Skandal by Lindsay Smith Read Free Book Online

I barely resemble the well-fed, doted-upon Party member in those photographs, restored to her former high-ranking glory.
    Why are they keeping those pictures from me? I know my mother is part of the enemy’s machinery. I have accepted this—am trying to accept it, at least, though I cling to the belief that Mama must have some greater plan at work. If the Americans are going to make me a member of their team, then they must treat me as part of the team. I thought Cindy was showing us trust earlier, asking us our opinions, letting us build our own cases. I thought she was respecting us. While I know they’re spying directly on Mama, the fact that they’re keeping it from me sets my rusty gears of paranoia churning once more.
    Do they have a good reason? Or am I right to be concerned? Competing hypotheses, comparing the possible scenarios—this is a problem my scientist’s mind can solve, like sifting through equations and formulae. The Americans know more about Mama’s situation right now than I do, I’m sure of that, but I don’t know why they’re keeping it from me. Do they not trust me, or am I the one who should be on my guard?
    Someone pounds on the bathroom door. “One minute, please,” I shout.
    The obvious hypothesis: Mama is working freely with Rostov. She will do whatever he asks.
    “The door’s not supposed to be locked.” The woman on the other side hesitates. “I’ll have to get security.”
    “Please, I only need a minute.”
    A counter-hypothesis: Mama is sabotaging Rostov’s work from the inside. If this is what she’s doing, and the Americans don’t realize it, will their meddling ruin her plans? Does she need my help?
    The woman rattles the door handle again. I scrunch my eyes shut, struggling to find a quiet space in my mind where these thoughts and emotions can’t overwhelm me—
    I must help them. I must earn their trust. If I am to keep Mama safe, it will be easiest if I do so from the inside—while following the rules. I am not merely a weapon, after all.
    Like an army knife, I have many uses.
    I splash cold water on my face. For one moment, I imagine myself as the ghostly Mama in the pictures, all of the life bleached out of me. For one moment, I am stripped down to the monster inside of me, hungering for a new goal. For one moment, I am not afraid to be me.
    I open the door to a security guard, hand raised, trailing a jailer’s ring of keys.
    “Sorry,” I say, eyes cast down sheepishly and cheeks red. “There was a…” What was the word Winnie taught me? Accident, occurrence, disaster —they are all one euphemistic word in Russian. “Emergency.”
    My new plan pulses through me like a dangerous bass line under my shield melody as I return to our psychedelic psychic’s den. Some trippy record oozes through the room, thickening the air around me. I’m swimming through the watery music—a Hammond organ shimmers against a rollicking drumbeat and sitar chords pierce the air like rays of sunlight. I force my way through the maze of curtains until I finally reach the far corner.
    Cindy and Donna huddle together on a pile of pillows, talking in liquid tones. Donna’s skirt spreads around her in a perfect circle, knees tucked demurely to one side, while Cindy’s wiry knees nestle under her chin. I stare at Cindy through the lens of an operative. I want to know what she knows. I need her trust. I need to be a part of whatever she’s involved in.
    “… But surely they asked you to,” Donna’s saying, her lashes fluttering. “That’s what powerful men do.”
    “That’s not for me to tell,” Cindy says. But then her thoughts chime against the watery organ chords, completely unshielded, so loud that even I can hear them through the rug we’re both touching: Once or twice. Thibadeaux …
    Then her musical shield slams down. They both twist toward me. “Yulia!” Cindy pulls herself to her feet.
    “Hi, Jules ,” Donna says. “Mind if I call you that?” But she looks