Page 69 of Winterveil

Camp Peary, Virginia

“Welcome to Traumstadt,” Deckard said.

As they stepped into the stadium-like building, Julian was immediately struck by a waft of cold. He blinked, first adjusting his eyes to the rheumy half-light, and then blinked again in disbelief.

There were no fixtures of a stadium—no field, no rows of seats. Instead, what stretched out before them was . . . a town? Evergreens wreathed in snow rose into the air, scattered among quaint-looking wooden buildings. Cobblestone streets formed winding paths through the houses and trees. There was a sense of remoteness, amplified by the irregular elevation and the mountain peaks scored against the distant horizon.

There was a fairy-tale quality, too. As Julian looked around, breathing in the (surely artificial) scent of alpine air, he was further reminded of a scene from a storybook. A gingerbread village, dusted in powdered sugar and garnished in gumdrops.

The silver cuff on his wrist started to burn.

“Where are we?” It was Giselle who spoke, wonderment in her voice.

“This is the site of your training,” said Deckard. “We have constructed a replica of a fictitious town in East Germany. For the next several weeks, this will be your home.”

Klaudia had stepped away from the group and was examining a wooden sign. “A Soviet-occupied East German town, it seems.”

The sign had TRAUMSTADT written on it, and below, an inscription in Russian. When the four of them glanced questioningly at her, Klaudia said, “It translates to ‘the place of dreams.’ ”

“Correct,” Deckard said. “In this scenario, you have been dropped into Soviet territory. You must not only survive by remaining undercover but complete your mission without detection.”

“This is all the training we’re going to get?” Julian asked. He had been envisioning courses in speedboat handling and parachute jumping.

“Divest yourself of your preconceived notions of espionage,” said Deckard, as if he had read Julian’s thoughts. “You won’t be rescuing women tied to train tracks and sipping martinis. Clandestine officers are not supposed to be superheroes; they are supposed to be gray men.” Deckard paused. “And I don’t mean extraterrestrials.”

Julian felt vaguely disappointed. He’d thought he would at least get to drive an Aston Martin.

Deckard led them up the cobblestone road to the town proper. Some buildings looked residential; others appeared to be small businesses—a general store, a barbershop, a restaurant. Not being able to read either German or Russian, Julian wasn’t sure about the others. But he did recognize the statue of Lenin in the town square, snow gathered along his marble shoulders like a white-furred mantle.

“It’s like a movie set,” said Giselle.

“Or like a nuke town,” said Nadiya.

They continued down to what looked like a holiday market, hastily constructed stalls offering Christmas tree ornaments and thick wedges of strudel in wax paper. Or at least—theoretically offering. What was most unsettling about Traumstadt was the utter emptiness. There were no vendors manning the stalls, no market-goers milling around in a crowd. It looked as if all the town’s inhabitants had, suddenly and inexplicably, been wiped from existence.

“It doesn’t seem like the mission will be that difficult,” mused Julian, “without enemies to evade or civilians to protect.”

“Don’t be so hasty” was all Deckard said. He removed a small device from his pocket, vaguely resembling a cell phone, only sleeker. He tapped the screen and, with a static hum, holograms glimmered to life all around them. Julian shook out his fingers, wincing. The new silver cuff felt heavier than the gold one. More like a manacle.

The market was suddenly full of all the people who had been conspicuously absent before. They all looked so real, from the ruddiness of their cheeks to the eager arcing of their voices, children gripping their parents’ hands and couples nuzzling each other’s faces. There was even a radiating warmth from the crowd, the heat of so many closely pressed bodies.

Nadiya flinched. “They’re holograms,” she said. “Where are the projector machines?”

“I wouldn’t waste your time looking for projectors,” Deckard replied. “The technology here is a good deal more advanced than what you’re accustomed to at Valeran.”

But it did remind Julian of Valeran—of one thing in particular. The finale of the Thymos tournament. The holograms on the stage had seem so real, too, from Psycha’s fluttering lace gown to Marionette’s gleaming teeth. Here, too, there was no indication of illusion from the holograms. No glitching at their edges. No translucent ripples.

“The holograms are programmed to behave as real people,” Deckard went on, “and any of them might be an enemy in disguise.”

True enough, the inhabitants of Traumstadt began to shoot them strange looks, as the five of them remained unmoving in the crowd. Still in their Valeran uniforms, they were not dressed appropriately for the snow and the cold, which also felt convincingly real. In only his thin blazer, Julian had begun to shiver.

“What’s our justification for being here, then?” Klaudia kept her voice low. Speaking English was sure to be a dead giveaway.

“That’s up to you,” said Deckard. “Part of a clandestine officer’s skills is to invent a cover story and then enact it. Whatever happens, do not abandon the performance.”

“Let’s get out of the crowd,” Nadiya said uneasily. “We’re already attracting too much attention.”

“Why don’t we want to attract attention?” Giselle couldn’t help but ask.