People jostled against Jason, the humidity after the rain so stifling it was hard to breathe. Beside him, Tasha stood, jotting down notes. For someone afraid of flying, she didn't seem to be affected by the crush of the crowd.
They had come to the city square after setting up the transmitter in Munroe's secret room. Jason had done most of the work while Tasha kept a look out. Now they only had to keep up the show a little while longer, writing articles to keep themselves above suspicion. In a few weeks, the permanent crew would arrive.
As far as the Agency was concerned, they had accomplished the most important part of their mission. Jason felt dissatisfied, though. There should be more to it somehow. This was only his third case, but he felt more of a need to be challenged. They weren't giving him the chance to prove his skills as an agent. How would they know what he was made of, how far he could go, unless they tested him?
His father would tell him to be patient. Everything would fall into place if he just waited. But I don't want things to 'fall into place'. I want to push them into place. Just like this country will never be free unless people choose to rise up.
Well, Munroe, Dana and the others are doing something, but it doesn't seem to be enough. The few who are standing up will only be cut down unless more of their countrymen support them. Or unless a miracle happens….
"Cash," said a voice beside him. At first he thought it was Tasha, but then he realized that Tasha had drifted several feet away. Beside him stood Elena, smiling, her slightly upturned nose and dimples suggested mischief beneath her placid, prim exterior.
She took his hand; a shock traveled up his arm, as if it were a conductor made more potent by the rain. She drew him forward; the crowd melted before them.
"Here," she said, stopping where the crowd was thinner, closer to the front. "As members of the press, we've got VIP spots, and we thought we would share them with you."
Munroe, Dana, and Saul stood near the barricade not far from the balcony of the ornate brick Central Committee Building, where Karl Von Warberg would appear any moment now. In front of it stood security forces clad in black, wearing dark sunglasses.
The members of the underground welcomed him; Elena disappeared back into the crowd after Tasha.
"How did she find me in the middle of the crowd?" asked Jason.
"It is a particular talent she has," said Munroe. "Don't ask me how she does it."
"Look," said Dana, pointing at the sky. Dark clouds were billowing behind the building. "The weather doesn't seem to be giving our leader the perfect afternoon he tried to orchestrate for us."
"Dana—" said Munroe warningly. Saul looked at her, fear flashing across his face.
Just then, Elena returned, Tasha behind her. Tasha looked rather disgruntled until she stopped, looking up at the building. "This is much better, yes." She took out her camera, and began snapping pictures. As soon as she did, one of the security men detached from the rest and strode over to her. He spoke to her in Muldavian; she shook her head, and reached in the pocket of her skirt, presumably for her ID. The guard reached for his gun, but Munroe stepped in front of her. Spoke to the guard in his language, and he stepped back, mollified for the moment.
A man took the stage, and a hush fell over the crowd that had, a second before, been humming with conversation. He spoke for a few minutes, and then said, "Comrades, we are fortunate to have a great leader in our midst, the premier of our party, Karl Von Warberg!"
Just as he stepped aside, thunder rumbled in the distance. And then, as a man appeared on the balcony, the sound of cheers and applause drowned out the thunder.
And Karl Von Warberg stood before them. He looked small, even from this distance. Not the imposing figure he would have you believe. Bearded, pale, wearing a black suit with a red sash across his chest—that was about as much as Jason could make out from here.
"Comrades," he said, voice booming across the square, "we are gathered here on this auspicious day to celebrate our freedom from tyranny. Thirty-three years ago to this day, we defeated the enemies of justice and cleansed this country of the corruption of monarchy and the contamination of capitalism. We paved the way for the future we are enjoying now. Everyone shares equally in our prosperity, and we are a beacon of light to the region, even as our comrades in the Soviet Union are faltering. Ours is the true, pure path.
"However, enemies lie in wait to bring us down. They want to return us to the monarchy, that remnant of the dark ages. We must stand together! We must not give these agents of darkness the chance to trample our light. We must be vigilant! We must march forward to a future where our children and our grandchildren will reap the benefits of our labors and become the first true communist society on Earth! I can see it, and I know you stand with me. We will not let the agents of darkness infiltrate our ranks and bring us down from the inside."
Dana nudged Jason with her elbow. "Agents of darkness—that's us," she said, eyes twinkling. "But you saw what he did there? Most of them believe that the monarchy was evil. Von Warberg has erased history, revised it to suit himself. In his version, Roderick II was a tyrant, better off under the ground. Only a few of us—or our parents—remember a time when there was a good King on the throne who ruled justly, and who died bravely defending his country from the likes of him." She gestured toward the figure on the balcony.
"Please, Dana," said Saul beside her, dark eyes pleading.
"They can't hear us. They can only guess what we're saying. Unless you're about to inform on me."
He looked taken aback. "Never."
"I know what this mission has cost you." She put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm just tired of concealing the truth behind the layers of lies."
As the speech went on, Jason found his mind wandering. Von Warberg was just repeating the same things in a different order. Tasha, though, was leaning forward, jotting notes and snapping occasional pictures like a true reporter.
Jason sighed. His heart wasn't in this charade. What had this mission truly accomplished? They'd set up the listening post, but would that make a difference to the people enslaved here? Of course, it was part of the overall US strategy to defeat communism. Jason would just have to be content that the information they gathered would help Muldavia down the road.
Just as the speech ended, rain burst through the clouds, gusting in silvery sheets. Jason reached for his umbrella.
"Don't," said Munroe. "You have to applaud, or they'll notice."
Jason complied. The crowd erupted with applause, cheers, chants. Rain fell in torrents, soaking through Jason's shirt.
A few feet away, a man raised his umbrella over the woman beside him.
A soldier broke away from the barricade and stepped up to the man, spoke to him, then grabbed for his umbrella. The man pulled it away; the soldier grabbed his arm, forced him to his knees, and took out handcuffs. The man resisted, twisting away; the soldier hit him across the jaw, knocking him to the ground.
"Someone has to stop this," said Jason.
"They need a scapegoat," said Munroe. "This is normal."
"It shouldn't be." Jason strode over toward the altercation.
A touch near his elbow.
Tasha, looking earnestly at him. "What are you doing?"
"I can't let them do this," he said, anger shaking him. Jason approached the soldier. "This man did nothing wrong."
The soldier narrowed his eyes at Jason, his words in Muldavian dripping with scorn.
Jason knelt beside the fallen man, helped him to a sitting position. "I saw the whole thing. This man is innocent."
A few feet away, another man said, "His wife should be honored to endure a little discomfort for the sake of our great Leader." Others around him nodded. "If not, perhaps they are traitors."
You people are crazy, thought Jason.
The soldier took the man by the arm again, pulling him to his feet. Jason grabbed the soldier's wrist. "Let him go. If you want to take someone, take me. If you can."
The soldier said something in Muldavian that sounded like a curse. After trying and failing to yank his arm away, the soldier hurled a punch toward Jason's face. Jason dodged it, and slammed his fist into the soldier's jaw. The man stumbled backwards; fury in his eyes, he rushed toward Jason, hand chopping toward his windpipe. Jason blocked it. He couldn't block the next one to his jaw, but he barely felt the impact. Adrenaline surging through him, rain lashing his face, he exulted in beating this man who had abused others. His next punch slammed the soldier to the pavement. Jason slipped back the damp hair that had fallen over his eyes, standing over the soldier in victory.
But then, shadowy forms marched toward him through the rain. Elena appeared beside him, pale face spattered with raindrops. She tugged at his wrist. Heart thudding against his chest, realization flooded him of what he had just done.
"Run," said Elena, and she led him through the crowd, weaving back and forth, then backtracking, as if running through an intricate maze. Behind them, about a dozen soldiers were searching for them, marching in military precision.
Near the edge of the square, Elena pulled Jason into a doorway, and the soldiers passed without seeing them. Then, they left the crowd behind, and ran from doorway to doorway until they reached an abandoned warehouse in the run-down Old Quarter. Inside, they knelt on the floor, breathing hard, soaking wet from the rain.