Potboiler

Aside from the sheer stress of the routine, Pfefferkorn had to grapple with several nagging doubts. He did not doubt that his handlers were American. For one thing, they had demonstrated their power to manipulate the criminal justice system. And there were other, less overt signs. One night, for example, the safe house ran out of toilet tissue, and Gretchen commandeered a helicopter to go to Walmart. To Pfefferkorn, this incident, with its gloss of ultrasophistication overlying gross shortsightedness, embodied the Americanness of the operation. He knew he was on the same side as his native land. What he doubted, rather, was whether that was a virtuous place to be. He doubted the completeness of the information he was being given. Most of all, he doubted himself.

By far his least favorite part of the day was language class. His instructor was Vibviana, a pretty but severe West Zlabian defector. She explained that the agency had developed its methods based on developmental psychology research that pinpointed the years from birth to three as the critical period for language acquisition.

“To facilitate better, you must return please to frame of mind of young children’s.”

Twice a day, for two hours, Pfefferkorn became a Zlabian. In his first lesson he assumed the role of a newborn. He submitted to being diapered and burped while Vibviana, his fictive mother, sang him lullabies and told him stories based on the Zlabian national poem, Vassily Nabochka. Every successive lesson advanced him through one developmental year, so that by the end of the second day he was four years old and already well acquainted with the horrors of West Zlabian childhood. His fictive family, played by a rotating cast of agents, included a beloved and mentally retarded older brother, a crone of a grandmother, and countless aunts, uncles, cousins, and goats. Everyone lived under one tiny thatched roof, so that when Vibviana suffered at the hands of Pfefferkorn’s fictive father (a violent, alcoholic factory hand), Pfefferkorn was forced to sit in the corner and listen to the sounds of slaps, screaming, and broken crockery, followed by maudlin apologies and vigorous make-up sex.

It was not fun.

That was the idea, Paul said. The Zlabian psyche was steeped in abuse, degradation, and poor hygiene, and the sooner Pfefferkorn got used to it, the better.

Never before had he had so much one-on-one time with his son-in-law. In his daily policy briefings, Paul—or op com, as the other agents called him—shed his bumbling accountant’s façade, revealing himself as savvy, quick, and cynical, the kind of oversmart young patriot capable of smoothly steering his country into a disastrous foreign war. He had a way of talking around the issue that inspired confidence and dread in equal measure.

“You love her,” Pfefferkorn said.

Paul turned from the projection screen, which showed a timeline charting the ramifications of the 1983 West Zlabian currency devaluation. He stared at Pfefferkorn for a moment, then switched off the laser pointer. “I thought I made that clear.”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I love her.”

“How much.”

“Well, it’ll take me some time to prepare a full report.”

“You proposed to her after what? Three months?”

“Five.”

“And before that? How long was it in the works?”

“People get married for lots of different reasons,” Paul said.

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“I love her,” Paul said, “with all of my heart.”

“How do I know that?”

“How did you know it before?”

“I didn’t,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Then you’re no worse off,” Paul said. “Better, in fact, because I’ve shown you my hand.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“Don’t forget Carlotta,” Paul said.

“I haven’t forgotten her.”

“You’re doing this for her.”

“I know that,” Pfefferkorn said.

There was a silence.

“What really happened to Bill?” Pfefferkorn asked.

“Boating accident,” Paul said.

The grandfather clock chimed.

“Time for your language lesson,” Paul said. “Vibviana says you’re coming along nicely.”

The fourteenth year of Zlabian boyhood had been an annus horribilis in which Pfefferkorn’s beloved and mentally retarded older brother died of tapeworms, his pet goat was clubbed to death by an irate neighbor, he flunked his Vassily Nabochka qualifying exam, and he lost his virginity to an elderly prostitute who taunted him mercilessly after he ejaculated prior to entry. On the plus side, he had mastered the subjunctive.

“I feel hollow inside,” Pfefferkorn said.

“That’s the spirit.”

66.