1992
Albert Wojciech Weil's skin peeled slowly off the warm, glistening wall whenever he moved. The fever was finally passing after—how many days? It was hard to tell, but he reckoned it was likely New Year's day outside. He sat in his boxers, incandescent bulb casting him sickly yellow under a low ceiling, wires humming.
A knock at the door; empty stomach tightening. Had they found him?
"Doctor, it's Regilo, I got you some food and water."
Water. He'd been on the verge of licking moisture off the walls. He dragged himself up rickety steps, pausing as his hand fell on the door knob. What were the odds there was a man holding Regilo at gunpoint on the other side?
Well, the other option is to die of dehydration in a basement, he told himself. He opened the door with what felt like the last of his strength. Regilo bent down and offered up a water bottle and greasy paper bag—Albert snatched the water bottle, scrabbled at the cap until it flew off, and chugged. Appeasing thirst gave hunger center stage, and he almost lunged for the bag.
"Thank you," he said, pausing for a deep breath. "I'm sorry to impose so much. If I hadn't gotten ill—"
"Please," Regilo said, raising a hand. "I wish we could do more. Me and the other guys all admire you for what you did."
Albert opened the bag slowly; kibe again. He tried to take the time to savor it, considering Regilo. He was Touma's cousin by some immensely circuitous route; they'd gotten along well during the few years Touma had lived with his mother's family in Belo Horizonte, and was member of some informal hacker's circle. On that thin information and his informal Portuguese lessons with Touma, he'd staked his hope of some kind of temporary shelter somewhere less obvious than home.
"I'm glad you've recovered from the fever. You should have let us try to get you some medicine, though."
"No," Albert said between bites. "Can't take any chances drawing any sort of attention."
Regilo nodded. "We've done things like you said. Rotating who goes on what errands and where. Nobody's noticed us yet, but one of my friends did say they saw some foreigners in suits in his neighborhood the other day."
"Doing what?"
"Talking to lots of shopkeepers. He didn't get close enough to hear what about."
"They were going to catch up eventually." His tone had been too defeated, he could tell in the sudden look of alarm in Regilo's face. Albert smiled, waving the fear away. "Have you heard anything about Touma or Sergei?"
"The Russian, they fired."
"What?"
"They say he was your accomplice." Regilo arched a brow.
"It's not true. Sergei didn't know anything about my plans. They—sorry, continue."
"Cousin Touma is resigning. He'll stay a month to bring his replacement up to speed."
There was no way Albert could imagine the Institute wanting those outcomes. They'd have pressured his two closest colleagues to speak out against him. They'd refused. He could practically hear General Garvey demanding Sergei's 'Communist' head. Touma's standing was too solid, too many powerful people liked him, so they couldn't string him up—but he was too good a friend to accept this.
Regilo was watching him expectantly.
"Thank you for telling me. And thanks again for everything. It's time I get moving again."
"You can stay here as long as—"
"I won't put you through that kind of risk."
". . . Where will you go?"
Truth be told, I'd been thinking about rolling over and dying for the last few days. But they went after two great men just for being my friends. If that's the way of the world, then the world needs to be torn down for a fresh start.
"Somewhere ready for a beginning."