Just Like Old Times

At first, Melnikova was unimpressed with the Agency’s safe house. From the outside, it looked indistinguishable from the other apartments in the gray Moscow slum.

Decades of urban air pollution darkened the squat, square 40-year-old concrete block buildings. They sported ragged tatters of peeling, colorless paint, and dark windows that stared lightlessly from their decayed frames. Only the fierce, Cyrillic graffiti, slathered across every outside surface in reach indicated a life-force moving in the neighborhood.

Trash blossomed everywhere, and strays – cats, dogs and people – slunk dejectedly through the cheerless slumscape.

Raven and Melnikova left the car parked by the curb. Battered and rusty, the old Volvo fit in well with the few other dead and dying cars littering the cracked street. Melnikova was unimpressed with the car’s torn upholstery, too, though she hadn’t missed how smoothly the engine purred.

As they walked to the front door, Melnikova paused.

“What’s the matter?” Raven asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. But suddenly, the dirty sidewalk, the depressing neighborhood, the graffiti, and especially the green wooden door in front of them seemed overwhelmingly familiar.

She had dreamed it, of course. That was the problem with lovely precognitive dreams. You couldn’t tell if they were precognitive or not, until they occurred in waking life. By then it didn’t matter.

Abd that was the problem with all her so-called abilities. Ever since leaving the institute all those years ago, they seemed to work mostly when and if they wanted. Which was not very often.

With Edward leading the testing, she had felt focused, like she could accomplish anything. Without him ... nothing. Of course, he had drugs, apparatus, knowledge and training, but still, wasn’t the power hers? Or was there a power? Perhaps she was a fraud. God knows, she hadn’t made a kopeck from those alleged powers in four decades.

They were questions she never stopped asking herself – couldn’t stop asking, any more than her tongue could stop seeking and probing her sore tooth – even though she knew pain was the end result.

“Get in here,” a woman’s voice hissed.

Melnikova snapped out of her recollections. An elderly woman in a plain housedress, her gray hair drawn up in a tight bun, stood in the open doorway.

“Come on, Melnikova,” Raven chuckled, shepherding her into the house. “Plenty of time to daydream inside.”

Inside wasn’t much better than outside. A worn maroon carpet, a threadbare couch, a television that appeared to date from the days of Sputnik were Melnikova’s impressions of the room. There were no introductions. The old woman ushered them into the kitchen. Melnikova wasn’t used to luxury, but the wooden table and chairs looked more like kindling than furniture.

The stove made her think of her grandmother’s house, briefly.

Then, strangely, they were in a walk-in pantry. The dusty shelves held a few canned goods and a sack of potatoes, but were mostly empty. The gray-haired woman shut the door on Melnikova and Raven, and it was dark, with just the light coming in under the door.

What the hell, Melnikova began to ask, but her stomach took a small lurch as the floor seemed to drop out from under her. It was an elevator! Going down.

“Relax,” said Raven. The short, dark descent ended.

Warm lamplight flooded in as the door opened. Another senior citizen, this time a man, stood outside. Melnikova noted a spacious, well-lit parlor. The furniture looked expensive. Standing bookshelves packed tight with volumes lined the walls.

“Where is he?” Raven asked, blinking.

“There. In the corner,” the old man said, gesturing.

Melnikova looked where the old man pointed. Spread out in a recliner, was another old man.

“Leave us now,” Raven said. The man who opened the elevator door for them nodded. He left through one of several doorways opening on the parlor.

“Hello, Liebchen,” said the old man in the recliner.

Melnikova stared.

“You are supposed to be Edward Maunov?” she said at last. “You are not Edward Maunov. You are just some old man. Where did they get you?”

The old man rose, slowly, with what appeared to be some pain, from the easy chair. He approached Melnikova and searched her face with his eyes.

“It’s funny,” he said. “When first we met, you were too young for me. We meet again, but now I am too old for you.”

“Yes, very funny,” Melnikova said, angrily. “I looked all over for you. I always believed you were searching for me. I believed you would find me and take me away, even when…”

She couldn’t finish. She stared at the floor.

“Even when they made you a prostitute. Yes, I know,” Maunov said. “Mr. Raven told me. If you could’ve looked in the gulag, you might’ve found me. But maybe not, because it is very big. Still, I’m glad you were never there.”

Melnikova looked at him, the wavy gray hair, the filmy brown eyes. “How do you know I was never in the gulag?” she asked.

“Mr. Raven told me of your history. Also there is a look. You don’t have it.”

“And you do?”

Maunov shrugged.

“When I grew older, I realized it must’ve been something like that,” Melnikova said. “But it takes a young girl a long time to stop hoping. And when you never showed up, I was angry. I still am.”

Maunov lifted a gnarled, arthritic hand to her cheek.

“Was it bad, Liebchen?”

She chuckled harshly. “I was always a hot, rebellious girl. Maybe you remember.”

“Spoiled, some said.”

She smiled. “Spoiled, eh? I swore I would have nothing to do with those fat, stinking party bosses I tried to run away many times.” She lost her smile and shook her head sadly. “But they made me.”

“They broke stronger wills than yours and mine before they were finished,” Maunov said. “But now I think we have a chance to make up for it. Now I think that it is our turn, Liebchen.”

The old man put his arms tentatively, slowly around the big blonde, stringy-haired woman. Hesitantly, she returned the embrace, rusty in ways of showing affection. She peered at him before resting her head on his thin shoulder.

“I will leave you to catch up on old times,” said Raven, who had followed the dialogue with great interest. “Mr. Maunov will show you around, Melnikova. This will be your home for awhile. I believe you will be pleased. I will see you both tomorrow and we will begin.”

Melnikova nodded. Raven smiled at her, and with a glance at Maunov, left the room through one of the doors.

“So,” said Maunov, indicating the sofa, “sit. Take a load off, as they say.”

Slowly – Maunov because he was old and Melnikova because she was unsure – they sat.

“I’d like a drink,” Melnikova said.

Maunov offered her a cigarette from a silver case. She plucked one out and jammed it between her lips. Maunov lit the cigarette for her with a silver lighter.

“Ah, Liebchen, when we accomplish the mission, we will bathe in champagne and vodka.

But until then, our minds must remain clear,” he said.

“No vodka in this pit?” She blew a cloud of bluish smoke.

“Later. Not now.”

Melnikova considered this. “Same old Edward,” she said. “No fun.” He smiled and nodded, waiting for her questions. “Why did they arrest you?”

Maunov looked at the papery skin of his arthritic hands. He shrugged.

“Who knows. They needed no reason. Their own paranoia. You know my mother was German. They never trusted me.”

“You spoke out against them.”

“No. Of course not. I’m not a fool. I merely suggested we could learn from our colleagues in other nations.”

“In the West?”

“The West, the East what did it matter? Others were making tremendous strides. If we could have pooled our resources, our knowledge…But the thought was heretical. The times, they seemed so open, so free. I should’ve known it was only prelude to a greater darkness.” He shook his head, as if to dispel the memories. “What has Mr. Raven told you about … our project?”

“Nothing.”

“I shall tell you all. Perhaps you remember. A long time ago, when we were at the institute. There was a delegation, visiting us from the People’s Republic. They also were researchers in parapsychology. There was a woman with them, a Dr. Susan Tzin-Zin. It would have been, I think, 1967. Can you recall her?”

“No. Is she important?”

“She has found it, Varya,” he exclaimed, using her given name for the first time since their reunion. “She is in America now, and she has bumbled across the roots of a mind-power beyond anything we ever dreamed!”

“What are you talking about, Edward?”

“Her research subjects, Liebchen. Two American women. American goddesses now. Virtual goddesses!”

“How do you mean – goddesses?”

“I mean every cell in their bodies shimmers with telekinetic power! There is nothing these women cannot do! Flight! Invulnerability! Their subconscious minds draw unlimited power from the universe and make it available for their merest whim!”

Melnikova digested this information. The old man stared at her, looking for reaction. There was none.

“How did this – doctor – do it?” Melnikova asked at last.

“She doesn’t know,” Maunov replied. “It was an accident of research. She tried to tap the human psychic potential for use in the struggle against disease.”

“Oh, a humanitarian,” Melnikova said. “That is perhaps why the American goddesses have not conquered the world.”

Maunov frowned. “You are flippant, Liebchen. The fact is, they could.”

“So what is my part?” Melnikova asked, sucking on the cigarette. She stubbed it out in an ashtray on the end table. “You will induce these powers in me? I will be a Russian goddess?”

Maunov chuckled. “You were always a Russian goddess to me.”

Melnikova grunted.

“We will recreate the out-of-body experiments from the sixties,” Maunov said, getting back to business. “You remember how Alexandrov and the others hosted you? In their bodies? One of these ‘American goddesses’ will host you also. While you are in possession of her amazing faculties, you will perform a small task for Mr. Raven. It is a task worth five million American dollars.”

Melnikova put her hand up to stop the flow of words. “Wait,” she said. “This American woman will host me voluntarily?”

“No.”

“Then how is it possible? To see through Alexandrov’s eyes was difficult enough. And he was willing.”

“It is possible. These women are different. If you could see Kirlian photography of them, I believe you would view auras that look like the solar flares of the sun. They are psychically wide open.

“All you need do,” he continued, eyes dark, narrow slits in the aged face, “is be present in consciousness during a moment of emotional turmoil or relaxation. Then you will slip in and take control.”

She stared at him.

“And you know all this as a fact?” she asked.

“It is my hypothesis that this can be done. I have seen much of the test data. I have read news and magazine accounts. It correlates with a great deal of what I already know. What I learned from you, Liebchen.”

“Where did you see this – test data?”

He shrugged. “Raven,” he said.

“So once I’m in control of this so-called ‘goddess,’ what then?”

“Then you will free a man from a prison and assist him in another small task.”

“Which is?”

“A bombing.”

“A bombing,” she repeated. “And I suppose this ‘research’ is also for the good of humanity?”

“No,” Maunov answered. “This is for us, Liebchen. You and me. We tried for humanity. We discovered the result. Now, Liebchen, we shall be for ourselves. And we will be rich.”

“But there’s something else, isn’t there?” she asked, looking directly at him.

“Same old Melnikova,” Maunov said with a smile. “It was always difficult to keep things from you. Yes, there is something else. It’s my thought that while you are a ‘guest’ of this woman, the pattern of her abilities may imprint on your consciousness, on your ‘subtle body.’ So when you return to your physical body, they could recreate themselves in you.”

Melnikova was quiet, considering possibilities.

“It may be possible, then, for you to induce them in me,” he added.

Melnikova looked at her own dumpy body and Maunov’s withered one. “What would be the effect of these powers?” she asked, slowly.

“All things will be possible for us if we can possess these energies, Liebchen. We will rule.”

“This is not part of Mr. Raven’s plan?”

“No. This is my plan. I tell you, Liebchen, two foolish American women hold the key to ultimate power and immortality. You shall pluck it away for us!” His lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “And then they will pay, beyond all measure of fear,” Maunov snarled.

“Who will pay?” Melnikova asked.

“The world.”

Melnikova stared at the old man next to her. “You will truly be,” she said at last, “the grumpy old man from hell.”

Maunov frowned. Then, slowly, he appeared to relax. He forced a smile. “I let myself be carried away,” he said, stiffly. “Forgive me.

“It may not work out that way, but I think there is a chance. We have equipped a laboratory here. We will begin clinical trials tomorrow in preparation for tests of your ability to draw near on the higher planes to the older of the two. It will be similar to the Alexandrov protocol. We will await the word and when it comes, you will take control of her.

“You will test your ability to commandeer her powers. You will do that, which, after you depart from her, will leave her psychologically debilitated. We do not want her to interfere with Mr. Raven’s plan to free the prisoner.

“Her name is Megan Harris. She is an editor of scholarly books,” Maunov said. He handed Melnikova a slim manila folder containing photographs, news clippings and typed reports. “Study her as you did Alexandrov and the others. She has weak points. You must be prepared to attack them without mercy.

“I know you will not disappoint me, Liebchen,” he said.