Liberty Read online

  “Not easy, is it, Bryn Mawr? You wanna quit?!”

  “No, sir.”

  “What was that?!”

  “NO, SIR! I DO NOT WANT TO QUIT, SIR!”

  God, this sucks. Why am I even doing this? There’s about a mile to go, but I don’t think I can make it. It’s over a hundred degrees and I’m pretty sure the humidity is making it over a thousand. This is life on Mars during the daytime. This is the fifth circle of hell. This is Oklahoma.

  I didn’t realize you could sweat from your eye sockets.

  The more you know.

  One of my legs stops working. I mean, I raise it. That’s the first part of a step. I learned that at one. But then, when it comes down it just sort of disappears under me, and now I timber headfirst into the mud.

  I don’t know if you know what it’s like to fall flat, facedown in the mud. It’s not like any other experience I can describe. It’s like the world wallops you in the face in a moment of pain, yes, but the sting of total humiliation is really what gets you. It doesn’t get any lower than this. And you can taste it. The mud. Because your face is buried in it. You’re literally eating dirt.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  And all the saints.

  I can’t do this.

  Somewhere, behind my head, I can hear Randall barking more insults, but that is just sound and fury signifying nothing.

  Because I am not getting up. There’s no way.

  I’m done.

  Look, it was a good run and I gave it the old college try.

  Over.

  Fin.

  But then I hear it. The sound of my mother, from the dream. The screaming. The machine guns lifted up into the air. My mom is screaming for my father. And the guns go off. And I hear the shot.

  And now I’m up and running.

  That shot is like a starter gun.

  And Randall is long behind me.

  And I will not let them go gently into the night.

  I will rage against the dying of the light.

  9

  “Sean Raynes? Sean fucking Raynes?!”

  Madden waited until we left the industrial cafeteria to spring it on me. I guess he didn’t want me to make a scene. We are currently in a sort of default office. At least I hope it’s default. I think that chair’s from OfficeMax.

  “Affirmative.”

  “You want me to find Sean Raynes and tell you guys where he is. You know that’s ridiculous, right? Like, that makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  Madden remains annoyingly expressionless.

  “Okay, you do know that this is a guy I worship, right?”

  “Like Gael whatever his name is?”

  “No, more than that. Like worship/respect. Not worship and want to have five kids with after many years of traveling the world and having steamy nights everywhere from Cinque Terre to Kyoto. This is like admiration love.”

  “Well, then this should be no problem for you.”

  “No, no, no, no . . . you don’t understand. This is like the equivalent of a soap opera. This is like . . . ‘Next week on Eagle’s Crest . . . will Priscilla Von Prissington become a pauper or will she inherit her family estate by murdering her long-lost, slightly deranged, identical twin sister whom she worships but is also slightly jealous of?’”

  He grimaces. “What is it like to live inside there?”

  “Where?”

  “That weird little world between those two ears?”

  “What? No, look, stop trying to change the subject. I am not doing this. Okay? No. The answer is no. N. O.”

  We settle into a kind of warm silence. He’s not angry. I think he probably knew this was coming. I decide to take this little break to observe his de facto office, which is much more Zen than I pictured. Minimalist, almost. There’s no ornate mahogany desk adorned with paperweights and duck decoys, or a regal bird-patterned wingback chair where I could imagine him reading The Red Badge of Courage like a patriotic yet intellectual patriarch as he tasked his underlings.

  Nope. There’s just a utilitarian gray desk, a phenomenally functional black pleather office chair, and a white coffee mug with some open sugar packets scattered around it.

  Funny, I wouldn’t have taken him for a sugar guy.

  “You know, you really should have some kind of vaguely amusing nonoffensive phrase on your coffee mug.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . ‘Keep on truckin’!’ or ‘Don’t let the turkeys get you down!’ or maybe a cat dangling from a tree limb—‘Hang in there!’”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  There’s not even a window in here for me to look out of contemplatively.

  “I’m not doing this,” I tell him finally.

  “What?”

  “Killing Sean Raynes.”

  “Whoa. Nobody said anything about killing anybody. That’s not what this is. Look, Paige, there’s been some chatter. A lot of it, actually. He’s got something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like additional intelligence. A fail-safe. Something a lot of people want to get their hands on. Something that could put him in danger. It’s part of your job to find out exactly what it is.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why me? You have a zillion agents better suited for this.”

  “Actually, no. We have one. Paige Nolan.”

  “Okay, sidebar. What does this even have to do with my parents? That’s what I’m here for, remember? Not to just do random acts of international traitor wrangling.”

  “I can assure you, this is no random act.”

  “Okay, well, what does it have to do with my parents?”

  “I’m afraid that’s above your pay grade.”

  “Seriously. Tell me.”

  “Paige, this is the deal. We can’t tell every single agent every single piece of information. You’d all be killed. Or tortured. Or both. It’s standard operating procedure to maintain plausible deniability, and I need you to just trust me, okay?”

  “So, to clarify: You’re a government agent. Asking me to trust you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have some levees to sell me in New Orleans?”

  He sighs. “Paige. This is just a simple fact-finding mission.”

  “But. You’ve. Seen. My. Twitter. Page. I know everything about this guy. If there were a fan club, yours truly would be president. Also, possibly the treasurer. You even brought it up in our fake interview.”

  He’s silent. Piercing blue eyes staring directly into mine.

  Annnnnnnd, I get it now.

  “And that is what makes me the best candidate for this particular operation.”

  He smiles, pleased that his pupil has mastered this particular lesson, and hands me a folder.

  “Here.”

  I take the folder but whine, “Ugh! This is ridiculous.”

  “No, this is Liberty’s first assignment.”

  “Who’s Liberty?”

  “You. It’s your code name. I thought you’d like it because it’s so . . . patriotic.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “But seriously, you have to get me something valuable to bargain with.”

  “Wait? What do you mean?”

  “There are no guarantees, but if you complete the mission successfully, I can get your parents’ case made active again.”

  This room is too drab and horrible for my parents’ names to be invoked. Their names should never be uttered in this gray place of afternoons measured out in coffee spoons.

  I want to grab this metal desk and throw it at the sky.

  “So Liberty, aka me, is going to just waltz into Russia, find Raynes, and—I don’t know— chloroform him or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  He smirks. “We almost never use chloroform anymore.”

  10

  I guess the general idea here is that I am a f
oreign exchange student. At Moscow State University. Which is like the Harvard of Russia. So I’m a smart foreign exchange student. Honestly, I think they could do better. Why not make me a chef or an acrobat or something with a little more zing and zest? I mean, I guess the strong suit around here isn’t the creative department.

  I really shouldn’t be surprised that the seat next to me in coach class on my way over to Moscow, which was heretofore vacant, is suddenly filled with a certain conservative-yet-not-horribly-unattractive-looking someone named Madden.

  He plops down next to me.

  Just as I was enjoying my second vodka tonic.

  “It’s really embarrassing how you keep following me.”

  He smirks.

  “In the words of Aerosmith: dream on.”

  “You know that guy’s like a hundred and three, right?”

  “Which guy?”

  “You know, the mouth guy.”

  “Are you talking about Steven Tyler?”

  “Maybe. I’m actually not sure.”

  The flight attendant passes and smiles at Madden for just a second too long.

  “Gag. She’s flirting with you. Are you in first?”

  “Of course.”

  “Capitalist. So, to what do I owe the honor of this visit to steerage?”

  “I’d like you to take a look at this.”

  “Is it your penis?”

  He slouches, sighs. “Why are you so annoying?”

  “Nobody knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of the world, like who built the pyramids, or why is the Trader Joe’s parking lot always so squirrelly, or why is Donald Trump orange?”

  “Here. Take a look.”

  He shows me an old-fashioned photograph. I don’t mean a black-and-white photograph. I mean, it’s old-fashioned. Because it’s a photograph. Printed on actual paper. From a tree.

  “This is very high-tech of you.”

  He shakes his head in an almost imperceptible display of disappointment. “Analog. Unhackable.”

  Ah.

  “Now I’m going to give you this, you’re going to memorize this face, and then you’re going to burn the picture. Please wait until we’ve landed.”

  There in the picture is a textbook villain staring back at me. Well, not at me, exactly, as the image seems to be taken from security camera footage much higher than eye level. But whoever he’s staring at, looks like he best watch the hell out. He has black hair, a black jacket, and, clearly, a black heart.

  “Whoa. Are you sure you didn’t find this guy in central casting?”

  We stare at this photograph. A collective shudder goes through us. Honestly, this guy looks like he’d slit your throat for a quarter.

  “Oleg Zamiatin,” says Madden.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but he looks like an Oleg.”

  “He’s one of Russia’s most decorated Spetsnaz commandos—”

  “Spetsnaz?”

  “Their version of the SEALs. He’s a former Olympic judo champion and sometime assassin, and will likely be Raynes’s last line of defense if you manage to separate him from the other FSB agents.”

  “So you’re basically showing me a picture of the guy who’s going to kill me.”

  “No, I’m showing you a picture of the guy you will be dealing with and might have to, worst-case scenario, fight. Possibly. In self-defense.”

  “Cool. That’s cool. Can I go home now?”

  “Remember, Paige, all you’re doing is finding out what Raynes has. You’re fine. You’ve got this.”

  In case you were wondering, FSB is the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t it be Bureau since it’s FSB? But it’s the Russian alphabet. Cyrillic script. Things get wonky between alphabets.

  Here’s what is clear: the Soviet-era KGB is now basically the FSB. It’s a branding thing. Like if Halliburton one day was like, Hey, everybody hates us. Let’s change our name to Palliburton!

  Same shit, different color.

  “The FSB are protecting him.”

  “Because he’s basically a national embarrassment to the United States, and they love that.”

  “Exactly. And . . . they don’t know what additional intelligence he has either. Just like us, whatever it is, they want it.”

  “Guess he was smart to go to Russia.”

  “He didn’t choose to go to Russia,” Madden snaps. “We revoked his passport over Russian airspace. He had no choice!”

  “Oh, that was nice of you.”

  “Yeah, well. It worked. Even the brilliant Paige Nolan thinks he chose to go to Russia. And to some people, that makes Raynes a traitor.” He pauses. “I have to admit. I can’t believe we fooled you.”

  “Hopefully, that will be the last time.”

  We sit there for a moment in awkward silence.

  “Why did you snap just now?”

  “What?”

  “You kind of jumped down my throat just then. To be honest.”

  Madden is somewhere else.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He gets up and goes back to first class.

  And there I sit, looking after him. O-kaaaay. That was a Dr. Jekyll–and–Mr. Hyde moment.

  Is it possible Madden is more complicated than I thought? Maybe there is something more to him than his buttoned-up facade . . .

  I look down at the picture of Darth Oleg.

  “It’s okay. It’s totally fine. I’ve got this.”

  This is my way of making myself feel better.

  Oh, and . . .

  It’s totally not working.

  11

  Wow. I wasn’t prepared for how cool all the girls would dress over here. Like, not at all.

  Moscow is like Paris meets Tokyo. And it is off the charts.

  TV shows in America would have you believe in dumb stereotypes. Like every lady here should be platinum blond with a fur coat and sparkly jewelry. No, no. These women are dressed with a studied nonchalance and what I’ve heard people on Project Runway refer to as “a sense of play.” I’ve been off the plane now, walking around, for four hours, and I already have ten different outfits I’m planning to imitate.

  And that’s not all. These girls over here, these ladies . . . are seriously strutting it up. There is no apology, no self-deprecation. It is just a full-court runway walk down the street, over cobblestones, in five-inch heels. This is normal: running in stilettos, over stone-paved streets, looking like you are a page out of Vogue somehow animated. This is a thing.

  Also, there is this shocking truth. This city. Moscow. It’s a lot more . . . enchanting than I would have ever imagined. I mean, doesn’t everyone joke that everything here is ugly and drab? Nothing but gray and bread lines and propaganda? Not so . . . There are shiny silver skyscrapers splicing the air behind a backdrop of the Kremlin and about a hundred other majestic buildings that seem like something Walt Disney might want to re-create at Disneyland. And over here, folks, the Kremlin Teacups! Step right up to the Red Square Roller Coaster of Doom! Ladies and gentlemen, free borscht with your funnel cakes!

  Turn around, look in every direction, and you will see the Byzantine, onion-shaped domes of whatever superfantastic thousand-year-old Russian Orthodox church happens to just be there. In colors of blue, red, sienna, gold, turquoise. Turquoise! Or let’s try the Baroque palaces, shall we? Houses, buildings, museums . . . painted pink, sky blue, yellow, lime green, with bright-white molding around the windows, doors, and columns. In New York, any one of these buildings would be on the Visitors’ Guide. Here: Oh, they just happen to be there; who even knows what they are? Now let’s look over there: an imposing Soviet-era building with “CCCP” etched at the top, harkening back to the horrible old days, which really weren’t that long ago, honestly. This is what I can’t help but think, walking passed a “Soviet-era kitsch café” with a hammer and sickle on the menu, ironically. Ironically!

  Seriously, what is this place?

/>   To make matters even more bizarre, forget about your old, dumb alphabet. Here everything is in the Cyrillic alphabet, so look alive. Just remember, “restaurant” is spelled “pectopah.” That should help.

  Fun fact: Every place plays techno. No, not . . . Oh, they play a lot of techno here. Every place. Every restaurant, bar, clothing store, sidewalk café, gas station, dentist, and kindergarten. It’s all techno. For real. I don’t know when this law was put into decree, but I think it’s mandatory.

  I am taking this all in as I walk toward the hulking, imposing MSU campus.

  Now Moscow State University itself is basically centered around this giant tall building, which was the tallest building in all of Europe until 1990. It’s generally elegant, but there’s definitely something wrong with the proportions. I’m not sure what exactly. I can’t put my finger on it. There are elegant buildings all over the place and a green and rather insanely large gazing pond. If you’re in the mood for gazing.

  But the elegance ends there.

  Just wait until you see the dorm.

  “This is Moscow State University dorm. You share entryway, toilet, and shower. There is shared kitchen on each floor, but stay out of refrigerator . . .”

  She plugs her nose in the international gesture of yuck. My Moscow State University welcoming committee consists of one native Stalin-era babushka walking me through the dorm, which looks like an aesthetic mix of Amish minimalism and bomb-shelter couture. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that I’m a covert spy on foreign land, sent to extract information from the biggest threat to my nation’s security. Suddenly, looking at the robin’s-egg-blue crumbling paint on the walls, which is most definitely lead, and the mold on the ceiling above me, I think what my mother would do if she saw this. Honestly, it makes me shudder. She would throw herself against me and drag me out of here in a panic. She would practically burst. “Oh my God, this place is full of chemicals, chipping lead paint! Mold spores! And probably asbestos.” She would have me out the door in two seconds flat.

  “How are the bugs? . . . Kak yavlyayutsya oshibki?” I ask.

  She looks at me. I can tell she’s weighing whether to tell me the truth. I spoke Russian, so she doesn’t take me as completely horrible.