by Ally Carter
The protestors have been replaced by spectators who push against barricades. Police cars and fire engines and every news crew in Adria fill the streets. The story has changed, and for a moment, the crowd waits, reverent and still.
But soon … soon they’re going to start looking for Alexei.
The world is right outside that dirty window, but we stay in this dusty, decaying shell of an embassy, none of us certain what comes next.
“We can’t stay here.” Noah can’t stop pacing. He’s right, of course, but I don’t say so. We know the Scarred Man used to meet the prime minister here — maybe other people come here, too. It’s a risk that we can’t take, and Noah knows it.
“Do you think we’d be better off out there?” Megan points to the street.
“We can use the tunnels,” Noah says.
“And come out where?” Megan asks. “Where are we supposed to go? Where is Alexei supposed to go?”
“I don’t know,” Noah snaps. “But I know we can’t stay here.”
“You’re right,” I say. For a moment, I consider the Society and its massive underground headquarters. Ms. Chancellor said that she didn’t think Alexei was guilty, but she didn’t offer to prove that he’s innocent either. I could ask her to hide him. I could ask the Society to help. But they’ve already become embroiled in one international conspiracy on my behalf. And if I’m being honest with myself, it scares me.
If I’m being really honest, a part of me can’t help but fear they might be in the midst of another.
“Grace?” Noah is at my elbow. “Grace, what do you think?”
“You’re both right. We’re probably stuck here until the sun goes down. We’ll find someplace safe for tonight, but eventually we’ve got to get Alexei out of the country. Noah, can you get your mom’s van?”
“Yes, but I won’t.”
“You have to!”
“We can’t just smuggle a hot Russian across the border,” Noah snaps, then realizes what he’s said. “I mean, a fugitive Russian. Not a hot Russian. Not that Alexei isn’t extremely attractive. You are, it’s just that …”
“We get it.” Megan places a hand on his arm and stops him, saving Noah from himself.
Through it all, Alexei is silent. He hasn’t spoken since the street. Maybe it’s the trauma. He almost died. I know how that feels, and the sensation takes a while to get used to.
Megan and Noah are watching him, too. He doesn’t rock, doesn’t shake. It’s more like he’s still seeing it, a nightmare on a loop inside his mind.
He’s so quiet that when he finally whispers, “I knew him,” I’m not sure if Alexei even realizes that he has spoken aloud.
Then he looks at me.
“The man in the car. His name was Mikhail. He was my father’s personal driver. I know him. I mean … I knew him. He taught me to ride a bicycle.”
“I’m so sorry, Alexei,” Megan says, patting his hand. “We’re all so, so sorry.”
Spence is dead. And now Mikhail. People are dying! I want to scream as I look out the window at the chaos that still fills Embassy Row. I’m three years and thousands of miles away from my mother, but it feels like I will never outrun the smoke.
“Grace!” I hear a voice echoing up from the basement. “Grace, are you in —”
“Second floor!” I call, but Rosie is already racing up the stairs. She has a large bag in her hands and the look on her face is sheer terror.
“Grace, I got your text. Where is he? Is he …” But then Rosie sees Alexei, sitting on Iran’s old couch, all color drained from his face but very much alive. She hurls herself across the room and into his arms. Alexei rests his cheek on the top of Rosie’s head as she comes down to rest, cradled in his lap.
“I was so worried,” she croaks out.
“I am okay, Rosemarie. All is well.”
All is not well, but now might not be the time to say so.
“Did you get it?” I ask Rosie, who hands me the bag.
“Of course. It’s a madhouse out there. The embassies are all closed off and the street is blocked and there are television cameras everywhere. But it was easy,” Rosie says, then shrugs. “No one paid any attention to me.”
I open the bag and look down at some men’s clothes and bottles of water, a few protein bars. And, finally, four shiny cell phones. I pull one out and eye it.
“The embassy keeps those for staff and visiting dignitaries,” Rosie says. “No one has used them in months. They won’t be missed.”
Perfect. If Alexei is going to go on the run, he’ll need to be on his own. Or at least it needs to look that way. No one has a reason to be watching Germany.
“Rosie, I love you,” I say.
Rosie shrugs. “Most people do.”
She snuggles closer to Alexei, and he squeezes her tight.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “We’re going to keep you safe until we can find a way to get you out of Adria.”
“I’m not leaving the country.” His voice is strong now, sure.
“You’re not safe here,” I tell him.
“I will not run away like a coward.”
“If you stay here, whoever blew up the car is going to find you. And they are going to kill you. And maybe not just you. Don’t tell me you still want to turn yourself in?”
This, at least, hits home. I can almost see the gears in Alexei’s head start spinning.
“I must return to the embassy. I’ll be safe there, and in the meantime —”
“Alexei! Stop!”
Finally, it’s Megan who is screaming and not me. I’m so relieved to be the quiet, sensible one, if only for a moment.
“It was a Russian car, housed and maintained in a Russian garage. And it exploded.” Megan eyes him as if waiting to see him catch on. “Someone got to it from inside the Russian embassy. Which means …”
“You can’t go home,” Noah finishes, then places a hand on Alexei’s shoulder.
The honorable part of Alexei is struggling with the idea, but the sensible part of him knows better. What if Mikhail isn’t the only person who gets hurt?
“I know a place,” Rosie says at the exact moment Megan blurts, “We’ll hide him!”
“Where?” Noah asks Megan.
“I know a place,” Rosie says again.
“Is there another embassy that would take him?” I ask. “I know the US won’t do it, but what about —”
A piercing whistle fills the room. Slowly, we all turn to look at Rosie.
“As I was saying,” she starts slowly, “I happen to know a place. It’s just that” — she looks skeptically at Alexei — “it may be a little … rough.”
For the first time since black smoke and fire filled the street, Alexei grins. “I can handle rough.”
“Don’t worry. You aren’t in this alone,” I say, but my words are hollow. I mean them. I swear, I really do. But I have been the one in danger — the one at the center of a secret. And no matter how many people surround you, that is still the loneliest place on earth.
“Do you have everything you need?” I ask for what has to be the twentieth time. At least. And for the twentieth time, Alexei looks at me.
“I will be fine, Gracie. Thank you.”
I look around at the hodgepodge of things that lie scattered on the dirt floor.
Rosie’s “place” is high in the hills that rim the north edge of the city. I don’t know how she found it or how long she’s known about it, but I am sure that no one is going to stumble across Alexei here anytime soon. The entrance is narrow, barely wide enough to slip through. And the stone ceiling overhead has cracks that show the stars, enough air circulation that it is safe to build a fire.
It’s as good a place as any to hide, but I’m not a hider. I’m a runner and a fighter. It goes against my every instinct to sit on the ground in this cold, dark place, waiting for things to get better, but that is exactly what Alexei has to do.
“Noah’s dad likes to go camping,” I say, desperat
e to fill the silence. “He managed to smuggle out a stove and a sleeping bag, and we have some water and protein bars in that bag. You’re supposed to be able to make coffee with one of those contraptions, but the instructions are in Portuguese, so —”
“Grace.” Alexei’s hands are on my arms. His skin is warm against mine. I was starting to worry I might never feel warm again.
“We’re going to take turns bringing you food and stuff, so don’t worry. Someone will be here tomorrow with —”
“Grace, I’m fine.” Alexei’s voice is steady, but my hands shake.
“If there is anything in particular you’d like, just let me know. You’ve got Rosie’s phone and all of our numbers, but we probably shouldn’t use them except for emergencies because —”
“Grace,” Alexei says again, pulling me closer. I am trying to be strong, for him and for me. But the trying is too much sometimes — too hard — and I feel myself fall against him.
I’m not fighting anymore.
“When I saw that car explode …”
Alexei smooths my hair. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and holds me tighter.
“I know,” he says.
“I smelled smoke,” I somehow mutter. “I hate the smell of smoke. My mom … There was a fire. And ever since then …”
I’m shaking now, even as Alexei holds me tighter. The wound in my side hurts and I wince but I don’t want to pull away.
“It’s okay,” he says even though he’s the one who almost died, even though I should be comforting him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s what I always say. To Jamie and my grandpa and the world. I’m always sorry. Because the world broke a long time ago, and it was my fault. This is my fault, too. I just know it. And I have no idea how to fix it. “I’m sorry, Alexei.”
But, somehow, he laughs.
“I have never been drugged before. It was a new experience for me. And considering it saved my life …”
“Not for that.” I pull away and wipe my nose on my sleeve. “For my country. For how quick we were to hate you. I’m so sorry we’re so out for vengeance.”
Alexei is silent for too long. Even in his arms, I can feel his stare. “Are you not out for vengeance, Gracie?”
I push away from him and put my hand on my side, hurting. “Not from you.”
I don’t talk about the Scarred Man or the Society, the prime minister or whatever villain is still out there, unknown and unnamed.
Vengeance is like gravity for me. Always present, pulling me in a direction that I can no longer feel. It is simply the fact of my life, of who I am. Someday, though, I’m going to break free. And when that happens, I may very well just float away.
Alexei leans down and turns on one of Noah’s father’s lanterns. Its yellow glow fills the cave. Shadows dance across the walls. Overhead, a small sliver of rapidly darkening sky is the only thing that reminds me that there is a world out there, beyond the safety of this stone cocoon.
“It’s getting late,” he says. “You should go home. It would not do for your grandfather and Jamie to worry.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I mean, should someone tell your dad that you’re okay?” The dad who wanted to throw Alexei to the wolves just this morning.
“Everyone at the embassy will know I wasn’t in the car. They will feel nothing but relief.”
He’s right, of course, but still I do not move.
“They’re going to think …” But I trail off. The truth is I have no idea what anyone is going to think.
“Grace?”
“Yes?” I sway closer.
“I’m going to be okay,” he tells me, and I try to believe it.
“Of course you will,” I say.
“And, Grace …” Alexei brushes a piece of hair out of my face, tucks it behind my ear. “You’ll be okay, too.”
But as I slip through the narrow opening in the cave and out into the coming night, I can’t help but believe that Alexei is no longer perfect — that, for once, Alexei is most certainly wrong.
A man and woman are waiting in the upstairs sitting room when Ms. Chancellor summons me the next morning. Most of the time, we call it the family room, but these people are not family.
“Grace, these police officers would like to ask you some questions,” Ms. Chancellor says as soon as I walk in the room.
Prime Minister Petrovic already asked me some questions, I think but don’t say. Things have changed, after all. Outside, the street still smells like smoke, and even though the crowds have grown, they’re oddly silent. Reverent. But sides are forming. I can tell.
Embassy Row is filled with fire trucks and police cars that stand with swirling lights, and every news channel in the world is broadcasting live, all of them busy speculating on what happened.
None of them know the truth.
Some people think Russia blew up its own car to curry sympathy or let Alexei get away. Others believe it was an act of retaliation by the US — an answering strike that might lead to an all-out war. Some blame terrorists or extremists who want to see the US and Russia come to blows. And some are conspiracy theorists who rant and ramble and just sound crazy.
I’m one of the latter.
I don’t bother saying hello. I just eye the two cops and ask, “Do you know who blew up the car?” What I don’t add is that I’m almost afraid of the answer.
This isn’t about a dead cadet anymore.
This isn’t even about an international embarrassment or situation.
There is no longer any question of whether or not Spence’s death was an accident.
Someone killed him. And now someone has tried to kill Alexei — someone did kill the Russian driver — and, finally, the authorities have noticed. Finally, the authorities might care.
“So?” I ask again. “Do you know who planted the bomb?”
The look that passes between the two strangers is equal parts guilt and confusion.
“We actually have several questions for you, Grace.” The man in the suit speaks to me in English. “Would you prefer we discuss this in Adrian? I was told you are fluent.”
“I am.” I try to nod and smile.
“But perhaps this is a good opportunity for me to practice my English,” he says with a slight British accent. “I attended Eton.”
“And now you’re a cop?”
“A detective, yes.” He glances at one of the uncomfortable chairs in the formal living room.
“Won’t you sit down?” Ms. Chancellor asks.
Her voice is so even, so kind and cool. She doesn’t look like a woman who, just a week ago, shot and seriously wounded the prime minister of Adria. No, she looks like a woman who really wants to get back to her filing.
But Ms. Chancellor isn’t going to leave me. The police probably aren’t supposed to question a minor without a parent or guardian present. I guess on Embassy Row it’s a parent, guardian, or the guardian’s chief of staff.
There’s a female officer, too. She must speak English, but so far she hasn’t said a thing. She just sits there, scowling. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she will remember every word.
Cautiously, I sit down next to Ms. Chancellor. My side aches, but I’m glad the back of my chair is so straight, the seat so hard. I have a feeling it would be a great mistake to get too comfortable around these people.
“I am very sorry about what happened to your friend,” the man tells me.
“Thanks. But they said on the news that he wasn’t in the car, so he’s probably okay.” I think about Alexei, all alone in that cave in the hills. “I hope he’s okay.”
“No.” The officer shakes his head, smiles. “I was talking about John Spencer.”
And then it hits me: They aren’t here about the bomb. Or not directly. This isn’t about the attack on the boy next door.
“John Spencer wasn’t my friend,” I say too quickly. “I mean, he was my brother’s friend. I b
arely knew him. You should talk to Jamie.”
“We’d love to. Where is he?” the man asks.
I don’t want to tell him I don’t know, that Jamie’s room is right next door to mine, but in so many ways it’s like he’s still on the other side of the world.
“Maybe we’ll just talk to you first, okay?” the man says, and leans back. He keeps smiling at me, though, a look that is supposed to put me at ease. He doesn’t know that I have been questioned by police officers before. Lots of times. I don’t need him to tell me to relax.
“So, Grace,” Officer Smiley says after a moment. “Where is Alexei Volkov?”
“I thought you were here to find out who killed John Spencer?”
“That investigation is ongoing. We’re here because of the manhunt.”
Manhunt.
From the moment I gave Alexei that drugged bottle of water I knew this was coming. I knew I was making him a fugitive, an outlaw. Suddenly, the Mediterranean coast feels more like the Wild West, and Alexei is supposed to be some villain on the run. It’s absurd.
“Manhunt?” My voice is shaking again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “Manhunt!” Fury consumes me. I’m aflame with righteous indignation. “Two people are dead. One more person should be dead except sheer dumb luck meant he wasn’t in the car at the time.”
“Now, Grace …” Smiley starts, but I don’t care what he has to say. I know they aren’t here because they’re worried someone tried to kill Alexei — worried that next time they’ll succeed. They aren’t even worried about who killed Spence. No, they’re here because Alexei is in the wind and Adria is embarrassed. And the crowds … the crowds aren’t going to go away.
“Do you know who tried to kill Alexei?” I ask. “Who killed his driver? Do you even care?”
“Grace.” Ms. Chancellor places her hand on my sleeve, pulls me back.
“The car had a mechanical malfunction.” Officer Smiley’s face is so straight, his expression so earnest, that it’s almost like he believes this ridiculous theory.
“Oh,” I say. “Is that what they’re calling bombs these days?”