by Molly Joseph
“Thank you,” she said. She mopped at her face and blew her nose, and stuffed the used tissues into her pockets. She looked even younger in person than she had looked in her press photos. She seemed so slight, so guileless sitting there beside him, that again he wondered how she could possibly change the world.
In a darker vein, he wondered how anyone could have beaten her up. Once he’d been officially hired, he’d read her file cover to cover, including the police report of her assault. She’d been held down and brutalized, kicked and urinated on. The vile things men did never failed to amaze him. She’d suffered facial fractures and three broken ribs. The ordeal must have been terrifying, and excruciatingly painful. They’d put tape over her mouth so she couldn’t scream.
He’d seen a lot in his years in the Army, and his years with Ironclad, but there were still those moments that haunted him, and the image of the young woman beside him being punched and pissed on while she screamed through duct tape would be with him, now, his entire life. That was what he was paid for. Not carrying luggage and handing her tissues. Not traveling the world and watching her make history playing a board game. No. He was paid for knowing what was in those types of reports.
After a while she quieted, and stared out the window as they made their way to the restricted section of JFK Airport. Once there, they boarded the charter, a small jet with wide aisles and comfortable seats. An entire security team boarded with them, ten agents who’d also travel with them a few weeks from now, when they headed to Dubai. He could tell the men made Grace nervous. They were burly types, ex-military like him, testosterone bombs with rough, booming voices.
He took the seat next to her, even though there were plenty of other places to sit. She might as well get used to having him close. He’d have to get used to her too. She’d thrown him off balance when she’d given him that dubious look and asked Is that your real name?
Why had he reacted so defensively? He spoke Arabic. He was half Syrian. Some people saw it in his features and some didn’t. In the end, she hadn’t even been commenting on his ethnicity, but the fact that he was a bodyguard with the last name Knight. Yeah, maybe that was funny. He wasn’t one to say, because his name had always been a sensitive spot.
He’d been born Salim Knight, the culturally dissonant product of a Syrian mother and American father. He’d been teased mercilessly at his predominantly white prep academy—Sa-LEEM! Sa-LEEM!—and gotten plenty of suspicious looks as an adult. Before he joined the Army, he’d done what he’d longed to do for as long as he could remember: he’d legally erased two letters from his first name, changing Salim to Sam, very aware that the excision was one letter short of spelling “lie.” Sometimes, especially in a post-9/11 world, it was easier to live a lie.
“All right?” he asked when they were airborne, slicing through thick clouds. “We’ll be in Helsinki in eight hours or so. Can I get you anything?”
“No,” she said. “I’m okay.” She tilted her head. He had the feeling she was trying to look up at him, but not quite able to manage it. Instead she turned to the window, clasping her hands in her lap.
He didn’t want her to fear him. He was a big guy, but he was on her side. “Is there anything you’d like to know about me? About my experience or my qualifications?”
She stared at the seat back in front of her and then almost—almost—managed to look him in the eyes. “How long have you been a bodyguard?” she asked.
“Five years.”
She thought a moment. “Have you ever been to Helsinki?”
“No. I’ve traveled a lot, but the closest I’ve come is Stockholm. Or maybe St. Petersburg.”
“Zeke told me you spoke Arabic.”
“That’s true.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York. Battery Park area.”
“Oh. I’ve been there a few times.” She bit one of her nails. “Have you ever guarded any big celebrities?”
“Some,” he answered. “But I mostly look after boring old men.”
She turned and gazed out the window again. So young and pretty. Not that it mattered.
“Did you know that Marie Antoinette had twelve bodyguards?” she asked.
He studied her delicate profile, outlined by the brightness outside. “You have way more than twelve. The whole State Department is looking after you.”
“No, she had twelve bodyguards with her all the time. They even slept outside her bedroom.”
“Would you really want twelve men sleeping outside your bedroom?” An attempt at humor. Borderline inappropriate.
“I guess I probably wouldn’t.”
The plane bucked through a few seconds of turbulence. Her hand came down on the armrest and landed on his wrist before she jerked it away.
“Rough air,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
“I know.”
“We’ll fly out of it soon.”
She bit her lip. Definitely scared of him. He was supposed to be the good guy, her ally.
“How do you know so much about Marie Antoinette’s bodyguards?” he asked, because sometimes talking helped.
She pushed her glasses up her nose, a nervous tic he already recognized. “I read books about her when I was on a French history kick. Before that, it was geology and Russian literature. And I obsessed over Antarctic exploration for a while.”
Antarctic exploration? God, she was weird. So what was this pull he felt to her? Protectiveness? Curiosity? Not attraction. She wasn’t remotely his type.
“Do you know why I stopped reading about Antarctic explorers?” she asked, finally meeting his gaze. “Because I learned that they ate all the horses and sled dogs they took along. They shot them over the course of the expeditions, one by one, for food. The animals didn’t know. They worked so hard for those men, only to be shot and eaten. And that was part of the plan.” Her voice shook a little on the last word.
“That’s horrible,” he said.
“Plus, so many of those explorers died. It was dangerous, what they were doing, but they did it anyway because they were driven.” She swallowed hard. “I guess I might die because of what I do.”
He shook his head at her. “You’re not going to die.”
“I’ve gotten death threats, plenty of them, from all over the world. Every continent but Antarctica.”
Dead horses can’t send death threats. No. This wasn’t a moment for black humor. He had no intention of letting her die, and he was damn good at looking after people.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he said in a firm voice. “I don’t think you should worry about it.”
She startled as a burst of laughter rang out a few rows away. He studied her face as she calmed herself, searching for lingering evidence of the attack she’d suffered, faded scars or irregularity of bone. There was nothing, only that little jump she gave whenever she heard a sudden noise. He got out his phone, typed a short message, and sent it to everyone in the QueenOps group.
FYI. Client fears loud voices.
The Queen of the operation’s title was, of course, the woman beside him, the most important figure on the chess board. Within moments, the voices on the aircraft fell silent, or at least a little quieter. It was hard to tell for certain over the plane’s white-noise hum.
Chapter Three: Helsinki
“No chess grandmaster is normal; they only differ in the extent of their madness.” —Victor Kortchnoi
Sam had grown up in New York and worked in a lot of chilly places, but he didn’t think he’d ever been anywhere as fucking cold as Finland in late January. They arrived at the three-story house on Huvilakatu in the middle of the night, while Helsinki was still and frozen, and the air so cold it hurt to breathe.
The landscape was white, not the dingy white of Manhattan after the city had weathered a snowfall, but the pristine white of deep, polar winter. The temperature hovered around -5 degrees Fahrenheit. Sam hustled Grace inside while the ops people took photos and installed alarm and debug systems
, and placed hidden cameras above all the doors.
Overkill? Maybe. Especially since nobody was supposed to find out they were here until they’d already gone.
The house seemed a comfortable place to hide in plain sight, with a bedroom for each of Grace’s seconds, a large, well-stocked kitchen, and even a sauna. “Krishna will need to stay here,” she said, looking into the first-floor bedroom. “He’s older, you know, and the stairs.”
Sam nodded, even though that decision had been made days ago by the security team. Renzo and Fredrik, her other seconds, were going to stay on the second floor, and the ops guys were already carrying Sam and Grace’s things to the third. Everyone had agreed the third floor was the safest place for her to stay, even though it had only one bedroom. Sam would have to sleep on a sofa bed in the adjoining great room, which had a large picture window overlooking the harbor. If he couldn’t have privacy, at least he’d have a view.
“I think it’s too late to call Zeke,” she said, looking down at her government-issued cell phone.
“It’s almost midnight in New York. I sent an email earlier to say we’d arrived.”
She blinked at him, tired and owlish. “You’re on top of things.”
“That’s my job.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost six in the morning local time. It would be great for us to sleep until noon or so, and try to stay awake after that.”
They went upstairs to their third floor roost and made token attempts to settle in. Sam hung his suit coat and tie in the squat, pine armoire that would have to function as his closet, and moved a table out from the wall to create a de facto office. He opened his suitcase on the sofa and dug out his laptop, and booted it up so he could link it to the door cam feeds. With a finely tuned acuity, he heard Grace unzip her luggage in the adjoining room.
He didn’t have to focus on her so intently now. The house had been inspected from top to bottom, and security-wired to kingdom come, and yet he couldn’t turn off that alertness. He heard when she walked, he heard when she opened and closed a drawer. He heard when she plumped the pillows on the bed.
When he heard her get in the shower, he went into her bedroom and walked around from door to bed, from bed to closet, from bed to bathroom, committing every path to memory so he would know his way around it in the dark. Keeping a client safe was a lot like winning at chess—it was all about preparation. Her luggage lay open on the queen size bed, and one of the bedside lamps was on, lighting the utilitarian space. No windows, no wall art, just a squat chest of drawers and a corner armoire that looked even smaller than his.
When he heard the water shut off, he left and closed the door. He sat at his new table-desk and filed a report on the Ironclad server, something he’d do every day in case another agent had to take over the job. Standard company procedure, since life happened. Illness, incompatibility, a death in the family. Even if you hadn’t seen your family in almost seven years.
It was quiet in Grace’s room now. Sam crossed to his armoire and took off his weapon, and inspected the safety and holster.
Her door opened. She stared at the harness and gun, and then looked back at him. “It’s so quiet. I didn’t know if you were still here.”
“I’m here. Is there anything you need? Your room’s okay?”
“Yes.” Her hair was wet, and she wore a thick fleece robe that practically swallowed her. “I’m sorry you have to sleep on the couch.”
“It folds out.”
“Do you need any help with it?”
He put his holster down on top of a pile of sweaters. “No. You should try to get some sleep.”
“I was just wondering...should I leave the door open or closed?”
He looked back up at her. She held her robe wrapped tight around her. “What would make you more comfortable?” he asked.
“Well, if there’s an emergency...”
“I don’t think there’s going to be an emergency. You’re very safe here. But if you’d like to sleep with it open, that would be fine.”
“Maybe I’ll leave it cracked a little.”
“That works. As for the bathroom situation, I’ll use the one downstairs.” He wasn’t going to share a bathroom with her. Things already felt claustrophobic enough.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She went into the bedroom for a moment, then reappeared. “Sam?”
“Yes?”
“If I’m so safe here, why do you have a gun?”
“I carry it for added security. It’s nothing you should worry about.”
She wasn’t wearing her glasses. She looked tired, and God, so vulnerable. She definitely wasn’t a rich bitch.
“Okay, then,” she said, and went into her room, leaving the door open a crack. He realized later, when he hauled open the sofa bed and flopped down on the uncomfortable mattress, that he could see her from where he lay. He’d wanted to masturbate before he drifted off, but it was out of the question, even if she appeared to be asleep. He couldn’t remember another assignment like this, with this level of claustrophobic discomfort.
All for a simple board game, and the not-so-simple woman who played it. The glasses were cute, he thought. She seemed like a nice person, and hey, the money was really good.
*** *** ***
Grace woke later, in the dark. She didn’t know what time it was. She’d heard voices in her dream, like on the plane. Rough, shouting voices, but in a language she didn’t know. It wasn’t real, though. No one was here. Still, the fine hairs rose on her arms and the back of her neck.
She looked out into the other room. In the moonlight, through the big picture window, she could make out Sam’s shape on the sofa bed, his dark hair against the light pillow.
She heard a noise then, a faint, careful step, and a rustle. She listened hard to be sure she wasn’t imagining it. Someone was moving and it wasn’t Sam, because she was looking right at him. Someone was up here with them on the third floor.
She thought of Sam’s gun, and the alarm system, and the government operatives who’d checked everything, and she told herself, no one could be here. Then what was that sound? That whisper of movement, that footfall? She strained to hear. It was definitely someone moving. Blood whooshed in her ears and her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Was she dreaming again? No, she was awake. She wished it was a dream, but this was really happening. Someone had already found out she was in Helsinki. The State Department folks had made too much fuss with their convoy of vehicles from the airport, and now someone had come, some dark scowling man who wanted to hurt her again, or kill her this time with all his raging anger. Sam still hadn’t stirred. Maybe he was dead. Maybe the intruder had already killed him. Maybe that was the noise that had woken her from a sound sleep. Maybe the dark against the pillow wasn’t his hair, but blood.
She choked back a sob and thought, under the bed. You’ll be safest under the bed. She was afraid to go into the close, cold darkness, but more afraid for someone to find her. She had learned in Russia that nightmares could become real.
She wedged herself under the wooden frame and lay very still. No rustles, no steps now, only silence. Her breath sounded loud in the cramped space. Or...maybe it wasn’t her breath. Maybe the intruder had been hiding under her bed the whole time. Maybe he was behind her, about to reach out and grab her where she couldn’t turn and see.
Terror forced a scream from her throat, a scream that coalesced halfway through into a word dredged up from her shattering wits. “Sam!”
She screamed his name again, and again. The door hit the wall with a crash, and he flicked on the lights. From beneath the bed, she could see his bare feet cross her line of vision and disappear. A moment later they returned and the blanket lifted. His face appeared, inches from hers.
“Sam.” She didn’t scream this time, only croaked his name in terror. “I heard something. Noises. I heard someone.”
He didn’t believe her. She could t
ell by his expression. “I heard someone,” she insisted. “Someone was walking around.”
“I don’t think so.” His tone was firm but gentle. “There’s no one here.”
“I heard it.”
“You heard someone outside, or someone’s TV. There’s no one here.”
Why was he looking at her that way? She realized she was crying. “Are you sure there’s no one out there?” she asked. “Maybe downstairs?”
“Stay tight there a second. I’ll check things out.”
He was just being nice. She could see that. But she wiped her eyes and waited as he moved around the room. She heard him open and close the armoire, open the bathroom door, and then walk out into the other room. He went downstairs, opened and closed a few more doors. When he came back, he turned out the bright overhead light and clicked on her bedside lamp, so it threw an arc of illumination on the floor.
He leaned back down. “There’s nothing. I looked everywhere and there’s no one here. Do you think it could have been a nightmare?”
“No. I wasn’t asleep.”
“Why don’t you come out?”
As he said this, he was pulling her out, taking her wrists and elbows so she had no choice but to leave her dark, cramped hidey-hole. “There’s no one,” he repeated when she started shaking. “And if there was, you’d be okay. I’m here to protect you.”
She leaned against him, not even caring that he was bare-chested. Over his shoulder she could see his comforter half on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I heard someone rustling. Someone moving.”
“Don’t worry about it. You aren’t used to this house.”
His patient tone made her feel even worse. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“Just doing my job.” He had her sit on the edge of the bed. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
“No, don’t leave.” She clung to his hand. She felt smothered by fear that wouldn’t dissipate. Her fingers shook against his. “Are you sure no one’s here? Should you check the camera footage?”