Skandal by Lindsay Smith

itches at my arms like a dry patch of skin and fills the gaps of my thoughts like putty in a crack. I try to ease back in my chair, but the sensation prods me into discomfort, distracting like a low-grade fever.
    Cindy smiles at me. “My own portable scrubber,” she explains. “It deflects every type of psychic we know how to deflect with a series of electrical currents. We have psychic disrupters in the walls at headquarters, and your father’s house, as well.”
    I never noticed, chalking the sensation up to living with two scrubbers, but I’m impressed. We didn’t have protection like that in the KGB. “What does it do?”
    She gestures to the box in each corner. “By stringing them together, I can make a circuit—like a fence—that keeps psychic powers in or out. Very little can pass through.”
    The screws inside me loosen by a fraction. I like knowing there are places Sergei can’t look—here, at Headquarters, at Papa’s home. But whether they’ll keep me safe from this mole, if there is one, is another matter.
    “So!” Cindy clasps her hands together. “We’re still investigating the attempted break-in at your home, senator, as well as the other attacks on NATO delegates. We’re going to need more information from you, however. As well as some … personal effects.” She gives a slight nod toward me.
    Saxton leans back in his chair, propping his chin on his fingers. “It’s not enough you’ve got your suited gorillas combing every inch of my townhouse?”
    “I guess I’m just confused, senator.” Donna twists her ponytail around one finger. Her arm presses against mine and her shield parts, inviting me to link into her thoughts again. “The KGB playbook says that they attempt to recruit someone to spy for them first. Then, only if that doesn’t work, that’s when they resort to brute force.”
    I nearly choke on my own tongue—I’ve never heard about any such “playbook” before, and I was part of the damned KGB. I eye Donna, hoping my face doesn’t look too incredulous.
    Her expression is the picture of round-eyed innocence as she says, “But … you never reported that you’d been approached about spying for the Russians.” And I realize that’s exactly Donna’s point. She knows that he doesn’t know that. She just wants to get him thinking about any time he might possibly have been approached by someone who could have been an enemy spy—whether he reported it or not.
    And it works. Through my link with Donna, we hear it in his wobbling musical shield, laying his thoughts bare for a split second, like a glimpse of a holstered gun under an agent’s coat. When he says “Of course not,” we know he’s telling the truth.
    Donna cracks her gum and leans away from me, breaking the link. “Oh, well. The Russkies are always changing up their tactics.”
    Cold. Ruthless. I thought I knew the meaning of those words when I worked for General Rostov. But I’m finding the translation carries subtle shifts, a cultural nuance that can’t be matched up one to one. Perhaps even the same weapon can take a new form.
    “Were you at the NATO convention in Brussels when Royal Admiral Jackson was attacked?” Cindy asks.
    Saxton nods. “I was. Didn’t get a good look at the woman, though.” He eyes Donna and me warily. “I understand someone tried to interrupt a London meeting, as well, though I didn’t see it for myself.”
    Cindy thins her lips like she’s trying to keep any hint of emotion at bay. “What was being discussed at both of those meetings?”
    “Let’s see … Well, everyone’s concerned about these rumors that Khruschev’s about to get forced out. Word is, the Communist Party wants to replace him with someone more hardline. Our sources indicate Leonid Brezhnev, the current Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, is being groomed for the position.”
    I shiver involuntarily. Rostov would certainly approve of someone more willing to face the United States head