But after one more push, it was a boy. Tears streamed down Stephen’s and Jane’s faces as the newborn suckled at her breast. Stephen had never felt such intense love as he felt that day for his wife and his son. Nothing could stop him, nothing could mar the joy that he felt. He kissed his wife repeatedly, brushing her auburn hair from her eyes. His life had taken on a new meaning that day, a new purpose. He was going to be the best provider, the most selfless man the world had ever seen.
The nurse took their son and placed him in a small bassinet and wheeled him out of the room.
Stephen leaned down to his wife. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said with a smile more radiant than Stephen had ever seen before.
“You gave me a son.”
“You’re welcome.” Jane’s smile wouldn’t diminish.
Stephen looked at her, finding her more beautiful in all of her sweaty, messy glory, and leaned down to hug her.
“Promise me that you will never stop loving us.”
Stephen held her eye. “I like the sound of that. Us.” He stared at her a moment, memorizing her face as it overflowed with joy. “I promise.”
“Mr. Kelley.” The nurse was back, fresh towels in hand. “Sorry to interrupt you, but we would like to get your wife cleaned up.”
Stephen nodded.
“Why don’t you go see what they’re doing to our son, make sure no one hurts him. You’re responsible for someone besides me now,” Jane said with a small wave of her hand as she watched him walk out the door.
Stephen walked down the hall to the nursery. After a few minutes of searching, he found his son. They were running the usual tests, bathing him, making him more respectable-looking than he had been at birth. Stephen marveled at his little fingers and toes, amazed at his pinky toenail, inconceivably tiny, undoubtedly perfect. Stephen dreamed of teaching him to ride a bike, play baseball, share the Red Sox with him. All things dad. All things son. He lingered for almost an hour watching his swaddled child stir in his sleep.
Stephen finally walked out of the nursery and headed to Jane’s room. She wasn’t there. He thought nothing of it and walked back to the delivery room. He peered through the porthole glass in the swinging door and saw her still on the gurney. He walked in the room. She didn’t stir. He walked over to her, looking at her face, watching her sleep as he so often did. The moment hung in the air. And something wasn’t right. He felt her cheek, cool to the touch.
“Jane?” Stephen whispered.
Nothing.
“Jane?” Louder this time. He nudged her.
No response.
“Jane?!” Stephen shouted, shaking her.
The swinging doors exploded open with doctors and nurses.
But it was too late.
Her heart, so filled with joy and love, had stopped.
Two hours later, after listening to the doctors ramble on about cardiac arrest, about their sympathy for his loss, he staggered down the hall. Back to the nursery.
As he looked at the innocent child, sleeping in his blue cotton blanket so soundly, so peacefully, his mind started to race. What will I tell my son about his mother? How could life be so cruel to rob a newborn of his maternal right before he even had a chance to be loved?
The agony of Stephen’s loss was only surpassed by the agony of his decision regarding his son. Without Jane, he knew he was unfit. Without a partner, he was incapable of giving the child the upbringing he would need. He had no family he could trust, neither on his side or Jane’s. Nobody would be coming to his aid, no one to even offer a helping hand. He and his son were alone in the world.
St. Catherine’s Orphanage understood his decision and explained that they would quickly find a proper home for the boy. And so they did.
Stephen followed Michael’s upbringing from afar, never disclosing his identity to the St. Pierres; they were his parents now, they were his family. He had checked them out and couldn’t have been more pleased with the couple that would be raising his child. He would occasionally show up in Byram Hills, an unidentified man at sporting events, watching as Michael St. Pierre won the football game or the hockey game. He learned that Michael’s grades were good at the Catholic high school he was attending. Stephen was proud but he would never violate the St. Pierre family’s sanctity. Stephen knew he had made the right decision.
With the death of Michael’s parents, Stephen considered revealing himself, but seeing the love that Michael had felt for his parents, he knew there was no room in his world for another father and decided some answers were best kept hidden.
And then he read of Michael’s arrest in New York City at the wall in Central Park. Caught stealing a bejeweled cross from an embassy. Michael was convicted and sent to prison. Stephen’s anger was overwhelming, second only to the shame he felt for judging a son he had abandoned. Michael’s actions bewildered him, so contrary to his assumptions, to what he had seen in his son. Would this have happened if he hadn’t given him up? The irony struck Stephen that Peter could have prosecuted Michael had the incident occurred in Boston. Conflicted and confused, Stephen stopped looking into Michael’s life: for three years he wiped him from his mind, renouncing any thought he had of ever contacting him.
But then he heard from Mary; she came in search of her husband’s father, Michael’s father. She had been given Kelley’s name by St. Catherine’s Orphanage as their biggest benefactor, their most politically connected advocate, and had sought his help, oblivious to his true identity. Stephen saw the disease that wracked her body, the death in her eyes, and knew it was only a matter of time. He knew what it was like to lose the one you love, your reason for living, your reason for hope. He knew full well the agony of having your heart ripped from your chest, having lost both of his wives and his son.
In all of Stephen’s years, he had shared nothing with Michael, acting only as a distant spectator—until now: grief was the cruelest common denominator.
As Stephen stood on the balcony, the warm sea breeze nothing but a distraction, the irony struck him; it was his punishment for forsaking his paternal obligation, it was his fate, his karma, the hand he dealt himself. For now his life, his very survival, lay in the hands of Michael St. Pierre, the son he had abandoned.
Chapter 18
Michael opened the passenger door of the Corvette.
“I’m sorry I’m not coming with you,” Busch said from the driver’s seat as he held out his hand.
Michael shook it as he smiled. “There’s nothing to say. Jeannie would have my hide if I dragged you into my mess.”
“You sure about this?” Busch said in all seriousness. “It’s your dad, I know. But Michael, it’s a reach, even for you.”
“Would you do any less if you were in my place?” Michael pulled his satchel out of the car and threw it over his shoulder.
Busch paused. “Probably not,” he said. “Be careful. I don’t need to be hopping a plane to come and save your ass again.”
Michael smiled as he stepped from the car.
“And listen, watch out for that Susan.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. She’s got anger management issues. Being stuck with her in Russia would fry my nerves.” Busch paused, thinking…and finally smiled. “She is kind of cute, though.”
Michael simply laughed and shook his head as he closed the door and watched Busch drive off. He turned and walked up the sidewalk to an enormous airplane hangar.
Kelley and Kelley. The polished brass plaque gleamed in the midday sun, its large lettering fit for the sign of an Irish pub. Michael stared at it, realizing that it was the name of his father’s law firm, recently rechristened to include Peter. And Michael, for the first time, realized that person was his brother—half-brother, but brother nonetheless. Michael was raised as an only child by the St. Pierres, always kind of wishing he had a sibling. Well, now he did…or had.
Michael opened the door and walked into the hangar. The jet was a Bombar
dier Global Express XRS, a long-distance corporate jet used to shuttle Kelley and his associates to wherever the money beckoned or the client demanded. It sat nineteen comfortably, had a top speed of 590 mph and a crew of three. It was thirty-eight million dollars of airborne luxury. A crew swarmed the jet, fueling it, tuning it, polishing it, and loading it up.
Michael walked through the enormous hangar—more like a cavern—carrying the satchel that contained Julian’s portfolio, Genevieve’s map, and nothing else.
Susan stood at the base of the jet’s stairs with two pin-striped lawyerly men, a look of surprise on her face. “Don’t you need supplies?”
Michael pointed at his head. “This is all I need to carry. Once we get there and I see the lay of the land, I’ll figure out a plan, then I’ll pick up what I need.”
Susan stared at Michael a moment with a look of concern, then turned back to the two men. They continued their conversation in hushed tones, just out of earshot of Michael. Michael took advantage of Susan’s inattention and stared at her. It was as if he noticed her for the first time. Busch was right: she was beautiful, her looks unmarred by her aggressive personality. Her dark hair framed her face and accented her brown eyes. Michael found himself lost in the moment but quickly shook it off. Though the two men she conversed with seemed twice her age, she was in charge of the conversation and appeared to be the alpha male—or female, in this case. She spoke with a confidence belying her youth, direct and firm in her convictions. And Michael felt a twinge of fear. Her overconfidence, that know-it-all answer she had for every scenario, would only get in the way of Michael’s plans. And if things were not done Michael’s way, it might mean death. She might be in charge here in the U.S., but once they reached Russia she would be consigned to the role of girl Friday: she would do Michael’s bidding, be his supplier, and stay out of the way. And while he knew that wasn’t going to go over well, he was kind of looking forward to seeing her reaction.
Susan wrapped up her conversation and led the way up the stairs into the plane. As Michael stepped into the passenger area, he was taken aback by the expensive décor and exacting detail. All around were furnishings of the highest standard: teak window shades, a large oak desk, a suede button-tuck couch. Michael took a seat in a large leather chair that seemed more appropriate to a living room than a jet.
An older man, bald, on the south side of middle age, took a seat at a small table across from Susan. He unlatched a maroon leather briefcase to reveal bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills.
“A million extra just in case, this should cover you,” the bald man said. “Are you sure about not bringing the FBI in on this?”
“I’m afraid that would only lead to Stephen’s death.”
Michael looked at her, hearing his argument used by his former opponent, who, for the moment, had become his ally.
“No offense, Susan, but you are the least qualified for this. I really think you should bring some help,” the bald man said. “You’ve never been to Russia. Things work much differently there.”
“Martin, as long as you’re coming, that’s all the help I’ll need.”
Martin turned to Michael. His face was worn, there were no smile lines, no sign that this man had ever laughed in his life. “If any harm comes to Ms. Newman or Mr. Kelley, this will be the last time you walk the free ground of this country.”
Michael didn’t know if he was referring to his arrest or murder, but he could read it in the man’s eyes: there was an absolute certainty to the threat.
“Thank you, Martin.” Susan dismissed him as he stepped into the cockpit.
“Martin has worked with Stephen for thirty years, his loyalty borders on a psychosis.” Susan smiled. And it was the first smile Michael saw from her.
The jet engines wound up into a high-pitched scream, and the aircraft lurched forward as the two enormous hangar doors parted, revealing the open airstrip before them. Michael felt a momentary fear race through his blood. He was going to be on his own. Susan would provide no assistance beyond financial resources. He usually liked to work alone, but faced with such a monumental task that held his father’s life in the balance, he wished for help. If he failed, the consequences would be unimaginable. Michael looked out the window wondering if he would make it back.
The plane rolled out of the hangar, its ground crew wrapping up their tools as the giant doors began to close. The private hangar was set off beyond the main hustle and bustle of Logan Airport. Michael watched as planes of all sizes took off in the distance. It would be a few minutes down the causeway to enter the queue. As the plane began to taxi out along the tarmac, a yellow Corvette came racing through the gate of the private hangar area, shortcutting into the hangar, and exploded out the nearly closed doors onto the tarmac, racing the jet.
The Vette sped ahead and screeched into a side skid, coming to halt twenty yards ahead of the jet. Busch leapt out of the car, a bag over his shoulder, his long blond hair blowing in the breeze, and stuck out his thumb, hitching a ride.
Chapter 19
Sergei Raechen lay in his bed in Alexandria, Virginia, his labored breathing straining his six-year-old lungs. Vera Bronshenko wiped his forehead and tucked him in. She smiled at him deeply with a glint in her eye, her old wrinkled face filled with warmth. “Rest now, my child. Daddy will be home soon.”
Sergei closed his eyes, drifting back into a merciful slumber.
Vera’s smile dissolved as she watched her grandson fall back to sleep. She couldn’t go through this again. It was déjà vu. Not four years earlier, she had tended to her daughter, Janalise, in the same fashion, only to watch her wither and die. And the cruel hand of fate did not let the disease skip a generation. It had emerged five months ago, pulling the once-vibrant child into a lethargic state, his body wracked with pain as he slowly deteriorated from the inside. The doctors had no name for the illness, let alone a cure. They were only sure of one thing: this was the same condition that had killed young Sergei’s mother.
Vera walked out of the boy’s room and stepped onto the back porch, her body weak from anguish and lack of sleep. She looked at the backyard, at Sergei’s swing set and trampoline, both of which had sat idle since he was taken ill. Her son-in-law’s home was upscale, in an exclusive suburb of Washington. It was where her daughter had dreamed of living and where they had settled when her son-in-law retired from the Russian Embassy. She was surrounded with all the trappings of wealth, the American dream that she never dared dream of back in Kiev. But to Vera it was all a curse. The rewards of American hard work were but a mocking stare as she was being forced to watch her family die around her. She cursed God for not striking her down instead of her daughter or her grandson. It was a cruel twist of fate; she was vigorous, strong, and healthy in her later years, yet she had no one to share them with. And now she was alone in this big house, Sergei’s father having run off to Russia, another foolhardy journey in search of a miracle cure. He had said that the Russian doctors were confident they could help Sergei, but they needed Raechen’s expertise one last time.
Vera had watched as her son-in-law, Ilya, crumbled with grief at the condition of his son. He had never gotten over the death of his wife, but took comfort in the fact that she lived on in Sergei. Now the last thing he loved was being torn from him. He had searched high and low for a cure, he spoke to every doctor in every clinic he could find throughout the world, but they only responded with sympathy and medical curiosity at the unknown disease that was wasting his child. Ilya had turned to homeopathic medicine, dietary modifications, even prayer, but all without success. And so when the phone call came with the promise of a cure, Ilya did not question his employers. For they had offered hope, something that was waning in Ilya along with his son’s life. Ilya had raced off in the middle of the night and hadn’t been back for five days now. He had remained in touch and promised to be home soon.
And while Vera had felt a touch of hope and was holding out for a miracle, it was soon replaced by fear. Whatever I
lya was being asked to do, she knew it would involve the darkest of deeds. She knew what her son-in-law had been before he had retired from the Russian government. She knew what he was capable of. He specialized in the unspoken conduct of governments, the acts committed for the homeland, unspeakable and damning to the soul. And while Ilya had earlier been motivated by love of his country and, even more so, the love of money, this time he had a far greater incentive. He was motivated by his love for his son. Vera knew he wouldn’t fail, no matter the obstacles before him. Ilya was a man without a soul, having sacrificed it in favor of his KGB directives decades ago. He was a man who had killed for his country; she could only imagine what he would do for his child.
Before turning around to go back in the house, she looked at the swing set, picturing young Sergei upon it, and she thought maybe, just maybe, it would come to pass. She prayed that Ilya’s employers would deliver on their promise. And as she opened the door, she said one last prayer: God save whoever got in Raechen’s way.
Chapter 20
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as the jet headed out over the Atlantic Ocean. They had quickly climbed to thirty-seven thousand feet without the slightest bit of turbulence; if Busch hadn’t seen the ocean below he would have thought he was sitting in his recliner above the bar. He marveled at his surroundings. It appeared no cost was spared to provide the finest of luxuries to the passengers. Plasma TV screens, individual air phones in every seat, a fully stocked galley, and every type of entertainment at each passenger’s beck and call. Not to mention the elegant conference table and couches that would have looked more natural in a men’s club on Fifth Avenue.
“Jeannie is going to have a fit,” Michael said from his large leather chair.
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