Chapter Text
Nelson Bradford had been, in his way, rather fond of Margo. Hard working, intelligent, capable, fundamentally decent but not above bending the rules to achieve the right outcome. Her death had hit him hardest of all of those at JSC. Until now, probably the only thing he could criticise her for was persuading him to get her ‘valuable asset’ and his family out of the Soviet Union. Valuable asset, my ass, he’d thought; her head had obviously been turned by the guy. To be fair he’d seemed competent enough on his trips to Houston, yet after he was brought over from Moscow…he’d fallen apart, there was no other way to put it. Homesickness? He had no idea, but word was the guy lived up to the Russians’ reputation as prodigious drinkers, and his attendance - or lack of it — would have got him fired months ago had he been pretty much anyone else, and had Margo’s PA - capable above and beyond the wording of her job description - not taken him under her wing.
And then there was this. Shaking his head, Bradford raised his eyes from the screen and regarded his two grim faced colleagues at the other side of the desk.
‘We gotta bring him in.’
§
He didn’t sleep much, not anymore, which is why Sergei Orestovich Nikulov saw the black SUV with tinted windows pulling up outside his house just before 6am. So far, a world apart from the night he’d been arrested; then he’d been wakened from a deep sleep as he was hauled naked from his bed and thrown unceremoniously into the back of an unmarked van in the middle of a Moscow winter. At least this time he was dressed, albeit still in yesterday’s clothes. Levering himself up from the recliner in which he’d spent the night, he went to let them in. Two young men emerged from the vehicle, both in black suits and white shirts, with guns on their hips and coiled tubes behind their ears. If they were surprised to see him waiting for them, they didn’t show it. They remained silent until they reached the foot of the steps.
‘Dr Nikulov?’
Sergei nodded in confirmation.
‘FBI.’ The taller one flashed a card. ‘Would you come with us please, sir?’
‘What is it concerning?’
‘If you could come with us please, sir.’
He sighed. ‘Ok, but I fell asleep in my chair last night, so I’d like to shower and shave and change my clothes. Will you give me half an hour? You can come in and wait if you wish.’
The two agents looked at each other. There had been no information that he was a flight risk, or a threat, or likely to give them any trouble whatsoever. The taller one nodded, and followed him inside; the other man returned to the car. As Sergei headed to the shower, tugging off his tie and kicking off his shoes as he went, the agent wandered round the property to get the measure of the guy they’d been asked to take in. It was clear he lived alone and hadn’t lived there long. The walls, all standard magnolia, were bare; the varnished floorboards devoid of rugs. The coat rack in the hall held a solitary raincoat and a single scarf. The dining room and second bedroom were entirely empty; the main bedroom boasted a king sized bed, unmade, and a pair of leather slippers and a pile of books on the floor. Atop the pile sat a half empty bottle of Macallan and a crystal tumbler. He scanned the books’ spines; Russian titles, they looked like, plus a battered English copy of Stephen King’s Misery on the top. In the wardrobe hung a suit, three shirts, two jumpers and a pair of jeans. The shelves at one side displayed a jumbled selection of underwear, pyjama bottoms, and a couple of t-shirts. On the floor sat a pair of ankle boots, a pair of sneakers, a pair of formal shoes, and a small wheeled suitcase. The kitchen was nicely fitted out, but clearly largely unused. The drawers bore the bare minimum of cutlery; the cupboards, the bare minimum of crockery, a box of rolled oats, a packet of teabags and an unopened bottle of Macallan. The trash was almost full of take-out containers; a mug sat, unwashed, in the sink; and all that there was in the fridge freezer was a carton of milk, three eggs, a bag of shrivelled lemons, a sprouting onion and a couple of tubs of ice cream. He didn’t sniff the milk.
The living room came as no surprise. A recliner in front of a television, and a side table on which sat an empty bottle of Macallan and a crystal tumbler which still contained a sizeable measure. He was drinking at 5 o’clock in the morning? This guy has a problem. On top of the TV unit was some semblance of normality; two framed photographs. One was of what he imagined was Nikulov’s family, clustered around a restaurant table: his parents, most likely; a couple of sisters - both women resembled younger versions of the mother yet somehow didn’t look particularly alike - another guy who was presumably the partner of one of them; and a couple of teenaged kids. All were laughing, happy. If it was Nikulov who’d taken the picture, the guy had a good eye; it was nicely composed, with effective use of depth of field. There was quite a contrast to the other photograph, a somewhat stern, official-looking portrait of an attractive redhead. He frowned; she looked familiar. Then the penny dropped. Jesus. If she had been Nikulov’s other half no wonder he was in such a mess.
A bout of coughing announced Sergei’s exit from the bathroom. Visible through the open doorway, he was clad only in a towel, his face adorned with tiny scraps of bloodied toilet paper. Their eyes met; Sergei’s face was expressionless, and he carried on into the bedroom without a word.
When he next emerged, he was clad in jeans, a jumper, and the ankle boots. His hair, still damp from the shower, was tousled; his face still bore the evidence of his hasty shave. ‘Let me get a drink of water; I haven’t had breakfast yet.’ Without waiting for a reply he headed to the kitchen, and, turning on the tap, rinsed out the mug, then filled it to the brim. He drank greedily, without pause, then replaced the empty mug in the sink and turned off the tap. ‘How long will this take?’
‘I’m not privy to that kind of information sir.’
‘Can we stop to get breakfast en route? I don’t imagine there will be much in the way of sustenance once we get wherever we’re going.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.’
He exhaled. ‘But I will be coming back?’
The other man sensed Sergei’s rising anxiety, but he was unwilling to lie to him. ‘I’m not privy to that…’
‘…kind of information, sir. Yes, yes.’
There was a flash of frustration in Sergei’s eyes, then he shook his head, his expression resigned. What could they do to him that was worse than what he’d already endured? He indicated in the direction of the front door. ‘After you,’ he said quietly, and followed his latest babysitter out to the car.
§
None of this was strictly within his remit, but Bradford had asked to be there. Saltzman had briefed them after Sergei was shown into the interview room, and expressed some reservations about his mental health.
‘He’s obviously drinking heavily, sir, and not eating properly. He hasn’t bothered to furnish his home beyond the absolute necessities. I think, to be honest, he may be grieving.’
Bradford stared at him. ‘Grieving? His family is here in the States; San Diego, I think, for now. Last I heard they’re all perfectly fine.’
‘He has a framed photograph in his living room of Director Madison of JSC, sir. Why would he have that if the two of them weren’t…involved?’
Bradford swore softly under his breath. That both explained things, and made them make no sense whatsoever.
Nikulov had now been in the interview room alone for over an hour, and so far all he had done of note was cough, and stand up to stretch his back and rotate his shoulders. He had, in the process, very disconcertingly stared right through the two way mirror, and Bradford fancied their eyes had met. Usually people in these circumstances betrayed either a level of irritation or anxiety, or both, but Nikulov showed no evidence of either. ‘Time to rattle his cage, he said to the man and woman standing either side of him. ‘Give me ten minutes then you can have at him.’
When Bradford entered the room, Sergei got to his feet; the older man suspected this was borne of good manners rather than deference.
‘General Bradford. Good to see you again. It’s been…a while.’
Somewhat reluctantly, Bradford shook the proffered hand then sat down at the other side of the table.
‘Do you know why you’re here, Dr Nikulov?’
Sergei pursed his lips. ‘Something to do with my defection.’ His face fell. ‘Or my work performance. I-I know I haven’t been at my best in recent months.’ He exhaled. ‘I’m sorry. I will do better.’
‘Tell me about Ms Madison.’
Sergei’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. ‘What?’ was as much as he eventually managed.
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Uh, the day I left Houston. April…’
‘You were lovers?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘We had one weekend. That is all.’
‘When?’
‘March.’
‘This year?’
Sergei nodded.
‘Were you in touch with her after your return to Moscow?’
‘I video-called her from Ramstein air force base, to say that my family and I were out safely and that I would…' he swallowed, '...see her in a few days' time; to thank her.’
‘Thank her?’
‘For arranging it all. Our-our extraction.’
‘And how did she seem?’
‘Pleased. Relieved. Perhaps not excited as I was, but,’ he gave a wobbly smile, ‘Margo didn’t really do excited.’
‘Did she talk about anything else? Her plans?’
‘Just that we would see each other soon.’ His voice faltered. ‘And then she said goodbye. She - she didn’t often do that; normally she just hung up.’
‘You spoke a lot?’
‘Occasionally; we were friends as well as collaborators.’
He saw Bradford’s eyebrow rise at his choice of wording. ‘General, where are you going with this?’
Bradford said nothing but pulled a remote control out of his pocket and, turning, pointed it at the screen on the wall behind him.
A video began to play, evidently of a Russian news programme; an update on the joint Helios-Roscosmos Mars project. Sergei watched in silence, aware that Bradford was scrutinising him, and then the screen changed from the studio report to footage from inside Roscosmos HQ during a visit by Gorbachev. Bradford paused the recording, and then, in the corner of the frame, he saw. He saw what being carted off by the FBI at dawn had been all about.
Bradford was of the view that if Nikulov had prior knowledge, he was a damn good actor. After the initial, disbelieving ‘Что…?’ which had brought him stumbling to his feet, his face ashen, his expressions had cycled through a range of emotions… confusion, disbelief, distress, joy, even fury. He slumped back into his chair, breathing hard.
‘This-this-this cannot be real.’
'I can assure you it is. It's been verified; from two days ago.’
‘But-but how? She was killed by the bomb!’
‘We never found her body, or evidence of any remains,’ Bradford reminded him.
‘She was in JSC. In her office. Which was blown to kingdom come!’ He was shouting now. ‘There were no remains to find!’
Bradford was unruffled. ‘She must have left the building before the bomb went off, without anyone seeing her. Or anyone that survived the blast, at least.’
Sergei was up again, and pacing. ’Her bedroom was ok. All her personal effects. Why the hell would she defect without taking anything with her?’
“We don’t know that she didn’t. She could’ve had a suitcase full of clothes from home in the trunk of her car. We didn't find any trace of that either.’
‘But why…’ Realisation dawned, and Sergei stared at Bradford in horror. ‘Wait, are you saying...are you saying that Margo was involved in the bombing?! Because…’
He held up his hands, shaking his head for emphasis. ‘No, Dr Nikulov, we are happy that those directly responsible for planting the bomb died in the blast, and I believe wider investigations are ongoing.’
‘Wider investigations which you think may implicate Margo?’ Sergei was silenced by a coughing fit, and Bradford waited til it subsided before he responded.
‘That’s not what I’m saying. Look, I knew Margo for a lotta years, and I don’t believe any more than you do that she had anything to do with the bombing. She was just lucky, is all. That said, she’s pretty much the last person in NASA I would have bet money on being a traitor.’
‘She was not a traitor. She…’
‘Do you deny that she gave classified information to the Soviet Union? Are you disputing the evidence of your own eyes? People don’t just roll up in Red Square and say ‘Hey, I want to defect, but don’t expect any juicy titbits from me, Gorby!’’
Sergei glowered at him. ‘My hypothesis, for what it’s worth, is that she defected to stop them coming after me and my family. Lenara Catiche must have...' He shook his head. 'Margo is no communist, no Marxist; she is a patriotic American who lives and breathes NASA. She…’
Bradford raised an eyebrow. ‘She must love you a helluva lot, then.’ He pressed the button on the remote to resume the video playback. An image of a smiling Margo filled the screen, and Sergei, on the verge of tears, moved closer, as if by doing so he would be able to reach out and touch her.
Then the camera panned out, and he stared at the screen in disbelief, before he took a step back as if to sit down, and went clattering to the floor. Bradford, swearing softly, got to his feet and went to help him up; but, eyes like saucers, never leaving the screen, Sergei tried to drag himself backwards towards the wall. Finally registering Bradford’s presence, he let the older man haul him to his feet and he gazed at him as if he were some exotic species he’d never set eyes on before.
‘She-she….’
Bradford patted him on the shoulder. ‘Yup. Sit back down, Dr Nikulov; we’ll get you something to drink. All this has obviously come as a bit of a shock.’
As Bradford exited the room, Sergei picked up the remote from the table and rewound the video. Swallowing hard, he paused it again on the full shot of Margo. Clad in an unbuttoned lab coat and a charcoal wool dress, she listened attentively as Gorbachev spoke to camera, her hands resting protectively on the swell of her belly.