by Jenni Wiltz
I will leave her something better, he vowed. I will make a safer world for her to live in. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. “Hello, pumpkin.”
Marya flung herself off the couch and into his arms. He felt the warmth of her tiny fingers as they squeezed his shoulders in as big a hug as she could offer. “Your mother says I’m to entertain you while she does my laundry,” he said.
Marya’s blue eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Can I have a horsey ride? Please?”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” He got down on his hands and knees and waited for Marya to climb onto his back. She clutched his sweatshirt with hands that smelled of crayon, shrieking in delight as he crawled through the room. He rounded the coffee table and reared like an angry stallion at the footstool; experience had taught her to hang on tight and she locked her ankles around his ribs. Her giggles and shrieks brought a frown from Liliya in the kitchen, which he ignored. When his left knee began to ache, he pulled up alongside the couch and gently tipped her into the cushions. “That’s enough, my girl. You’ll have me headed for the glue factory.”
From the kitchen, Liliya shushed him with a piercing whistle.
“Not that horses have anything to do with glue,” he said quickly. His eyes wandered to his laptop and he wondered if Constantine or Viktor had checked in yet. Were they even still alive? “There’s something I have to do, lastochka. Do you think you can finish watching Ulitza Sezam by yourself?”
“Didn’t you just work all day? I want you to watch it with me.”
“All right. We’ll watch together while I check on something.”
He sat on the sofa and Marya settled herself at his side, leaning her head against his arm. In his email, he found the first of the bulk reports generated by the building sweep he’d ordered. Marya’s eyes glazed over as she scanned the rows of numbers on his computer. “What are you doing, Grandpapa?”
“Looking for something that’s difficult to find,” he said, scanning the phone records.
“Can’t someone help you?”
“No, sweetheart. No one can.”
She patted his arm twice. “It’s okay to ask for help. Mama said so.”
“Did she now?” Vadim glanced into the kitchen, where Liliya dabbed at the spots on his pants with a sponge. “Your mother has learned something, I see.”
He wondered if Liliya might be right. Valery Zyuganov had helped him before...would he do it again? There was very little the Director of Moscow’s Criminal Intelligence Department did not know. The three of them, Vadim and Valery and Maxim Starinov, had come a long way since their days together at Sokolniky’s School Number One.
He stood up and walked to the living room window overlooking Patriarshy Prudy. From his third floor apartment he had an elevated view of the calm pond and its lush surroundings. Night had dimmed the day’s energy, leaving only quiet couples to linger on the wrought-iron benches, holding hands and tucking heads into each other’s shoulders. God willing, Marya would be one of them someday.
He tugged on the window’s velvet curtain, leaving a space just wide enough to observe the street below. Then he reached for his phone and dialed.
Valery answered on the second ring. “Hello, Vadim. I hadn’t expected to hear from you. How is that precocious daughter of yours? I hope prison wasn’t too tough on her.”
“You got her out before the worst of it and I will always be grateful. But that isn’t why I called. I need to ask you something, Valery. It’s important.”
“I can’t promise I’ll answer, but go ahead.”
“Why did Prime Minister Starinov send Vympel after one of my men?”
The line fell silent.
“You know what I’m asking about,” Vadim continued. “Why would he go to the trouble? Rumkowski couldn’t find the tsar’s password and neither could Yeltsin. We’re all chasing something that doesn’t exist. You know that.”
“It doesn’t matter what I know.”
“Then what does Starinov know? Why did he send Vympel after my agent?”
“Jesus, Vadim, wake up. The man bombs his own subway system to create sympathy for wars in Chechnya. If he thinks killing your agent will get him what he wants, he’ll do it.”
“I need more, Valery. What do you know?”
Valery sighed. “Your boy is in trouble, Vadim. Their orders are to kill him on sight.”
“Can you stop it?”
“It’s too late. It’s out of my hands.”
“Talk to Starinov.”
“And tell him what? That we think he’s wrong? Men have died for less.”
Vadim scanned the row of cars parked on the street below. He caught a flash of light inside one, as if someone sitting in the driver’s seat had swiveled a phone to his other ear. “Tell him that God condemns all acts of murder.”
“You and I know that God means nothing to the Prime Minister.”
“That’s not what he told a certain President of the United States.”
“He said what that silly man wanted to hear. You didn’t imagine he believed it, did you?”
So many lies, Vadim thought. How will Marya ever know whom to believe? “I sent a second agent into the field, Valery. I won’t stand by and see them killed by their own countrymen.”
“You don’t have a choice, Vadim. I suggest you take comfort in the fact that your daughter and granddaughter have been returned to you. It is the best that can be done. Kiss them goodnight for me.”
Valery hung up. At the very same moment, the bright rectangle of light in the car below went out.
Chapter Sixteen
July 2012
San Francisco, California
The first thing she noticed was the tingling in her arm. Hung off the edge of the bed, it wouldn’t move when she tried to brush her hair out of her face. Natalie turned her head into the pillow to shield her eyes from the bright morning sun. “Rise and shine,” called a faintly accented voice.
Looking down, she saw the thin silver band linking her wrist to the metal bed frame. “You handcuffed me?”
Constantine knelt beside her, dressed in a dark gray suit and crisp white shirt. His short blond hair was carefully spiked, a perfect imitation of the work-hard-play-hard bankers who populated the Financial District during market hours. He held a mug of steaming coffee in his hands. “Would you like some?” he asked. “I’m sorry about the handcuffs. I couldn’t take the chance you would run away while I was out.”
“Why did you leave?”
“We needed supplies. It was safer for me to go alone.”
She shook her wrist, rattling the cuffs. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He nodded, setting down the coffee and pulling a key from his pants pocket. As he bent to insert the key in the lock, she caught a whiff of soap and alcoholic aftershave. “We can’t stay here much longer,” he said. “There are fresh clothes for you in the bathroom.”
She looked down at her stretched-out white t-shirt. How the hell did I get this? Bits of memory shook loose from her fogged brain as the full impact of the previous night settled over her. “You killed two people,” she said. “And I distinctly remember wearing pants at some point.”
He looked at the floor and tightened his grip on the key until his knuckles shone white. “That was wrong. I’m sorry.”
She’d meant it as a joke, but he was genuinely uncomfortable. She waited for him to look up but he didn’t; he remained crouched before her like a Taliban prisoner about to be beheaded. “You’re serious,” she said and watched his head dip even lower. Then it hit her: he was ashamed of himself for having almost slept with her.
Natalie flung back the covers and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. In the mirror, she watched her cheeks and throat explode in bright red splotches that looked like poison oak. Against her will, her eyes clouded with tears. Even kidnappers are ashamed of me, she thought.
She took a deep breath and repeated the meditation mantra Beth ha
d given her as a child: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” It was years before she realized Beth had cribbed it from AA. She thought of all the elementary and middle school teachers who must have wondered what the hell went on in the Brandon household after school. Still, Beth’s intuition had been right—sometimes, if she caught it early, a moment of concentrated thought centered on this phrase could force Belial to lie back down and be quiet.
She repeated the mantra until the bathtub faucet ran hot, then slipped the stopper into the drain and waited. Behind the wall, pipes clanged like an out-of-tune organ. Just thinking of her sister made her feel homesick. She’d missed the start of Shark Week with Seth because she’d been too proud to apologize to Beth. Now two men were dead and Nicholas’s money was behind it all—even her argument with Beth. This is all a dream, she thought. It has to be.
She tossed away her t-shirt and underwear and slipped into the steaming water. Affixed to the wall, a rusted metal rectangle held out a bar of soap. The letters on its surface were sharp and crisp, with no water erosion or divots. She frowned and straightened up in the tub, looking over to the plastic garbage can. She spotted a barely used bar of soap and two paper wrappers.
“I had it all wrong,” she said, turning the soap over in her hands. Constantine hadn’t been ashamed of her—he’d been ashamed of himself. So much so that he’d given her a fresh bar of soap so that nothing that had touched his bare skin need touch hers.
A fluttery feeling tickled her pit of her stomach. It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for her, anticipating her reaction to something so small. For a moment, she felt human. A wave of longing crushed her when she realized she couldn’t tell Beth, the only person who would understand what it meant.
She wondered if the police had found the dead men in the alley yet. Once they realized her apartment was all shot up, they’d connect the dead men with her disappearance and start looking for her. They’d tell Beth and probably scare the hell out her in the process. How long could she and Constantine evade the police? Surely in a city so full of people, two of them could remain unseen.
That’s what you think, Belial said, stretching his wings.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said, rinsing the soap from her skin. Behind her eyes, the angel smiled. Get dressed, little one. We have work to do.
Constantine had left her a striped oxford blouse, black skirt suit, and leather pumps. The skirt fit snugly and the shoes pinched her toes, but once she put them on, she looked like an average office worker. A smaller bag held a conglomeration of drugstore makeup. She reached for a black crayon and traced thick circles around her eyes then smeared her lips with something dark and sticky.
When she emerged, she saw the table set with a single place: one plate of scrambled eggs and toast, one cup of coffee, and one paper napkin folded in half, tucked beneath the plate’s edge. Constantine stood at the sink washing an ancient iron skillet, his suit jacket discarded and white sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“Is this for me?” she asked, pointing at the plate.
“Hurry, before it gets cold.”
“Where’s yours?”
“I already ate.” He turned his head to smile at her. “You look very pretty.”
“I feel like I have a placenta on my lips. Why are we dressed like this?”
“You’re supposed to be a professor, remember?” He set the skillet on a dish towel and came to sit beside her. “We’re meeting a man named Voloshin to see what kind of proof he has that the Tsar’s fortune exists. He’s the one trying to blackmail the ambassador.”
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “So I didn’t make it all up. This is really happening.”
“Why would you think it wasn’t real?”
“Sometimes I get confused between what really happens and what Belial shows me.” She set her fork down and picked up the toast. “Once when we were little, I watched a dark-haired man kidnap Beth. I screamed for someone to chase him and when no one did, I took off after him.”
“What happened?”
“Beth tackled me halfway down the street. She’d been standing next to me the whole time. The neighbors stared and pointed and my mother never let me play in the front yard again.”
“Didn’t your parents try and help you?”
“They tried.” Images of needles and rosaries and leather restraints flashed through her mind. “It just didn’t work.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dead.”
Good riddance, Belial muttered. He shifted his feet and set off a tremor of rolling earthquakes in the back of her skull. She ignored them as best she could, scooping up the last bit of scrambled egg and washing it down with coffee. “Beth took care of me. It was better that way. Belial hated my parents.”
“Why?”
“They did everything they could to kill him. He and Beth have a much better working relationship. Can I ask a question now?”
“Yes.” He took her plate and brought it back to the sink, plunging it into the soapy water.
“Where did you learn to speak English so well?”
“Satellite TV.”
“Shut up.”
He smiled, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes. “The security company I worked for brought in private tutors for us. That’s how it all started.”
“Why did they do that?”
“If we spoke English, we could masquerade as Red Cross or USAID workers to get closer to our targets. Then in Chechnya, we stole TVs and satellite antennas for our safe houses. We watched NYPD Blue and The Practice to learn how to interrogate in English.”
“How long were you in Chechnya?”
“Two years.”
“What did you do there?”
The smile fell from his face. “Natalie, stop. We need to get ready to go.” He reached for his suit jacket and slipped it back on.
“What did you do?”
“What do you think? I killed people.”
“You seem awfully pent up about the things you do.”
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“You just told me—you killed people. Plus, I saw it. I was there last night, remember?” He bent his head Taliban-style and she softened. “I saw the soap in the garbage. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. Ask any of my shrinks. None of them had much luck getting me to do things I didn’t feel like doing. If I didn’t push you away, it was because I didn’t want to.”
“But I know better, even if you don’t.”
Anger flared in her belly. “I’m trying to let you off the hook. Don’t jump back on it and play the martyr. And don’t you ever pity me. Not for a second. Belial hates that.”
“Belial,” he said softly. “Right.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s just get this over with. Are you ready to go?”
“You kidnapped me, remember?” She got up and paced, hating the way her toes squished together to fit into the pointed-toe shoes. “Before we go, tell me one more thing. Where does this guy say he got the password?”
“A pair of letters, written by two of Nicholas II’s daughters.”
“A pair,” she repeated. “That’s new.” The guard’s granddaughter’s tale mentioned one letter from Marie to Ivan that was promised but never arrived. “How’d he get them?”
“His great-grandfather smuggled them out of the Ipatiev House. That’s all I know.”
“Who wrote the second letter?”
He turned his head sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I’m positive Grand Duchess Marie wrote one of them, but I’ve never seen anything that mentions a second letter.”
“What are you saying?”
“He’s either telling the truth or the world’s worst liar.”
“Let’s find out,” he said, grabbing her arm and prope
lling her out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
July 2012
San Francisco, California
Yuri Voloshin lived one block southwest of Russian Hill Park on a court filled with pretty Victorians. Natalie stared at the houses, most with children’s bikes and toys lying in the small front yards. This was not a neighborhood accustomed to drive-by shootings and gun-toting spies. Had Yuri Voloshin ever considered what might happen if the Russians called his bluff? Or was he in over his head, just like she was? “Tell me again what’s supposed to happen,” she said.
Constantine flicked his head from side to side, looking at house numbers as the BMW crawled down the street. “We get the Romanov letters from him and try to verify their authenticity as best we can. Then we get the hell out of here.”
“What happens to Yuri?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“I think you should.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“He put everyone on this street in danger. He put Beth in danger. She has a son, for God’s sake. What would have happened to him if Vympel found Beth instead of me?” She shivered. “Just for that, he deserves to die.”
Belial, quiet until now, raised his head. I can help you, he said.
“Let me handle Voloshin.” Constantine pointed at the least attractive house on the cul-de-sac, painted a tired brown with peeling ochre trim. The house wore its drooping gutters like a worn-out scarf. A short driveway angled down into a one-car garage with a yellowed NO PARKING sign nailed to its door.
“That’s it,” Constantine said. He parked across the driveway, blocking the garage. Natalie followed him up to the porch and looked down at the spiny green welcome mat, missing its plastic daisy. Constantine rapped on the door and Natalie closed her eyes. What would this man look like, the man who’d lied about her sister? Would Belial be able to tell if he was lying just by looking at him? Please, Belial, she thought. I need help here.