'Ah, like I said, TEACUP two programs,' Anton said. 'First half about wobble in Cold War, yes?'
'Yeah,' said Benjamin. 'I think I understand that now.'
'Second half,' Anton said, 'is other half of graph, about how find same wobble in another war.'
Anton waited… and then the answer was obvious to Benjamin.
'King Philip's War,' he said, half to himself. But then he frowned. 'But that was hardly a cold war. Thousands died, whole tribes were wiped out.'
'Think he used this king's war as kind of control, test case, time when conditions completely different than Cold War. To compare, understand?' Benjamin nodded. 'But then TEACUP finds same… aberration. Path different,' Anton shrugged, 'but wobble same.'
'You mean… some other invisible influence?'
Anton nodded, then he stood up, stretched again. 'But remember, even TEACUP only eighty percent sure. Need two more pieces of data to be one hundred percent. One is this Stzenariy 55, and the other is…'
'The Bainbridge diary,' finished Benjamin.
'Maybe,' said Anton.
'Well then.' Benjamin stood up. 'Sounds like I've got a phone call to make, to a Ms. N. Orlova at the Russian Cultural Center.' He looked down at Anton. 'Do you mind if I use your bathroom to wash up?'
'Please,' he said. 'Down hall, on left. Hot water slow, so be patient.'
'Patience,' Benjamin said as he walked off down the hall. 'Heard that a lot lately.'
Anton listened to the bathroom door close. Then he rose and went to his desk, pulled the phone there close. He dialed a number, listened until someone answered.
'He's leaving,' he said. And then, as the sound of running water came from down the hall, Anton continued listening, nodding now and again. Finally he said, 'Helluva plan. Damn risky.'
Then, his eyes thoughtful and unsettled, he hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 28
Natalya was exhausted. She'd arrived at the Cultural Center at six o'clock that morning. It was now after noon, and she hadn't had a break during those six hours.
First had been checking that the movers were arriving that morning to begin setting up the tables in the main reception hall; then that the decorators would be arriving shortly after that to begin laying out the tablecloths and silverware, as well as the dozens of flowers, garlands, wreaths, and other decorations that she hoped would transform the Cultural Center into something out of a nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia painting.
She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to grab something to eat. While she was there she decided to check her phone messages at home. There was only one, but it surprised her.
Her father's cousin Olga had called and left a very brief message, telling her just to call her as soon as possible. To hear from Olga at all was strange-she and Natalya were not that close-but even stranger was when she'd left it: 7:00 A.M. Olga probably expected to catch her before she left for the RCC, but since she'd left so early to get ready for the reception, she hadn't been home.
She was about to call Olga back on her cell phone, when one of the assistants came to tell her there was a phone call for her at her desk. Ah, she thought as she made her way upstairs, this must be my father calling to explain Olga's odd behavior.
' Alloa, ' she said, expecting to hear her father's baritone ' privet ' in response.
'Uh… I'm sorry, is this Ms. N. Orlova?'
The voice was clearly American, not Russian.
'Well, this is Natalya Orlova, yes. Who is this?'
'Ms. Orlova.' There was a pause on the other end, and she realized the caller was trying to think what to say. 'You don't know me. My name is Benjamin Wainwright. I'm a colleague of someone I believe contacted you, perhaps last week. His name was Dr. Jeremy Fletcher.'
Natalya held her breath. For a moment, she literally couldn't speak.
'Miss Orlova?' the voice asked. 'Are you there?'
'Yes,' she managed. She couldn't think straight. 'Uh, you said… you said he was a colleague?'
'Yes,' the voice said. 'I… it's difficult to explain over the telephone.'
Natalya's first impulse was to hang up. But she couldn't quite bring herself to do that.
'Who did you say you were?' she asked, stalling for time to think.
'Benjamin Wainwright,' said the voice. 'I'm… well, I was at the same place where Dr. Fletcher was doing his research. The American Heritage Foundation. In Massachusetts.'
Natalya thought back. There hadn't been any institutional letterhead on Fletcher's note, nor any bulk mail stamp on the envelope. She'd heard of the American Heritage Foundation; she knew obtaining any sort of relationship with the Foundation was considered a real coup by the people she'd studied with at Moscow State Institute. She also noticed that this Benjamin had said he 'was' there.
'You're not in Massachusetts now, Mr. Wainwright?'
There was a pause. 'No,' he said. 'I'm here. In D.C.' Another pause. 'I was wondering… I was hoping I might see you sometime today, Miss Orlova, and speak to you in person about Dr. Fletcher's research.'
'That would be impossible, Mr. Wainwright. I am very busy. We have a reception for the Bolshoi Ballet company tonight, and I have not a minute to spare…'
'It's about a file on his computer, to be exact. A file named ' Stzenariy 55. ' Or, perhaps if you don't recognize that, you would know the name inside the file. Borba s tenyu?'
Natalya lowered the phone. Her instinct was to put it and this Wainwright as far away from her as possible.
But it was countered by an even more powerful instinct: the same one that drove her to sit in on Yuri's 'interviews'; the same one that had kept her digging for years into her family's dark secrets. And that instinct wasn't about to send Mr. Wainwright away, regardless of the shivers she felt down her spine.
'Ms. Orlova?' Benjamin asked. 'Perhaps I'm not pronouncing it correctly. I'm afraid I don't know Russian, and-'
'Mr. Wainwright,' she stopped him. She looked about her. Everyone was focused on their tasks for the reception, but still, to have him come today would simply be impossible. If she took time away from the preparations it would be noticed, and she didn't want to attract any undue attention. But she also knew she had to see this Wainwright, as soon as possible. There was only one solution.
'Mr. Wainwright,' she said. 'How would you like to attend a reception tonight?'
CHAPTER 29
As usual, the beauty and elegance of the Library of Congress made an impression on Benjamin as did no other building in Washington, not even the monuments. The ornate Italian Renaissance architecture, the stained-glass dome high overhead, the quiet, majestic glow of light reflected from the polished wood reading tables… This was indeed a palace, thought Benjamin. A palace for books.
He stood amidst the murmuring crowd of a tour group, one he'd unobtrusively joined on the library's steps- even though he still had his employee badge, he hadn't wanted to use it to gain entry. He had a floppy fedora hat borrowed from Anton on his head as his meager attempt at a disguise, counting on his colleagues being too busy to really notice him among another knot of visitors gawking at the library's magnificence.
As they'd entered the library's foyer, the guide had begun her spiel-a spiel Benjamin knew by heart.
'The Library of Congress, established by an act of Congress in 1800… The original library was housed in the new Capitol until August 1814, when British troops burned and pillaged it… Retired President Thomas Jefferson donated his personal library as a replacement…' (That part wasn't true; Jefferson had sold his collection, very reluctantly, in order to pay off a fraction of his enormous debts.) '… The library possesses the most comprehensive
