either.”
“All right, where?” Eager in her curiosity. She’s just a child, Leo thought. A rude one, but a child nonetheless.
“Silicon Valley.”
“Silicon Valley,” Julia repeated, not entirely disappointed. “You mean San Francisco?”
“We can determine the right city later. We have people at both Berkeley and Stanford. You’ll need to be enrolled in a graduate program, for the visa.”
“And what would you have me do?”
He laced his fingers. “You have heard of the start-up culture there?”
“Yes.” Her voice held an edge of derision.
“What, you don’t think the internet is interesting?”
“I’m not the sort to stare at a computer all day.”
“Well, perhaps you could add a hobby. Another boom is coming. I want you to start a technology company. A true Silicon Valley one, based locally.”
“A company,” Julia repeated uncertainly.
“Yes. One viable enough to attract good investors. The investors will be key, especially in the beginning. From them you will receive introductions to other entrepreneurs, partners—become part of the local ecosystem, as it were. What we refer to as a bridge.”
From outside came the beeps and clangs of construction. Maybe the Metro, Leo thought, which they were forever promising would be built. He waited for Julia’s response, which he assumed would be positive. He recalled the first time he’d breathed the air outside San Francisco, its sweetness in his lungs—which he’d quickly become used to, and then taken for granted, until he was back on the plane.
But instead of a quick smile or other signs of enthusiasm, Julia only tugged at her collar. Both hands fiddled with the cotton; her eyes were wide and she kept her gaze on the table. “You have seen my grades,” she said.
So that was the problem. “Yes.”
“Well,” she huffed. “Then you already know I don’t have much talent. For a while I thought that even if I didn’t like my classes, I could still work hard. But it wasn’t enough.”
Leo was surprised: he had not thought she’d acknowledge her own deficiencies. But this meant only that he was all the more correct about her suitability as an asset. Yes, it’d be good to have a computer genius, but such a person wouldn’t necessarily want the job—and above average at home was close to brilliant in America, anyway.
“I don’t need an expert. Just some technical proficiency. A hard worker, which you’ve just told me you are.”
“So am I going to have help? A technical coach?”
“No.”
“A team of programmers?”
“No. You’re going to do it all. Create the company, and lead it.”
“But I already told you, I can’t manage the technical portion.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He checked his watch. The metal chair was numbing his back. He wanted to start home, stop at the butcher’s before returning to Vera.
“But isn’t the whole point of a start-up to have a product?” She rocked back and forth in her chair. “It has to have an offering. A reason for its existence.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“Then I don’t understand! Where is it going to come from?”
And finally they had arrived at the heart of the matter. A queer feeling overtook Leo and he felt himself hoping she’d prove worthwhile. I could change your life, he thought.
He let the quiet settle. Watched her face.
“We’ll steal it.”