by Evelyn Glass
“He’s not!” I call across the garden. “I swear to it, he’s not. I was taken hostage on a yacht just off the coast by Russian gangsters. They were trying to use me as a sex slave. Roma impersonated an American politician and bought me. He saved me. He’s not a bad man and he doesn’t want to hurt you!”
The old man’s eyes flit to me and then back to Roma. “This true?”
“It’s true,” Roma says. “You remember Zherkov?”
The old man nods.
“What about Barinov?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, he’s dead. He tried to rape her and I snapped his neck. We jumped overboard and swam through the night. In a way, we were lucky Barinov attacked her when we did . . . right on the coast of your French slice of heaven.”
The old man continues to look down the barrel of the gun, but he seems more reluctant.
Roma sighs. “You’re not going to kill a woman, Bear. We both know that. And sure, maybe you could kill me. But I bet it gets awful lonely out here. How’re you going to sleep knowing I’m buried a few feet from your house? It’s me, Bear. Do you remember the Arena?”
For a moment, the old man’s eyes glisten.
“What’s the Arena?” I ask, seeing the effect it has. I lower my arms, my shoulders aching from the swim, and the old man doesn’t seem to notice.
“He remembers it like it was something out of legend,” the old man says, a wry smile on his lips. “In his mind it’s a huge arena like out of ancient Rome or something. In truth, the Arena was behind a Chinese takeout place; I had an apartment above it. It was a few chairs gathered around a rain-soaked stone. We used to fight there. At least, he used to think we were fighting. I’d use one hand and train him up. Got good, didn’t you, lad?”
“You let me win.” Roma’s back is to me, but I hear his smile in his voice.
“Aye, guess I did.” The man lowers the gun.
“Alright, guess you two better come in. Too old and tired to do any shooting at this time of day. Anyway, the old coots round here might hear the gunshot and come snooping. They’re already suspicious of the old white-haired bear who’s moved into their ass-end-of-nowhere neighborhood.”
He steps aside. Roma turns to me, holding out his hand. I step over the overgrown plants and take his hand. Together, we walk into the house.
The old man steps in front of me, looming two heads above me. I have to crane my head to look up at him. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen, even bigger than Roma. He must be almost seven foot, and wide.
“My name’s Bear, by the way.” He offers me his paw.
I take it and he shakes my hand so hard I think my shoulder will dislocate.
“My name is Felicity,” I tell him.
He grins, showing yellow teeth. “Nice to meet you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Felicity
We’re led into the living room which is completely at odds with the garden. Where the garden is mayhem, this is order. The couch and the two armchairs are pressed firmly against opposite walls with a sparkling oak coffee table in between. Off to one side, a smaller table sits with a radio upon it. A glass cabinet displays various knickknacks: bullets and photographs and ornaments. The photographs are of Bear, but younger; he has two eyes and a happy grin. Most are black and white. I guess by the time color became the norm, he’d already lost his eye.
“Expected this to be a mess,” Roma says, as we stand at the doorway.
“I rarely go outside, except to the market in the village over the hill, so it doesn’t matter much what outside looks like. But if I’m going to spend the rest of my life here, I want it to be tidy.”
“Makes sense,” Roma nods.
Bear waves a hand at the couch. “Don’t stand to attention.”
We sit on the couch, side by side, our legs touching. I thought he might die. Something has happened to me, something which is at once confusing, terrifying, exhilarating. I have become attached to this man, attached to him in ways I never thought I’d become attached to any man. I don’t consider myself the easily-pleased type. I don’t think of myself as a woman who can be swept off her feet. But I can’t deny that Roma has done just that . . . in an alternative sort of way. No fancy dinners and helicopter rides for us. But who else can say their man killed for them, saved their life? My man, I think, astonished by how easy that sounds in my mind. Yes, my man.
“I’ll get some coffee,” Bear says. “And some bread and some cheese, aye? Bet you two are starving.”
“And some socks,” Roma says, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Aye, alright.”
Bear leaves the room and Roma turns to me. His dark blue eyes hold a hint of worry. “Really thought he was going to kill me then,” he says.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“He raised me, pretty much. The only man I’ve ever had to look up to. Found me when I was seven or eight and raised me up.”
“Found you? Found you where?”
“On the streets,” Roma says. He flinches, as though he’s said too much. I touch his face. His jaw fits perfectly into my palm. It feels like it belongs there. “You never have to hide anything from me.”
He nods shortly. “As strange as it is, I believe you.”
Bear comes back into the room making a lot of noise, huffing and breathing heavy, carrying a huge wooden platter of bread and cheese. He places it on the table and then reaches into his pocket, taking out two rolled-up pairs of socks. He drops them on the couch and then leaves the room again. A moment later, he returns with two jugs and three glasses, all of it gripped in his huge hands.
He drops into one of the armchairs opposite us after he’s laid it all out. “Wine.” He points to one jug. “Water.” He points to the other. “Just don’t ask me to turn one into the other. I can turn both into piss, but that’s as far as my parlor tricks go.”
He lets out a booming laugh. It’s infectious and Roma and I chuckle.
Bear waves at the food. “Tuck in.”
I started salivating the second he brought the food in. I can’t remember the last time I ate and the nighttime swim and the walk through the morning sun has only made me hungrier. I take up a huge chunk of bread and a slab of cheese, not even bothering to slice the bread, and begin munching. Roma does the same, leaning forward and eating efficiently, like a man in the army or prison. I doubt he even tastes the food. As hungry as I am, neither do I. We shovel the food in for around five minutes in almost-complete silence, the only noises our munching and glugging as we down water, and Bear’s occasional chuckles when one of us coughs on our food.
When we’re done, I sit back, tired, my belly fit to burst.
Bear is like a different man now he’s invited us into his home. His hostility is gone and he smiles easily at Roma. “It’s been a long time, lad,” he says. He holds a glass of wine in his hand. It’s almost empty. With one swift movement, he drains it, and then pours himself another. “How is life treating you?”
“Fine,” Roma says. Is his voice tight, or am I imagining that? I’m not sure. “Good, just working. Making as much money as I can.”
“Ah.” Bear runs his finger along the rim of his glass. “And you’re still working for Mister . . .” He trails off, glancing at me, and then finishes: “. . . Mister Smith?”
“He’s still in charge, yes,” Roma says.
Bear turns to me. “Politics!” he laughs. “I can’t make any sense of it. Ever since Mister Smith took control, the organization has become more and more politicized. I never understood why a business like ours needed to bother with politics, but there you are . . . I’m just a relic from a simpler time, I suppose.”
“My dad’s a politician,” I say. If Bear used to work for the private contractor my dad hired, I see no harm in telling him. Anyway, Roma didn’t seem to mind when I gave him my real name.
“Is that so?” Bears says, before sipping his wine.
“He’s the American ambassador to Russia.”<
br />
Bear goes quiet for a moment. Something flickers behind his eye; it’s like wheels spinning behind his gaze are reflecting the sunlight which slants through the curtains. He looks to Roma and then back again. Then he smiles. “I suppose that’s why this one was sent after you, aye?”
“Yes, my father hired him.”
“Your father is Greg Fellows.”
I nod. “You’ve heard of him?”
He gestures at the radio. “I listen to the news sometimes. He has some very progressive views about Russian-American relations, if I’m not mistaken. About crime and the like. Wants to set up a joint task force with the Russian and American secret service to help reduce international crime. He calls it—”
“Tackling the syndicates,” I finish. I can see Dad’s face clearly as he says it, his politician’s voice rising, his eyes alive with hope. “That’s correct.”
“Russian and American crime syndicates . . . your father also has eyes toward the White House, doesn’t he?”
“He’s always had eyes toward the White House.”
I smile as I remember him sitting me up on his knee when I was a girl. It was a few years after Mom died and I could see he was tired, always tired from working and raising me alone. But he always found time to give me some one-on-one attention, to make me feel special. I can hear him now: There’s a peaceful solution for everything, Felicity. And when I’m Mr. President I’ll do everything I can, in every situation, to follow that solution.
“Ah,” Bear says. He takes another sip of his wine. His white beard is stained red. “Yes, a very good man, with lots of support. Not from the Russian and American syndicates, though!” He lets out a guffaw.
I smile and glance at Roma. He’s smiling, too. But there’s something in his eyes. Worry, maybe. I tell myself I’m imagining it, just as I was imagining the tightness in his voice.
“You should’ve seen this one as a boy,” Bear says, pointing to Roma. “Had the goofiest smile you’ve ever seen. All teeth.”
“Bear . . .”
“The sweetest little boy you’ve ever seen,” Bear goes on, ignoring Roma. “Gap teeth and a cheeky grin and . . .” Suddenly, he goes quiet. “Anyway, I bet you two are tired, aye? Why not take a nap? I have a spare room, though I don’t have any clue why. It’s not like I have any visitors.”
I yawn. “I am tired,” I admit.
I stretch my arms above my head and side to side, feel the muscles in my body contract with the effort.
“I’ll think I’ll take you up on the offer,” I say.
Bear nods and stands up, waving me toward the door.
“I’m not tired,” Roma says, watching Bear.
I glance back at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “Go on ahead, Felicity. I’m too wired to sleep.”
I shrug. I get the sense he could go forever without getting tired. “Okay.”
Bear leads me up the stairs to a small room in which a single bed sits and nothing else. “Door open or closed?” he asks.
“Closed,” I say. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep with a door open after Barinov.
Bear closes the door and I immediately lock it behind him. Not that I don’t trust these men. But the phantom of Barinov’s sweating body still haunts me.
I lie on the bed. I think I’ll be awake for a long time, too wired just like Roma, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, exhaustion takes me and I sink into a deep sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Roma
I wait in the living room for Bear, trying to keep myself calm. I’m a killer. I’ve roamed across the States and killed bad men my entire life. I’ve killed men with sniper rifles from a quarter-mile away and thought nothing of it. I’ve been in bars when four men have turned on me and I’ve beat every damn one of them. I’ve killed and I’ve fought my entire life. And through it all, I’ve been calm. I’ve never let anything shake me. But Bear . . . Bear is different. If there’s one person on this planet who can get to me like nobody else can, it’s Bear. And listening to his footsteps as he walks down the stairs—slow, as though he doesn’t want to reach the bottom—I’m nervous.
I, a man trained killers and ruthless men refuse to look in the eye, am nervous.
The door to the living room opens slowly, the door creaking. The sound seems to slide over my skin like something alive, squeaking, pressing against me. My breathing comes quick. I never knew my dad, my mom, anyone. I’m a nowhere man, a specter at the feast, outside the normal run of things. Sometimes, when I’m driving through the suburbs, I glance into people’s windows and see them about their normal business, dinner and TV and family and laughter. I couldn’t be further outside all of that. But in Bear I found a different sort of family, a trainer as well as a father figure, a man I can look up to as well as a man I can fear.
He paces into the room, his solitary eye glaring at me.
“Roma,” he mutters. “Come outside. I need to talk.”
“We can talk in here,” I say.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Because I might shout and that girl doesn’t deserve that.”
With a sigh, I stand up. Bear leads me to the front door and waves down at a pair of boots. “They’ll be too big for you, but it’s better than nothing.”
I pull on the boots. He’s right. They’re too big. I tie the laces as tight as they’ll go and follow him outside. We weave through the overgrowth and walk in silence toward the hill. We walk until the cottage is far away, stopping beside a huge, lonely tree which throws its branches out and shades us from the sun. Bear leans against the trunk of the tree and watches me.
“You’re angry,” I say, facing him.
His lips tremble and his chest is like the rumbling of a volcano before eruption. But when he speaks, his voice is ice. “You’re going to kill that woman’s father,” Bear says. “Mr. Black is a political man and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some goddamn snake’s plan which involved killing the father. I heard about the kidnapping. I heard about the security. As far as I can see, the only reason you’re saving this girl is to get the ambassador to relax his security . . . and then you’ll kill him.”
He’s good. But then, he always has been.
I face his square on. There’s no point in lying now. “That’s right, Bear,” I say.
His lips twist. I can tell he’s trying to keep himself calm. He fails. One second he’s up against the tree, the next he’s in my face, roaring. He moves like light, like a blink, with killer’s speed. “This is exactly the fucking reason I left the fucking game, Roma!” He grabs me by the shirt and brings his face so close to mine I can smell the wine on his breath. He bares his teeth, growling. “Innocents, it’s always the fucking innocents who are caught up in it! Always the innocents who have to pay the price! You’ve saved this girl just so you can kill her father! What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with Mr. Black?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” I say. “There’s more to it.”
I try to keep myself calm. It’s Bear, after all. But there’s only so much a man can take before he fights back, no matter who it is. If any other man tried to grab me like Bear is right now, he’d be levelled out.
“It’s not complicated!” Bear roars. “You’re going to kill her father, Roma. Her father! And don’t play me for a fucking fool! Maybe I’ve lived out here for a long damned time, but don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ve forgotten women. She’s in love with you. Or she’s pretty damn close. And you . . . oh my God.” His voice goes quiet. “And you feel something for her, too,” he mutters in disbelief.
“Let go of me, Bear,” I say, my voice shaking with the effort of staying cool.
“This world is fucked,” Bear says. He takes a step back, letting go of my shirt. “This world is fucked and the most fucked part of it is Mr. Black. Roma, lad, this girl feels something for you. I can see it plain as day. And you feel something for her. You’re lying to her, lad. You’re lyin
g to her and you’re going to ruin her life. Her mother’s dead, isn’t she? Ambassador Fellows’ wife died soon after she was born. Which means you’re going to make this girl an orphan.”
“There’s more to it than that,” I repeat, but my voice sounds weak, my words empty.
“There is never more to it,” Bear says, voice bitter. “That’s just what you and Mr. Black and men like you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night. But the truth it, there’s never more to it than the tears and the blood of the innocent. How many widows have we made? And, aye, when it comes to pedophiles and rapists and killers and the scum, fine, I don’t care. Their fault for marrying evil men. But this man, Roma, and this girl, they’ve never hurt anybody. Why do they deserve the pain?”