I look for a stop again, and the block of buildings gives way to a huge hotel. I know exactly where we are.
And exactly what to do. Usually, I use boring errands to determine if someone’s tailing me. But sometimes, all you need to detect surveillance is a single background with enough contrast.
“Turn right,” I tell the cabbie in Russian. He obeys. I concentrate on the mirror the whole way. The headlights follow down the next block, too.
“Turn again,” I order the cabbie. Something’s different — new stucco across the street? — but I don’t have time to analyze. This is our alley. “Stop here.”
“Are you sure?” the cabbie asks.
He’s right to doubt a foreigner telling him to let her out beside some random alley, but I know what I’m doing. “Da.”
I pay the cabbie extra and practically drag Danny out. He looks at the dark passage between two buildings. “Remember how we talked about not getting into danger?” False brightness lights up his whisper. “I liked that plan.”
“New plan.” I take Danny’s hand — more as a guide than a girl — and tug him into the alley. In the near-dark, you can still see the rust on the apartment balconies and ductwork, the neglected windows and graffiti, and every other sketchy detail.
Behind us, headlights round the corner and stop. Parking. Searching for us.
I can’t tell if I’m hearing actual footsteps or my heart pounding in my ears. I can barely hear Danny: “Tell me you know where you’re going.”
Can’t blame him for the weariness in his voice. I lead him faster. “Go with it.”
We dart between the buildings and cars till we reach our destination, a two-story building. The lights are on. I check behind us. No headlights. But we can’t let our guard down. They could be waiting for us. We have to get into disguise.
Footsteps. Not my pulse. I swear I hear footsteps approaching. “Hurry.” I run the last few feet to the door. Please, please, please let it be open. What if no one’s there? What if it’s locked?
I pray that it isn’t, that we’ll get in and out without anyone suspecting.
The door opens and I pull Danny inside. I try to tow him through the tiny foyer as fast as I can. He wouldn’t recognize the white tiles and walls, but as we pass, he does a double take at the familiar painting of Jesus Christ. “Tell me we’re not where I think we are.”
No time to argue. We need to get changed and back on the street fast to avoid suspicion. “Just go with it.” We hurry down the hall, but the kitchen’s locked. (Why, people, why???)
With no other choice, I drag Danny into the bathroom.
“Um?” Danny eyes the stalls — even in Russian, pretty easy to figure out where we are. “What exactly am I going with?”
“Take off your coat.”
He couldn’t be more confused if I were speaking Russian. “What?”
“Just do it — it’s reversible.” I turn to the mirror. If I can get this makeup off, I’ll look different enough to get away. I consult Danny’s reflection. Not moving. “Come on, hurry up. A fast change and they won’t believe it’s us.”
Danny slowly starts on his buttons, but he’s still gaping at me. “‘They’? ‘They’ who?”
“The people tailing us.” I grab a paper towel and run it under the faucet.
“What are you talking about?” He finishes unbuttoning his coat and shrugs it off. “Nobody’s tailing us.”
“Maroon car, round headlights, behind us.” My pulse throbs in my throat through every second. I scrub off the sculpting face paint from everywhere but my eyes (way too messy), turning myself back into me.
Danny flips his coat’s sleeves inside out. “And you’ve seen this car before?”
“No, but they followed us around the corner, and round headlights came down the alley after us.”
“Round headlights? That’s it?”
I check on Danny in time to catch him gaping at my reflection like he doesn’t believe me. “How can you be sure it’s the same car?”
We don’t have time for this. I pivot on him. “Sorry I didn’t get the license plate number, sir.” I yank that gray knit cap out of his coat pocket again. “No arguments this time.”
He takes the hat without a comment, but it’s obvious he’s not on board.
I stare at him. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I wish I knew how.” His words echo off the vintage tile and through my chest like it’s just as hollow and empty.
I have spent months — more than a year — letting down every wall for him. I’ve told him the dangerous truth about what I do, I’ve sacrificed the things I thought were protecting me, I’ve given up every secret I can. The only ones I’m keeping now are to keep him safe.
I have nothing left to give. And this is still how he feels?
I’m in trouble, and it’s not because of the headlights pursuing us.
“Guess we’re screwed.” My sharp response bounces off the tiles, too, like icy shrapnel.
“I didn’t—”
“Forget it. It’s fine. I know what you meant.” If what he meant = exactly what he said.
I try my wig, but half a dozen points of pain in my scalp remind me I’m so not done. “Come on,” I mutter, tearing a couple more pins free. Finally, the red wig comes off. I tug the wig cap off and undo my braids. My bangs are plastered to the side, and I try to fluff them like I was going for that sideswept look.
Danny’s switched his jacket from black to red-flecked gray. “What about your coat?”
“I’ll go without.” Like my wig, my solid red coat definitely stands out — which means nobody will recognize me without them. I shed the coat and grab the bottom hem at the back. With a sharp jerk (and a silent apology to Lori), I tear out the stitches holding down the lining — my stitches from this morning. Between the lining and the shell, I basted in the market bag I picked up in Paris. I rip it free and stuff all my stuff inside.
Wish I had other shoes, though the car behind us hardly could’ve seen them. Danny’s coat is on my shoulders before I can reach for the door handle. “I’ve got a suit jacket.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Let me do this for you.”
I’m ready to argue, but I know that look. I’ve given it to him enough. Insistent. Serious. Because he wants to take care of me. Even if he’s not sure how to believe me.
The ends of his hair poke out under his hat brim. I tuck them in, then slowly let my gaze lower to meet his. I can give him this much. I have to. “All right. Give me a full minute before you follow. Make it look like we’re not together, but stay on my tail. We’ll take a marshrutka back.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my plan, instead sliding one hand back to cradle my head. Once again, there’s no way I can say no to him as he leans in to kiss me. His lips move over mine and for one minute, I forget about the hurry and the danger and all our problems.
“Good to see you again,” he breathes against my lips.
I draw back to meet his eyes. Yes, we’ve got issues to work through, but maybe we can make it. As long as we make it out of this mission alive.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I whisper. Though it’s the other way around.
“Yeah, I know.” He smiles a second before planting a peck on me again. “I’ll follow.”
I have to wipe off the grin before I open the door and slip into the hallway. And I’m not alone. A man stands five feet away. Staring at me.
A cold shock hits me like a smack.
They found us.
I have to lead them away from Danny. I have to act like nothing’s wrong, though this guy’s ogling me with more than a hey-cute-chick leer.
“Sestra Reynolds?”
Ice threads through my veins. That’s. My. Name. Not just my name — my name and title as a missionary. Here. In this building. Five years ago.
If we were being tailed, this surely isn’t the guy. But something else has c
aught up with me: the past. I take two breaths to calm my racing heart and turn toward this man.
The minute I take a closer look, I recognize his square-cut features and premature gray hair. A gasp escapes. Could it be—? I move forward, a smile stealing across my lips again.
Before I say anything, the door behind me opens, and now everybody’s confused. Danny, to find me here with a stranger, I’m sure. The man in front of me, to be seeing me (and then a guy coming from the women’s bathroom). Danny takes my arm, stepping to a protective posture.
But I don’t need protection. Finally I find my voice. “Valya,” I breathe. This isn’t just some dude I ran into on the street. I visited his house weekly. I taught his wife, helped her learn the gospel and decide to join our church. I showed their daughters how to shinny up a drainpipe (yes, in a skirt). I played the piano at his wife’s baptism.
“Sestra Reynolds!” Valya cries again, then he grabs me out of Danny’s grasp into a bear hug.
“Valya!” I half-choke on his name, my throat suddenly filled with emotion. “Kak dela?” How are things?
“Normal′no.” Yep, that’s “normal.”
I pull back, still holding onto his arms. I have to see the rest of his family too. They should be here. “Gde Ksena? I Svetusya, i Melanyushka?”
Somewhere in his eyes, his smile grows sad and strained, and he’s suddenly ten years older. “Ne zdes′.” Not here.
Before I think about asking for details or everyone I want updates on, someone else runs up from my right and plows into me, seizing me in an even bigger hug. My heart hits the afterburners again, but I only have half a second to panic before he shouts, “Sestra Reynolds!”
Who the crap? Danny moves in to help again. I struggle free, protesting in Russian and backing toward the foyer. When I see who my would-be attacker is, my jaw nearly hits the carpet. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or safety. Heavyset, swarthy, and the last person I expected to find in a Mormon church. “Garo?”
“You did not forget me?” he asks in English. “You have come to marry me! Finally!” He lunges for another hug, and, I’m betting five hundred rubles, a kiss.
I sidestep his advances. “It’s great to see you here, Garo.” I point at the white tile floor to show I mean that literally, because the last time I lived in Rostov, Garo was a lot less interested in Jesus and a lot more interested in me and my companion.
“Yes, yes, good to see you too.” He throws his arms around me again. I have no retreat and not enough of a reason to hurt him, so I just brace myself. Handshakes aren’t the only greeting in the Russian gesture vocabulary that’s bone-crushing.
Valya and Danny both try to intervene, though it doesn’t seem like Garo’s paying any attention to them when he releases me at last.
“I’m not here to marry you,” I protest.
Garo laughs, because, duh, why else could I have traveled five thousand miles?
“What brings you back to Russia?” Valya matches our English — and saves me. (Thank! You!)
“I’m interpreting.” I nod to Danny, still hovering nearby, amusement and uncertainty warring in his eyes. “My friend came on business.”
Garo was never one for subtlety, but even the truth, spelled out clearly, isn’t enough to deter him. He sweeps me into his arms yet again, rushing into the tiny foyer to spin me around. “You have finally come back!”
I doubt the man’s pined away for the last five years, but, yeah, it’s likely he won’t listen to my logic. “Garo,” I start with a warning in my tone.
We abruptly stop spinning. I’m not naïve enough to hope Garo’s heeding to me.
Nope — Danny’s got him by the shoulders. “She said to let her go.”
Danny couldn’t know this, but reminding a man that a woman said no and he’d better straighten up? Big deal. Though it seems like he’s only playing, and he is, Garo’s treading on razor thin Russian ice. Respect for women is more than “nice”; it’s an inviolable social law.
Chagrinned, Garo releases me. By some subconscious maneuvering, we end up with Danny not quite between us, and yet ready to intercede any second.
Speaking of social laws — I run through the introductions, keeping Danny as my “friend.” (Luckily, Danny is here as himself — and it’s normal to skip last names in this context.)
Valya finally steps up to run interference as well. “Our music night ran late,” he says, switching back to Russian. “We had to stay to stack the chairs.” He gives Garo a skeptical glance once more and turns to me. “Do you need a ride anywhere?”
“That would be great.” Even more perfect than my original plan. I gesture for Danny to follow, and we bid Garo goodbye.
“No, no,” he says before we make our exit. I freeze for a second. I can’t let this escalate.
He pulls a business card from his pocket and writes on it. “Here is my mobile number. You must call me before you go.”
That’s a big no. I don’t even want his business card — way too dangerous for him if our FSB “friends” find it on me. But I take the card without any promises, knowing that it’s the only way to get away fast. In my peripheral vision, I catch Valya’s gaze flick heavenward, though he also says nothing. I understand: Garo’s still Garo. Try as my missionary companion and I might years ago, we never could convince him we weren’t interested, weren’t here to date, and certainly weren’t going to date him. I have to wonder if Garo figured joining the church was the best way to troll for American sister missionaries, or if he actually, truly converted.
Which is pretty horrible of me, isn’t it?
Valya holds the door, and Danny and I finally make our escape. Once Garo’s out and Valya’s locked the doors, he points out his car, a boxy Moskvich Aleko hatchback that’s got to be twenty years old, more rust than metal. For a second, I worry it won’t start, but it does, and this is even better than running from Garo or surveillance.
It’s too much to ask Valya to take us to see Ksena and the girls, though maybe I could find an hour tomorrow night to get away. At the thought, a happy sigh gathers in my chest. But that’s tomorrow. “Could you take us down to the river? I want to show Danny the Don.”
“Certainly.” He looks at Danny in the rearview and asks me in Russian, “Should I ask why he was in the women’s bathroom?”
I try to laugh his suspicions away. “I should’ve been there to guide him, but I wasn’t.”
“Ah.” Valya looks to the rearview — to Danny. “And what is your . . . business?” I see why he switched to Russian — his English is halting at best.
“Aerospace.”
“Ah.” But he’s squinting like he doesn’t understand what Danny said.
Time to do my job and interpret. “Aerokosmicheskaya promyshlennost′.”
“Very nice.” He slides into Russian as well. “Smart young man. Over the head of an old soldier.”
I relay the message, but there’s not a whole lot to say other than thanks. Could I bring Danny with me to meet Ksena and the girls? Might be awkward for him, but I’ve met friends from his mission, and I know Danny understands that soul-level connection.
“So you’re not married?” Valya’s pitch implies we should be. An instinctive flinch clenches my gut — but wait. He used the “ty” form of the verb, meaning just me. If he were implying Danny and I were “traveling in sin,” he’d use the plural “vy” form.
“No,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Marriages in my family don’t last.”
Valya nods sadly. Russia has the world’s highest divorce rate, so he knows a lot of people in the same singlehood boat. But Valya’s been lucky. “And where is Ksena?” I ask after his wife again. I’m definitely getting away to visit tomorrow. I can almost see her smile.
“She died, two years ago.” Valya’s delivery of the sad fact is so Russian: sadness mixed with acceptance. Life is hard, but it’s my life.
A vise slowly squeezes my heart. She’s gon
e? This woman whose life I helped to change all those years ago? Here I am, imagining seeing her, and I’m years too late to say goodbye. My shoulders slump automatically, like even my muscles are powerless. “Valya, I’m so sorry. I . . . What happened?”
“Cancer.”
Not that unexpected for a woman who smoked for pretty much twenty years straight. I glance at the rearview. No headlights. Like that makes it safe to talk. I barely dare to ask about his daughters. “How are Svetusya and Melanyushka?”
“Svetusya is wonderful. She wants to be called Sveta these days. So grown up. Learning to play the piano. Does so well in school.” Pride shines in his eyes, but it can’t hide the pain. Just over Ksena?
“And Melanyushka?”
Pain wins out. “She is sick. Cancer also.”
The same emotion that caught in my throat earlier strangles me again. I do the mental math: she has to be, what, ten? There’s no such thing as “fair,” but this is cruel.
I want to do something. I need to. “Can they treat her?”
“We do what we can here, but the wait is long for the better treatment center, and they say her prognosis is bad.”
“Is there anything else you can do?”
He focuses on the road (and I check the rearview — still clear). “Pay to be treated sooner, or go to Germany, but we cannot afford either.”
“The church—”
“Helped so much with Ksena’s treatment. I will not ask more. I can’t. Everyone has trouble.” He half-hums out a sigh of resignation. “They help in other ways. Tyotya Gala tutors Sveta in math and makes sure Melanyushka doesn’t fall behind.”
“Aunt” Galina isn’t any relation to Valya. She’s a professor of math in the congregation. But she’d do that for any child who was willing to work. There has to be something I can do.
My stupid brain draws a blank.
“It’s awfully late. Are you sure I can’t take you back to your hotel?” Valya asks.
I don’t want to leave; I want to help. But my stupid, stupid brain is still in spy mode. “My friend will like the lights on the river, and we need to talk.”
Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 66