Natalya and Benjamin were in a cab, headed to Anton's house in Georgetown. There had been a light rain during the reception, and the streets glistened, reflecting the streetlamps and car headlights. The tires of the taxi shushed along the wet streets.
Natalya was quiet beside him, huddled into her black fur coat. The collar was turned up, her blond hair down now and flowing over it. What with the thick, dark fur outlining her brilliant blond hair and pale, beautiful face, Benjamin thought her profile was quite regal.
The taxi reached the intersection with Anton's street. While they were waiting to turn right, he heard Natalya ask, "Is Anton's house down there?"
Benjamin leaned forward and looked past her down the street. In the middle of the street, almost exactly in front of Anton's address, there were two police cars, their red-and-blue lights spinning and casting flashes of light against the buildings. He saw a man standing on the sidewalk, talking to one of the policemen; a very tall man, with very blond hair.
"Shit!" said Benjamin.
The light turned green, and the cab began to turn into Anton's street.
"No!" said Benjamin. "Straight! Go straight!"
The cabbie shrugged, spun the wheel, and they headed through the intersection.
Natalya turned to him, her eyebrows raised.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But back there…"
"The police cars?" she asked.
"Well, yes that, too. But the man talking to them, he's named Hauser, Eric Hauser. And he's head of the Foundation's security." He let that information sink in.
Natalya thought for a moment. She leaned over the seat and said to the cabdriver, "Take us to Dupont Circle."
"Why there?" Benjamin asked.
"Because that is where I live," Natalya said simply.
Benjamin shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea. If they've followed me to Anton's… Better if I drop you at your apartment, then go to my place."
"And I think that is not such a good idea. You said something about being followed today."
"Well," Benjamin sighed, "yes. But if I don't stay there-"
"We'll go to my apartment and you can call Anton from there," Natalya said. "If everything is all right, you can take the taxi back here. If it is not… well, you can stay at my place and we can visit him in the morning."
"Are you sure?"
Benjamin found himself fervently hoping she wasn't merely being polite.
"I am sure," she said, and smiled. "That will give us more time to talk. And I have a feeling there is more you wish to tell me."
Twenty minutes later found them in Natalya's apartment on Dupont Circle. Before Natalya changed out of her evening gown, she'd invited Benjamin to make himself a drink, if he liked. She pointed to an array of alcohol in the small kitchen-"I don't have much of a liquor cabinet, I am afraid, but I believe there is some brandy"-and then disappeared into her bedroom.
He felt like what he needed was coffee, not another drink. He figured he'd had about four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six. But he was afraid that, if he did get the chance to sleep, the coffee would just keep him awake. So he'd poured himself a very small snifter of brandy-the bottle said RUSSIA-KIZLYAR-1885, which surprised him; he wasn't used to thinking of brandy as one of their national products-and then gone to the telephone.
He dialed Anton's number. It rang once, twice, three times… When the message didn't come on after ten rings, he hung up.
Just then Natalya came out of the bedroom. She'd changed into a white pullover and black jeans. Her feet were bare, she'd taken off the necklace and most of her makeup-and Benjamin still thought she was achingly beautiful.
"Nothing?" she asked. She came into the kitchen and poured herself a small snifter.
"No," Benjamin said. "Either he's not there, or not answering."
"Well," Natalya said. She went to a chair by the window and sat down. "Please," she said, "sit down."
Benjamin went to the couch. Before he sat down he removed the tuxedo jacket, folded it neatly over the back of the couch-and as he did, an envelope fell out of the pocket.
He threw the jacket over the back of the couch, bent and picked up the envelope.
"What is that?" asked Natalya.
"I don't know," said Benjamin. "It was in the jacket, which belongs to Anton's son. Perhaps it's his." Then he turned the envelope over and saw BENJAMIN written on the outside.
"Anton must have put it there," he said. "But why?" He looked at Natalya, shrugged, tore open the envelope. Inside was a brief note in the same scratchy handwriting Benjamin had seen on Anton's blackboard. Benjamin quickly scanned the message.
"I'll be damned," he said.
"What does it say?" asked Natalya. "Unless it's too-"
"No, no. Here." He handed her the note. Benjamin- Maybe you will need this. Anton
Below that was a name and address.
Henri Vielledent
Credit Agricole Bank
Washington, D.C. Account Number 07041776
And below that was Anton's signature.
"It seems," Natalya said, "you have a benefactor."
"Apparently," Benjamin said, taking back the note. He felt for his wallet, carefully folded the note, and placed it inside. Then he looked down at his too-long trousers.
"I feel a little ridiculous, still in this monkey suit," he said.
"Monkey suit?" Natalya asked.
"Slang for tuxedo," he said, sitting down heavily, the fatigue-to say nothing of the champagne and brandy-catching up with him. "I didn't bring any clothes from the Foundation, my suit is at Anton's. I feel quite the orphan."
Natalya took a sip of her brandy. "Are your parents nearby?" she asked.
"No," he said. "They're both… they were killed in a car accident. About five years ago."
"Oh, I am sorry."
"I miss them," Benjamin said-and was immediately surprised at how quickly he'd admitted such a thing to a near stranger. "My father was an historian, too."
"Another academician," Natalya said. "A family tradition?" She smiled.
"Not quite," he said. "I have a brother who lives out on the West Coast. He does something in Hollywood, I've never quite understood what. And a sister who's what you would have called an 'imperialist exploiter.' She's a stockbroker, in New York."
"These days," she said, "such a person is a hero of the new Russia."
"You don't approve of the new Russia?" he asked.
She looked down into her brandy, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger as she spoke.
"You grow up in one country, you are accustomed to it, whatever its flaws. Then one morning you wake up, that country is gone, and in its place is a country whose people you do not recognize." She looked up at him. "Sometimes since then I feel like an orphan, too, Benjamin."
He liked the way she said his name. "Natalya," he said, "you said your father was a…"
"A rocketchiki, " she said. "That's what they called themselves. It would translate into English as something like 'rocketman.' "
Benjamin laughed.
"What is funny?" asked Natalya.
"Nothing, it's just that there was an American comic book character by that name. Rocket Man." She wasn't smiling, and he continued. "Then your father was one of the men with his finger on the red button?"
"Actually it was a white button," she said. "And yes. He was in the first graduating class of the Kamishinsboye ryssheye artileriyskoye uchilische, the Kamishin Artillery Academy."
"Artillery?" asked Benjamin, confused.
"You have to remember those times," Natalya said. "They disguised their purpose, you see. The only insignia they wore on their uniforms was of the artillery division. Anyway, he was assigned to one of their first underground missile bases. It was considered a posting of considerable prestige. But it was a city in the wasteland of Siberia, a town built practically overnight. It was given the name of a village nearby that had existed for hundreds of years, but the town itself didn't appear on any maps."
"What was it called?" Benjamin asked. He leaned forward and put his snifter on the coffee table, rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up. But he couldn't repress a yawn. "Sorry," he said. "I'm interested, really." He leaned back against the couch.
"The village was named Uzhur," Natalya said. "But the military base was called Uzhur-4." She looked down at her own drink, was quiet for a moment.
"Very," Benjamin searched for the right word, "cryptic." And then he remembered something Anton had said. "Uzhur-4, you said?"
Natayla nodded. "Why, you know of it?"
"No, not me. But Anton mentioned it tonight… or this afternoon…" Again he rubbed his eyes. "Anyway, go on."
Natalya looked pensive as she continued. "It was both a terrifying and a protected place," she continued. "We were surrounded by electrified fences, and there were soldiers everywhere. But on the other hand, we had many amenities other citizens of the 'socialist paradise' could only dream of. I remember how proud we were when a telephone was installed in our apartment, the first private line in the city. Of course, we knew it was monitored. But who was there to call?" She smiled. "When we went on vacation to Sochi, we were flown to the airport in a large helicopter. I thought of it as my helicopter. And when we took a train, we always had our own private compartment. Strange," she said, "but for all its forbidding atmosphere, I was happy there."
She looked up at Benjamin. He was slumped against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. He was sound asleep.
Natalya went into her bedroom, came back out in a moment with a blanket and pillow. She lifted Benjamin's legs onto the couch, took off his shoes, then placed the pillow under his head and pulled the blanket over him.
She stood looking down at Benjamin for some time, as though she was balancing some kind of decision. Finally, she turned off the lamp next to the couch and walked off to her bedroom.