The passengers glared at him as he walked out of the plane, hauling his luggage. I thought I was good at my role, thought Jason. Maybe it was a little too good, though.
Just as he was stepping off the ramp, an elderly woman with a halo of curly silver hair tugged on his sleeve. "Excuse me," she said, "could I have a copy of your newspaper?"
"Um—"
"I'd really like to read one."
"Well…I suppose you could—" He dug one out of his briefcase, wondering if it would matter that he gave away an issue of the fake newspaper the techs had constructed.
The woman smiled at him. "Thanks." She pulled him by his sleeve down to her level, and whispered in his ear: "Keep up the good work." She winked, and walked off and merged with the crowd spreading out over Charles De Gaulle airport.
He caught up to Tasha down the concourse. She was lugging her camera case, purse and suitcase. "Here, I'll take that." He reached for the camera.
"I'm fine." She swerved away from him and kept walking.
"Listen, I'm sorry—"
She didn't look at him. Then she stopped, faced him. Spoke in a low voice, beneath the noise of the bustling terminal. "I'm sorry. For –my overreaction. If you haven't noticed, flying puts me in a bad mood. You were right; you do have seniority, and I overstepped my bounds. I'm sorry, Jason."
He smiled. "That's okay. I understand."
"From now on, I'll try to follow your lead."
She smiled for the first time after boarding the plane, reluctant at first; it spread to her eyes, sparkling over their mysterious depths. His heart skipped a beat. She is beautiful when she isn't all—cranky. Then again…I can't think of a time when she doesn't look good.
He glimpsed the Eiffel Tower out the window. It hit him with a pang of sadness. He'd been here with Gloria. They'd ascended to the top in the elevator, and shared a kiss….
He shook himself out of his reverie and walked toward the boarding area for their next flight, burning the bridges to his past.
They boarded a small Muldavian plane, and were surrounded by a majority of Muldavians, speaking their own language, which sounded a lot like German but without many words that Jason could recognize. Jason made sure to be inconspicuous this time, which was hard to do since they were the only Americans on the flight. He did exchange a few words with some of the passengers who spoke good English, but managed to keep from revealing too much about why he was travelling to such a closed country. Tasha was right; the fewer that knew about their visit the better; more scrutiny just gave enemies more of a chance to notice if they happened to slip up.
The plane hit some bumpy patches; Jason feared it might shake apart. It didn't seem like it was a very well-made plane.
"I hate this," said Tasha beside him. "I love to travel, but flying…is a different story. I wish I loved it like you do."
"In this case," he said, glancing out the window at the lightning streaking across the clouds, "you might be right to fear flying."
She frowned. "Yes, but it annoys me how…irrational my fear is. And that annoyance gets diverted to other things—and—" She shook her head—"we were going to put this behind us."
"Right," said Jason. "Probably a good idea." He would have said more, but it might have been something compromising, so he looked out the window for the rest of the trip, watching the lightning flash bright paths across the darkness.
Inside the terminal, they went through customs, showed their fake passports, which the official scrutinized for an agonizingly long time, got their luggage, and finally went to sit in the waiting area. They knew their contact, Josiah Munroe, by photograph; Jason looked around for anyone who might look like him. A few did, and Jason almost went up to them, but Tasha pulled him back each time. "Not him," she said.
Jason was immersed in a Muldavian magazine, which had some pictures from which he could guess the gist of the articles, when he heard footsteps clicking toward them across the tiled floor. A tall young woman stood there, long slender legs beneath a short gray skirt, a white blouse climbing up to the base of her neck, and platinum blonde hair bound around her head in a braid. Bright blue eyes gleamed from a tanned face dusted with freckles, and she carried a clipboard.
"Can I help you?" said Jason.
"On the contrary, I can help you." She smiled, revealing generous dimples. "I am Elena Ford, Mr. Munroe's assistant. He is involved with a…situation at the office, and he asked me to come and meet you."
"I see," said Tasha. She rose. "I'm Nora Baker. This is my colleague, Dorian Cash."
"It is good to meet you." She shook hands with Tasha, and then turned to Jason. Her warm fingers closed over his.
"Call me Cash," he said.
"Isn't that a rather ironic name?" she said in her soft accent.
"In what way?"
"Well, being with a communist newspaper. When we strive for a cashless, moneyless society."
He tipped his head. "I suppose it is."
"Mr. Munroe will meet us at the office." She turned and led them out through the doors. In the entryway, she popped up a large black umbrella. "Do you two have a coat? It's rather cold out. Our rainy season."
Jason and Tasha dug in their luggage, and pulled out light jackets. Jason hoped that they would be enough.
Outside, a blast of wind hit him, whipping cold rain into his face. Down the sidewalk, a cab was waiting for them at the curb, and they all piled in. Jason somehow managed to get in the middle, his legs cramped in the center.
He tried to see what the city of Rakima was like, but all he managed to glimpse on their fifteen-minute drive was vague forms of buildings looming like hunched-over shadows in the rain, and a statue in the center square, its fist raised toward heaven.
The driver pulled up in front of a low gray brick building. Several other cars were parked there, one of them flashing the blue and red of a police car.
They all got out, and the cab sped away. As Jason walked past the police car, he spotted the symbol of the regime- a red star with a hammer and sickle in the center.
Inside, the place was a mess. Men walked two and fro, tossing papers haphazardly to the floor. Others rifled through file cabinets and desk drawers. Several people stood in the center, as if at a loss: two men and a woman. One of the men was familiar—their contact, Josiah Munroe.
Tucking the umbrella beneath her arm, Elena strode through the mayhem as if nothing was unusual. Jason and Tasha followed her; a bearded man in a dark blue uniform and hat eyed them suspiciously as he directed the other men around the room.
"Mr. Munroe," said Elena, "These are the American journalists, Dorian Cash and Nora Baker."
"Ah, yes," said Munroe, looking relieved. He ran his hand through his already disheveled brown hair. "Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport, but as you can see, I'm a little- occupied." He smiled. "You already met Elena. These are two of my writers—Dana Kant and Saul Amir." Jason shook hands with the small redheaded woman with the surprisingly firm handshake and cryptic smile, and the tall, dark-haired young man whose eyes darted back and forth at the men ransacking the room.
"I'd introduce you to the others, only I don't know their names. We're not exactly on friendly terms, as you can see."
Jason leaned forward to allow himself to be heard above the noise. "What's going on?"
Munroe, instead of answering, guided them down the hall to a smaller, unoccupied room with a few chairs and a wood conference table. They all took seats; Elena sat at his right hand, notebook in front of her.
"Saul, could you shut the door please?" Saul nodded and jumped up, pushing the door; it slammed with a bang.
"Sorry," he said.
"That's all right." He tapped the seat next to him; Saul sat down, fidgeting.
"All right. Nora, Dorian—if I can call you that."
"I prefer Cash."
"Cash, then. I am sorry that our welcome isn't exactly the greatest for our first American journalists. First I don't meet you, and then you come here to this…police inspection. Even the weather is not agreeing with us today. But I assure you, it is not always like this."
"I have no doubt of that," Jason jumped to reassure him. "I saw some of the city on the way—the city square is…" he searched for words. Come to think of it, he was rather tired. Jetlag and weather wasn't helping. "Spectacular."
"Tomorrow I hope to show you on a tour, and you will be able to bring a report back to your country on everything you see. Today I would just like to welcome you here, and see if you need anything for your stay."
Jason looked at Tasha beside him. She shrugged.
"We have our hotel set up and everything…I'm not sure if there's anything else we need."
Munroe nodded. "Let me know if you do." He gestured toward the door. "To answer your question, the police are only doing a routine audit, it's just rather inconvenient it happened the day you arrived. They required me to stay here, so I sent Elena."
"It was really no trouble," said Jason, looking at Elena. She smiled demurely and went back to taking notes.
"Now," said Munroe, "I'd like to give you an overview of what our paper is like, the topics it covers, and then you can tell us about yours if you like." He stood, and stepped over to the white board on the wall, picked up a dry erase marker and wrote "Vanguard—satellite of The Free People's Voice".
"We have a license to cover more specific topics than the main party paper," he said. "For instance, a lot of our staff our Jewish, and we cover topics of interest to the Jewish people. We also cover topics concerning other ethnicities, like the Turkish minority and the Roma.
"But of course our main purpose is to follow the guidance of the Voice, which is the authority on all Muldavian Socialist Party matters."
The door banged open. The uniformed man from the other room. He walked in with a swagger. "So, Munroe. Who are these new visitors of yours?"
Munroe froze in front of the wall. "They are journalists from America. But of course you already knew that."
The man rubbed his beard. "Yes, I did. Long before they arrived. The question is, are they who they appear to be?" He walked behind Jason, eyes flicking from him to Tasha.
"They're on our side."
"Really. I think I'd like to ask them that." He rounded the chair, his hand grasping its back. Looked down at Jason. Jason met his sharp brown eyes, and wondered whether he could see beyond Jason's own eyes and into his thoughts. Jason made sure to maintain a nonchalant exterior, tucking any trepidation he might feel deep inside.
"So," said the man, "are you a true communist? Do you believe in our cause?"
"Of course," said Jason. "I came here to learn more about you, so that I can help raise awareness in America about the success you have had in implementing a communist state."
"You mean a socialist state, don't you?" said the man.
"O-of course."
"Because a communist state, in its true, final form, is a contradiction in terms. We want a stateless society, wouldn't you agree?"
"Where we are all living with common property, and no one has need of anything, because no one is lord over the other."
The man raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. "Well put. So, how long have you been writing your paper? You look very young."
"It just started last year," said Tasha. "We wanted to reveal the truth about what's been happening. How America is not the paradise the news media would have you believe."
The man's smile grew wider. "Good. I admire your enthusiasm. And I welcome you here, if you are true believers in our cause. However, I think you may be surprised while you are here. Few in the West have the stomach for what the ascent to true communism requires."
"I know what it requires," said Jason. "I'm prepared to do anything for what I believe in." That part's true, he thought.
"Are you? Then maybe you should come by my office tomorrow. I'll give you a tour behind the scenes that most in the party would never show you. They will show you the glory, the grand buildings, the statues, let you taste our finest food. All that is good—it shows us what we're building for. But in the meantime, there are a lot of things we must do. Pieces we must carve off, and grind under our feet, before we can polish the finished product. Before our shining city can emerge into the light.
"Come by tomorrow, the both of you. I think you may find it…illuminating."
"I am their escort," said Munroe. "Should I come as well?"
"If you like. The last time you were there, though, you were practically screaming to get out."
Munroe paled. The man gave a nod, and turned on his heel, striding out the door. Munroe sat down; Dana looked at him, sympathy flashing across her eyes.
"That was Zahl," said Munroe, voice shaking. "The chief of police."
"What did he mean?" said Jason. "What was he talking about?"
Dana looked at Jason. "If you go to Zahl's compound, you might not like what you see."
"Why?" Though he knew the answer; he just wanted to know if his suspicions were true.
"It's the….more unpleasant part of our country," she said sadly. "Munroe knows more than anyone."
"He had me in there, once," was all that Munroe would say.
"In all the time that Zahl made him his sole focus, he never betrayed the party, like his parents did. He proved himself worthy." Dana looked at him, eyes shining with pride and admiration. Jason wondered if she were part of the rebels, or if she thought that Munroe had not betrayed them because he was telling the truth.
In any case, Jason's admiration went up for him; it sounded like he had never given away his secrets under what was implied was a harsh interrogation. Zahl was still suspicious of him, but couldn't prove anything. Which made it possible for Jason and Tasha to come here and do their jobs.
Munroe stood up, and gave them a tour of the offices, and then took them out back to see the warehouse, which was basically a glorified shed. A fan in the ceiling chopped loudly, drowning out the sound of the thunder.
Munroe asked Elena to get started on a new press release, and when she was gone, Munroe gathered them toward him in the center of the room. "Now we can talk freely," he said, just enough to be heard above the fan. "After a fashion. It's not that I don't trust Elena—it's just that she's not one of us yet. I'm still trying to see if she's as interested as she appears in our cause, or if she's a mole, sent by Zahl to see if he can get with tricks what he couldn't get by…other means. It's a dangerous game we're playing. It's like a dance, where we each think we know the other partner's moves, but we aren't certain.
"Saul and Dana are my lieutenants. That's why I wanted them here when you arrived."
"I'm not exactly a lieutenant," said Saul.
"You are, now that Johann has disappeared. You were second in command."
"I-I'm just his nephew, it doesn't mean I have the same—"
"It doesn't matter. I need you." He grasped the young man's arm. "Can you do what I tell you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good.
"Jason, Tasha, from now on, we'll use code words. They will be in the samples of our newspapers I give you before you leave. This will probably be the last time I address you by your real name, or say a word to you that isn't in code. I want you to know I'll do everything in my power to help you while you're here—except for endangering my people. Is that understood?"
"Yes," said Jason, almost adding "sir" to the end of it.
"Good. Then tomorrow, after your 'official tour', I'll hopefully be able to take you to the location of your new listening post. Unless, of course, Zahl gets his hands on us, and takes us on a tour of his own. Then we'll have to figure out the best course of action to take.
"Now, I bet you're exhausted. Saul here will escort you to your hotel.
"Saul, watch out for shadows."
"Yes sir."
Munroe took them back through the warehouse and gave them samples of the Vanguard's back issues. Then he and Dana said farewell while Saul took them out the back door. They stepped into the full fury of the storm.
I hope this isn't a portent of what our mission will be like, thought Jason, as they pushed through the wind and driving rain, and, finally, made it to the refuge of the car.