“It isn’t,” I say. “But things that just don’t happen—”
“Happen in Russia,” Valya joins me to finish the saying from Tolstoy or Peter the Great. (A favorite among missionaries adjusting to a “land that can’t be understood, only believed in.”)
Melanyushka, who might be too young to remember me, gestures for me to sit on her bed. Sveta and I do. “Can I see your embroidery?” I ask.
She flips it to me, an amazing picture of a red and gold bird with flowing tail feathers. The firebird. Though it sounds like a phoenix, and there are stories where the firebird doesn’t die, I don’t think the firebird is associated with rebirth. I mean, he just finished a story about the creature dying. Is he preparing his daughter for the inevitable?
I certainly can’t. “Do you remember Sestra Carter?” I ask, searching for a distraction of my own. “She has twin boys now.”
Sveta giggles — Sestra Carter wasn’t shy about her fear of children. But things change.
I look to Melanyushka and Valya. Things certainly do change. And I didn’t come here merely to see the girls. I came here to do what I can to change things for the better.
My phone vibrates and I check it quickly, in case Semyon has something important for me. But it’s not Semyon. It’s Danny. Need your help. Labels in Russian.
I apologize to Valya and the girls before I respond. At the hospital now, I tell Danny.
How far?
2 km? Which doesn’t tell him how long it’ll take me to get back, what he probably really wants to know. I’ll be back soon enough. I turn back to Melanyushka. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she rasps. She takes a breath to say something else, but instead she coughs, hard.
Sveta and Valya watch her carefully, patting her back. I hold her free hand, and she squeezes.
“You are very brave,” I tell her once the coughing has subsided.
“As brave as she must be, she always says,” Sveta repeats. She sets the embroidery aside, and curls up next to her sister on the bed. “Too brave for a little girl.”
I remember the incident the day of Ksena’s baptism — Melanyushka climbed on their apartment building’s roof that morning, because the girl never understood fear. Valya and I take turns telling and embellishing the story, till the building’s twenty stories tall, and Melanyushka isn’t just prohibited from playing up there, she was expressly forbidden by every adult on the planet, and she isn’t just sitting on the roof, she’s swinging from the flagpole. Melanyushka can’t say much, but her silent laughter is more than enough.
We all spin tales of friends-of-a-friend-of-a-friend who defied their parents or less immutable laws, like gravity. All of us except Melanyushka, though I’m not sure whether she’s too weak to talk or it hurts. (It’s throat cancer, after all.)
We’ve barely begun our second round of storytelling when Melanyushka’s eyelids droop. She fights to stay awake through her dad’s story, but we all know she’s done for the night. The nurse bustles in and unhooks her IVs, dismissing us without a word.
“Come, she needs rest.” Valya kisses her on the forehead, then beckons Sveta to bring the cheap wheelchair from the opposite corner. “The treatments leave her weaker than the cancer.”
Valya lifts his daughter into the chair and herds us into the hallway. “Sestra Reynolds, you must come to our house. I’m sure Sveta can find some dessert.”
Melanyushka isn’t the only one who had to grow up fast. Valya’s military assignment here left them far from family, and with her mother gone, Sveta must be running the house at twelve.
“I can’t impose.” I kick myself mentally. This is a terrible, terrible insult. “I have to get back to work. My friend needs my help tonight.”
“Your friend,” Valya repeats. Nothing about his expression or his voice betrays his skepticism, and yet, it’s still there. You’d have to be an amazing friend to fly halfway around the world, huh?
“Come,” Valya says, “let us walk out together.”
I follow them to the elevator. Melanyushka rests with her head in her hands, while Sveta reports on the other families I knew when I lived here, the few teenagers at church. The account is stereotypical Russia: the good and the bad, triumphs and struggles, victors and victims. Life here is hard, but they love life and they love their home.
With each story of Sveta’s and each story of the building, we get closer to our farewells. My opportunity is slipping through my fingers. I still don’t know how to approach Valya, though I’ve pinned down his motivations and values. (Hint: she’s sitting in the wheelchair.)
The congregation’s small enough that Sveta finishes the catch-up before we hit the ground floor. My stomach keeps heading down.
My last chance to pitch him. To get help for Melanyushka.
I let Sveta get ahead of us in the elevator alcove. One quick glance at my bug scanner: green. Clear. I grab Valya’s elbow and my chance. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I cast a meaningful look in Sveta’s direction, then down at Melanyushka’s back. “Alone?”
He cocks an eyebrow but calls his older daughter. “Sveta, take Melanyushka to the car.”
Sveta hurries back. Valya gives her the wheelchair and the car keys. I lean down to give Melanyushka the customary kiss on the cheek. “Be strong.” She doesn’t open her eyes to see the silent postscript in mine: I’m doing all I can. Hold on.
Hope it’s enough.
I bid Sveta goodbye, too, and she starts for the car. Good. Hopefully privacy helps me build this proposition carefully, instead of heeding the adrenaline beating in my pulse. Someone else could eventually do this, yes, but it would take months to get acquainted with Valya and build up trust — months Melanyushka doesn’t have.
All I’ve got right now is that he already trusts me and I know his values and motivations: his daughter.
“You want to do more for Melanyushka,” I begin.
“Certainly.”
“And she’d get better treatment in Moscow, or abroad?”
Valya sighs, resigned. “We could never afford it. There is no money.”
I make sure my breaths stay at a deliberate pace, but it still feels like I’m rushing.
Of course I am. Who wouldn’t rush to save a dying little girl? “What if I got you money?”
“Sestra Reynolds, we couldn’t ask that.”
I give him a sad smile. “Wish I had that kind of money to give you.”
“Then what are we talking about?”
Up to now, I’ve been standing on the shore, tracing a path across a frozen river, picking out the transparent trail of ice where it’s safe to tread. I’ve mapped the territory as best I can from a distance. Only way to find out if it’s passable is to move forward.
With anyone else, I’d still be working on a relationship of trust. I’d still be gauging his reactions. I don’t know what Valya’s will be, but I do know that his daughter’s life is worth this tiny risk to my own. Cold pitching an active-duty, no-reason-to-be-disloyal soldier? Not my best idea. But our only choice. “I have friends who could help. A lot.”
“Members of your congregation?”
Hadn’t crossed my mind, and maybe — but that’s not guaranteed. Mine is. “No.” I meet his gaze. “I’m not an interpreter.”
I order my lungs to work against my ribs’ iron grip. I’m vulnerable, but more than that, I need Valya to say yes. Melanyushka needs him to. I focus all my attention on drinking in the fire hose of his nonverbal feedback.
Silence slips between us. Valya stands there, disbelieving, but I don’t have to explain. This is Russia. I’m an American. What more do I have to say? The city’s newspaper ran front page articles profiling missionaries, speculating about whether we worked for an American church or the American government. (Only one sends teenagers to do its work.)
The set to Valya’s jaw hardens to steel. “Were you always—?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I
was a missionary. You know that.”
He pivots on his heel, takes three steps out of the alcove, and then turns back. “You’re saying . . .”
I follow to keep my volume down. “You work at the district headquarters, don’t you? You have access—”
“Nyet. I cannot. I won’t.” He raises his gaze to the ceiling, like he’s remembering Melanyushka’s treatment upstairs. Or maybe he’s thinking of Ksena. Or God.
I’m still in observational overdrive, soaking in every gesture, searching for something to help my case. “It’s for Melanyushka. I’d never ask otherwise, but it’s the only way — I just want to help.”
Valya starts walking without acknowledging me. I keep pace with him. “Please, let us help. No one will get hurt, and she’ll have the best care, we’ll take care of everything, no danger—”
“Only to my career. Only to my integrity. Only to my soul.”
“I’m not asking—”
“Aren’t you?” Valya stops at the doors and glares at me. “The answer is no,” he says in English, as if he wasn’t getting through to me in Russian. He pushes through the glass doors to the street. “Find someone else to do your dishonest work.”
“Wait.” I follow him five feet, concentrating on him one more eternity, pleading, praying, imploring. If I thought begging would help, I’d be on my knees.
But every second I stare at him, the hatred runs deeper.
I was only trying to save Melanyushka. And I failed. I close my mouth, fall a step back, shut down my hyperfocus and let him go.
Valya’s ten feet away when I hear the footfall behind me.
My breath crystallizes in my chest. Did I not escape Eager Igor? Is Valya in danger?
Am I?
My brain tries to switch to self-defense mode, but it just keeps flipping through the pages like that chapter’s missing.
Valya’s rejection might not be tonight’s low point.
I fight off the urge to whirl around and look. Not yet — I have to make sure Valya gets away at least. I stand there long enough to make sure he’s out of sight, then, shaking a finger at myself like I forgot something important, I pivot.
And run right into the person behind me. The streetlight behind him casts a shadow across his face, but that’s not the only thing menacing about him. He’s just standing there, waiting for me to notice him.
Panic crawls up my throat — and then I recognize him. Danny, buttoned up, scarf and hat and all. I don’t need to be afraid, but I’m still not sure this is good news. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Didn’t want you to have to visit your friend alone.” He glances after Valya. “Tell me that’s not what I think.”
“You heard one sentence.” (One sentence that anyone who doesn’t know who I am wouldn’t understand.) “Don’t take it out of context.”
Yeah, once I say it, I detect the massive rationalization.
“Put it in context.”
I scan the streets. It’s after dark, so foot traffic isn’t heavy, but we’re far from alone. I consult my mental map of the city. Major landmarks wouldn’t move in five years, but I don’t think a hospital or a jail is a good place to talk.
A cemetery. There’s a cemetery around here. Those are kinda hard to move, right? I start in the general direction. It’s past the university — I check across the street. The university. I think I can find it now. “Let’s walk,” I say.
I lead him across the street and down the block to the cemetery entrance. Cemeteries in Russia are always interesting, though the Jewish Tatar cemetery is kind of specialized. Not too many Heroes of the Soviet Union or cultural icons with sculptured gravestones in here, but if I remember right there are a few interesting memorials that might attract tourists (us).
Not that we’ll have a lot to see in the dark. We stick to the path. I maneuver closer to Danny. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to protect him or help him protect me. There’s no one (alive) around, but privacy can be a paradox. Yes, you’re safe from prying eyes, but sometimes you need the safety of other people if something worse, bigger, scarier comes along.
Hopefully they’ll stay out of the graveyards, though, right?
I kick off the conversation. “How did you get here?”
“You’d be amazed what being nice to the concierge gets you.”
The location of all hospitals within two kilometers? Apparently. “Nice job.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised. I’m not totally helpless, thank you.”
“Did I say you were?”
“It’s not what you say.”
“I—” I guess I have a bad habit of separating the people in my life into CIA/not CIA boxes. Being in the latter — mostly clueless civilians — is often not a compliment. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“With your friend?” Danny jerks a thumb the way we came. Where Valya was.
I glance around and still can’t see anyone. I slow to a stroll. “His daughter needs better treatment. Her cancer’s aggressive.”
“That’s not ‘dishonest work.’”
I sigh and watch the condensation cloud dissipate before I dare respond. “We’d pay him.”
“You mean, if he works for you.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and I snap to search the shadows. We’re still alone, but I need to check my scanner. The cemetery’s got to be bugged, remnants of the KGB era. I’m not sure even the dead are allowed secrets.
Green lights. Whatever’s out there isn’t active. We’re clear, but we may not be safe. “We aren’t a charity,” I murmur.
“Uh huh. And what about that ‘honoring, obeying and sustaining the law’ thing?”
Great. The guy’s quoting scripture to me. And yes, Valya is under that obligation — but so am I. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
I stop short and search the dark cemetery trees once again, though there’s no sign of life. “Illegal everywhere, remember?”
“There’s a world of difference between you and him.”
“Is there?” I fold my arms, but stay close, barely breathing out my next words. “Day one, lesson two: our objective is to recruit spies and steal secrets. Am I supposed to worry about their morals, too?”
In the streetlight filtering through the trees, I can’t see much of his expression, but I don’t like the steel there.
“This is part of my job,” I say. “All of it. If you find it distasteful—”
“I find you doing your job with a friend from church distasteful, yeah.”
The words sting like a slap, and I’m stunned into gaping silence for a moment. “Probably something you should’ve thought of two weeks ago,” I manage. “Sorry I don’t get to operate on the same moral compass you do.”
“Convenient,” Danny says, not quite as careful to keep his voice down. “Your ‘moral compass’ is ‘different.’”
“It is. And if you want to talk convenience, which of us gets to live in a world of absolutes and easy answers?”
“Lecturing me on morality, after what I just saw?” His scorn is louder than his volume.
I turn to leave the cemetery, but he blocks my path. “After what I did for you today?”
“What do you mean?”
“The USB drives.”
I roll my eyes. Filching a couple flash drives from an FSB officer is a different axis on the moral scale compared to inducing someone to pass along secrets. Especially to save his daughter. Does Danny want to explain that to Melanyushka?
But he doesn’t have to, and neither does Valya now. “Guess it’s a good thing he said no.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Where does that leave us? The things I do are completely illegal — and they don’t cause me a moment of lost sleep. Can Danny live with that? With someone who’s made peace with living like that?
That’s a question too terrifying to ask. I wheel away and scan the dark grounds
.
“What are you looking for?” Danny demands.
I turn back, keeping up my pace. “Zombies.” The eye-roll (and the truth) is unnecessary.
“No one. Is. Following. Us. We’re the only people here. We’re fine.”
“I was followed on my way out of the hotel. Today. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
“Keep . . . me . . .” He slowly pulls back, studying me with a frown that grows more serious by the second. “They’re always on your tail, aren’t they?”
I barely dare to meet his gaze, heat rising in my chest. “Excuse me?”
“You run like someone’s chasing you everywhere. You stop at grocery stores and restaurants and post offices on your way to the bathroom—”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Barely.”
Once again, I’m reeling from the verbal blow. Danny’s teased me about my professional paranoia before, but the anger in his voice — I had no idea he resented it so deeply. Something that’s saved my life more than once. Today. “If you really think that’s true, that it’s in my head and I’m crazy, then say my name. Right now.”
Even when I let my cover down, he’s never called me Talia since we left Paris. Not once. Somewhere, on some level, he must know this is real, the threat.
But Danny scoffs, his march not missing a beat.
I can’t believe this. “Is this a game to you? You get to play at my job, while I keep us safe, and you—”
“Keep us safe? Are you kidding?”
Now he doesn’t believe me? “You keep saying you trust me.” I hold my volume to a controlled whisper. “But you question every single move.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Every move that involves your new BFF, you do. You know who invented ‘Trust, but verify,’ right?”
“Reagan?” Danny snarks.
“Russia. ‘Doveryai, no proveryai.’”
Danny stops again, a few feet from the entrance. “When do we get to the ‘verify’ part? Do you have a single shred of anything that proves he’s who you think he is?” He pauses to search my face. “Or is it just you?”
The words sink into my stomach like depth charges. He doesn’t believe I need to be this cautious. Even here, where I absolutely cannot afford let my tradecraft slip. He thinks I’m overreacting. Jumping at shadows. The bad kind of paranoia.
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 72