Many thanks for the generous contributions of this audio version of chapter one by actor and narrator Jeff Witzke and music artists Huma–Huma

Excerpt: Chapter 4

Dr. Peter Thomason sat at his desk, remembering how New Year’s Eve 1998 transformed Pyotr Trofimov’s life into the one he now lived. Wafer-size snowflakes fell that night as he walked along a slushy street to the pub Lisya Nora, The Fox Hole. He walked along in a wind that moaned of Kremlyov’s desolation.

The pub sat a few blocks from the All-Russian Scientific Research Institute of Experimental Physics. His weapons program had become the highest priority for the Kremlin. Though no one dared say it, he surmised the West had gained an advantage. Veiled threats offered daily incentives to make faster progress.

For the last four years, he had finished each day walking this ice-rutted street. The Fox Hole’s cheap vodka offered an antidote to fourteen-hour workdays. As Pyotr approached the pub’s doorway, he passed through a cloud of exhaust rising from a black Mercedes parked on the street. It might as well have been a neon sign flashing “Kremlin.”

He stepped through the pub’s first door, stomped snow from his boots, and entered the second door into revelry. Hushed talk fought happy music for the mood of the dark saloon. Cigarette smoke and dim lights smeared faces into misty shapes. 

Anonymity – it was best for all concerned. Peter walked to the rear of the pub, choosing the only open booth. It was his for a good reason–a neglected toilet a couple of steps away. 

 Pyotr motioned to the bartender. The large man nodded an order he knew well, grabbed a bottle from dozens stacked behind the bar, and made his way through the crowd. The unshaved bartender wore a shirt that had seen too much overtime. He placed a shot glass over a bottle of vodka and slid it to the center of the table. He scraped payment from the table into a dirty palm, belched without asking pardon, and walked away. Pyotr slipped the clear liquid down and wheezed as seized his throat.

He noticed a grossly overweight man stop the bartender as he returned to his post. After a whispered question in the bartender’s ear, he pointed in Pyotr’s direction. The man, smothered in a heavy overcoat and large fur hat, lumbered over like a drunken bear. The look on his face suggested he wasn’t on his way to the toilet.

“Doctor Pyotr Trofimov?” The man’s speech applied saliva to the table. Pyotr nodded. “I am Agent Jurek Kafarov.” He staggered an exhausted bottle across the table and then squeezed corpulence into the booth. Pulling a leather wallet from his breast pocket, he offered the credentials of a younger, but still well-fed, Kafarov. “I am with Federal Security.” He punctuated the statement by snapping the wallet closed. Pyotr gave him an odd look. He glanced around the room, wondering if Kafarov had company. Peter knew that the FSB monitored counterintelligence, antiterrorism, and the military. Yeltsin had recently given it extra powers. Its agents now investigated within Russia, even entering homes. 

Pyotr knew better than to suggest Kafarov had overstepped his boundaries. “What can I do for you?” Pyotr said.

Kafarov scoffed. “I can see your concern. Do not worry. Much has happened in our country in the last few hours. I understand your confusion that I may be a danger to you. I am here to help you.” 

“What makes you think I need help?” Pyotr made sure his question didn’t reflect the irritation he felt.

“We must go to private place to talk. It is important to President Yeltsin.”

“You mean Putin?”

“Both great heroes of Mother Russia.” Kafarov raised a glass, eyeing Pyotr over its rim. “I salute our new leader – Vladimir Putin.” The toast landed a little of Kafarov’s spit into his

graying beard. Pyotr tapped the glass with his own but didn’t drink. Kafarov downed his drink without noticing. “Let us go,” he said. He wrestled his belly from the booth’s grip, grasped the neck of the bottle, and threw out his arms as if he were going to hug Pyotr. “Come, young man. I share with you your destiny.”  

Using the large man’s wake, Pyotr navigated through patrons. Outside, he steadied Kafarov as he stumbled over the street’s glassy tracks of ice. “Thank you, my friend,” Kafarov said, opening the rear door of the idling limousine Pyotr had noticed earlier.

“Doctor Trofimov, please come in from the cold.” The man spoke English – American. Pyotr ducked inside with Kafarov close behind. “Doctor, Trofimov,” Kafarov said as he sat in the seat across from him. “May I present esteemed Doctor Andre Rosenthal from US government. He worked with President Yeltsin on cooperative scientist initiative.” Rosenthal extended a thin hand. His face was kind, though quite angular, ending with a gray goatee beard.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Trofimov.” Pyotr shook Rosenthal’s hand. His grip displayed unusual strength for the man’s age. “Our governments agree that mutual scientific efforts are more effective,” Rosenthal said. “Unfortunately, with the continued uncertainty of the future, those opportunities have been cut short.

“Putin doesn’t share Yeltsin’s vision,” Karfarov said. Pyotr cut Kafarov a look. Was Kafarov a traitor? 

“Please, hear me out, Doctor,” Rosenthal said. “Yeltsin’s government agreed to the offer I’m about to make. Before the new government can counter it, we’d like to bring it to your attention.”

“It’s late,” Pyotr said. 

“It would be wise for you to hear what the Americans have to say, my friend,” Kafarov said. “You do not know what Russia has in mind for you.”

Rosenthal explained how the US government planned to transition scientists from Russia’s ten nuclear cities–the core of its nuclear program–to projects in the US. “So you see, Doctor Trofimov, I’m authorized to give you an offer of employment to continue your work. He handed Pyotr a document signed by his superiors and several Kremlin officials with names he didn’t recognize. “Five thousand US dollars per week?”

Kafarov laughed, slapping his leg. “What did I tell you? A new life.”

“You want me to build weapons for Russia’s enemy?” Pyotr said.

“No,” said Rosenthal. “Your work with nanotechnology will be applied to a new initiative that has no military application. It is for medical purposes.

“America fears our scientists fly away to their enemies,” Kafarov said, curling fingers like wings. Rosenthal gave the agent a sour look. 

“Well,” he said. “other governments have offered your country’s scientists work that threatens our national security. That is not my concern.”

“Perhaps, you are a threat to their national security?” Pyotr said.

Kafarov’s laugh bounced him in his seat. “This is a smart scientist, Rosenthal,” he said. Are you sure you are paying him enough?” Rosenthal’s face tightened. He pushed wire-framed glasses up his pointy nose. 

“The Nuclear Cities Initiative allowed Soviet scientists to use their abilities for the betterment of mankind,” Rosenthal said. “We don’t want that opportunity to end because your leadership has regressed back to the Soviet mindset.”      

Pyotr frowned. “My work is in chemical nanotechnology for weapons of mass destruction,” he said. “How does that fit with bettering mankind?”

“Your work,” Rosenthal said. “I’ve studied it. It’s brilliant. And it’s perfect for my program. To use your theory of application, we can make mankind forget about war.” 

Kafarov laughed even harder, making Pyotr feel movement in his seat. He shook his head and stared at a frosty pattern on the window. Who had put Kafarov up to this? He wouldn’t risk his position, and possibly his life, on something not yet sanctioned by Putin’s government. Perhaps, Rosenthal had made him an offer for a new life in America too? 

“So, what do you say?” Rosenthal said. “We have very little time. This opportunity, I know you have wished to such work here in Russia. I’m offering it to you now. You can change the world. End wars. Plus, I promise that you will enjoy the best America offers.”

Pyotr looked through frosty lace draping the window. He had heard these things before. Rosenthal represented nothing more than the government that currently enslaved him. “I can’t help you,” Pyotr said.

Rosenthal gave Kafarov a look of surprise. “Russians are not known for doing what is best for them,” he said. He squinted an eye shut and pointed a finger toward the sky. “We trust no one, not even God, to look after us.”

Rosenthal’s eyes went to the attaché case at his feet. He jerked a nod, pulled his glasses from around his ears, and pulled a handkerchief. “I had hoped we would work together,” he said between huffs to fog the lenses. “I learned much about your talent – genius, to be precise. It’s a pity you choose not to use it to its potential.”

Pyotr’s reached for the door latch. “You should think carefully about this, young man,” Kafarov said. His stern face framed dark eyes. “I have risked a lot to give you this.” 

Pyotr murmured another apology, opened the door, and stepped into the snowy street. Kafarov rebuked him by slamming the door closed.

As Pyotr started back for the bar, a conversation with Natalia played in his head.

“Pyotr, why do you do work that destroys?” The words whispered in his ear as she lay beside him.

“I have no choice,” he said as he stroked hair lit by the fireplace they lay beside. “You know I have no–” 

She put a finger to his lips. “One day,” she said, closing her eyes. “One day, Pyotr. You will not have such an excuse. You will stop being afraid.” She replaced her finger on his lips with her own. Pulling away from the kiss, she whispered. “I will be glad to see that.”

“Solnyshko,” he said. “You are such a dreamer.”

She smiled at hearing his pet name for her – Little Sun. Pecking his lips again, she whispered, “Promise me, then. Promise.” She tickled his ribs. “Make my dreams come true. Promise.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “I promise. If ever the chance comes for me to save this world, I will.” She giggled as he pulled her closer, a lilting memory that died on the walls of stone buildings bordering the icy street. 

Flakes again caked Pyotr’s lashes as he stood, wishing for a reprieve. A moment later, his tap lowered the limousine’s window a few inches, revealing Kavarof’s yellow smile.

A few days later, Pyotr walked from the jet bridge at gate 6D at Albuquerque’s Sunport to the smiling face and outstretched hand of Doctor Andre Rosenthal. On his way to LANL, he decided to changed his name from Pyotr Trofimov to its English equivalent, Peter Thomason. He would be American in every way.

His last act as a Russian was saying goodbye to Natalia. He had stood over a gray stone that recorded nothing of her noble life. No inscription of the warm love she gave, her song-like laugh, or her love for children. The chiseled message stated nothing of her total commitment to the husband that failed her – only a name and two dates for birth and death.

Pyotr whispered goodbye and got on a plane.