Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  “Just question?”

  “Yes. Just question. That’s all. Just like you’re curious.”

  “Like Oh, I am so curious about random American couple who I have nothing to do with?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, Paige. For you, I do this.”

  “Uri . . . why for me you do this?”

  He looks at me a second, tilts his head. Then laughs.

  “Ah! You have paranoid thought! See! You are turning Russian!”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “Relax, uptight person. It called friendship. Look it in dictionary.”

  “Ah. Friendship.”

  “Yes. It is clear I am your first friend. That is okay. I teach you the ways.”

  And with that Uri lunges in, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and exits dramatically across the quad.

  “Hey, Uri!”

  He turns.

  “Thanks.”

  He does a kind of tip of the hat and continues his peacock walk away over the green. An undiscovered supermodel walks past him and he grabs his heart, looking at her as if he’s been shot.

  25

  My favorite thing about the spy-girl gig is this part. The science of steganography. Sending Madden correspondence by embedding messages within other, seemingly benign sites. So far, it’s definitely the most James Bond part of the job. Hands down.

  I update him on my romantic interlude with Raynes and of our next rendezvous at Ramallah Café. Despite himself, he seems impressed.

  Here at the bird-watchers website, I upload a picture of a waxwing on a white beam tree with my message securely encrypted in the bird’s talons. It’s actually a pretty simple process of altering the last two bits of each byte in the image, which changes the photo imperceptibly, but allows you to free up the necessary space to hide a message in the pixels.

  Okay, now you try it.

  Katerina is at class, and I have no intention of telling her about Raynes. Because, let’s be honest. Something is wrong here.

  I don’t really believe she’s FSB, because that seems kind of paranoid and delusional, but . . .

  I’ve been weighing it and it seems too wonky to be random.

  The fact that she had a gun, the fact that she didn’t really seem to care when I threw said gun out, the fact that she’s a black belt and then some . . . none of that really makes sense. If it was her actual gun, wouldn’t she have been pissed to lose it?

  The only way you wouldn’t freak out in that situation is if the gun wasn’t yours. Like, say, if maybe you worked for an intelligence agency.

  I don’t think it’s a stretch to wonder if maybe she’s FSB.

  I asked Madden to look into it. In the meantime, though, the question is . . . If she actually is, after all, an FSB spy, then was she put in my room as my roommate because that’s just par for the course with American foreign exchange students? Or was she put there specifically for me?

  Because if she was put there specifically for me, that means my cover’s blown.

  And if my cover’s blown, that means I have to leave.

  Which means no meze at Ramallah Café.

  And no more flirtation with Raynes.

  Which would be tragic.

  But also it would mean my shot at bringing my parents home was lost.

  And that loss is unacceptable.

  26

  Just so you know, it’s not stalking if you are on an assignment.

  Yes, some people would consider it weird to Google someone for over two hours and to go down each and every possible rabbit hole heretofore known to man just to catch a glimpse, a glimmer, a spark, of the character of said person inside said rabbit hole.

  A clue. A tidbit. A pithy moment of revelation.

  All of these clicks, every one, trying to reach further and further into the mind, soul, heart, veins, body of the most notable expat in recent history.

  Here, in the middle of the night, with Katerina out probably getting pie-eyed on vodka once again, I am free, alone, able to throw it all to hell and find out everything, every odd fact there is to know about my obsession. I mean, my assignment.

  And just like with any assignment, it pays to do your research.

  I’ve spent an hour just on Google image search, looking into his eyes online and wondering if they’re the eyes of a monster or of the kind of person who can fall in love.

  27

  And we’re back! To the mysterious video footage! Come with me, won’t you, on this magical tour? Remember, I don’t know any of this is happening at this time. I don’t see it until later. Praise the sweet, sweet Lord.

  So—the Baroque dining room with the gilded everything and sky-blue ceiling? Well, here we are again. For lunch.

  Dimitri, Queen Elsa, and Underling are seated in white Louis Catorce dining chairs.

  “Who are these stupid girls?”

  It’s Ice Queen. She’s pointing at a photograph, taken off a still from a security camera.

  And guess who the two stupid girls are? Yup. You guessed it. Katerina and me. And between us there is Uri. International rap nonphenomenon. I’m guessing this came from the night of the bang-bang shoot-out in the cool bunker bar.

  Bald kingpin Dimitri seems unconcerned.

  “Who? Them? Who knows. You know my son. He has revolving door.”

  Queen Elsa blows out smoke in disgust. Takes a shot of vodka. And then another one.

  Next to them is Underling, offering picture after picture for Dimitri’s perusal. “The bidders you wanted me to cultivate,” he explains.

  Dimitri flip, flip, flips.

  “What about him? This guy?”

  They are both looking down at a photograph of an extremely conservative-looking man. A website screen grab from his “foundation.” A banner at the top of the image says, “Restoring American Values.”

  “He is white racist. Calls himself patriot. Billionaire. He could bid high. Maybe highest.”

  Flip.

  “And him?” Now they are staring at a picture of an Asian man in a green khaki shirt with epaulets.

  “He is small-time North Korean establishment. Wants to be big-time. He made offer. Low offer.”

  “How low?” Dimitri tilts his head, squinting at the shot of the low bidder.

  “One million.”

  Dimitri scoffs. Rips the picture in two.

  “There are a few more. One in Venezuela. But who knows? Unstable. Also, a drug kingpin in Jalisco. Probably will be dead soon.”

  “How much did he offer?”

  “Two million.”

  Dimitri scoffs again.

  “These are lowball. Keep looking.”

  Queen Elsa snorts.

  “What is problem, mishka?”

  She shrugs.

  “And what about Raynes? Is Oleg still guarding his nest like baby bird?”

  “They all are. But look at this. He has girlfriend.”

  Underling sets a picture down of Sean Raynes with none other than . . . yours truly. Paige Nolan! Internationally renowned superspy! Someone’s girlfriend!

  This must have been taken when we were walking down the Moskva River to the Hong Kong bar. Oleg follows behind, looking suspicious and generally surly.

  “Ah.”

  “She is Russian?”

  “Not sure. Raynes doesn’t speak Russian, so—”

  “Maybe he speak international language,” Queen Elsa snarks.

  Dimitri looks at her, annoyed.

  But then something catches his eye. Something on the table in front of Ice Queen. The black-and-white picture from the bunker bar.

  “Wait.”

  He picks up the picture. Now he picks up the picture from the Moskva River.

  “I don’t believe.”

  Underling and Queen Elsa wait.

  “Look at that girl.”

  Underling and Queen Elsa take in the black-and-white photograph. The one from the bunker bar shoot-out with Uri.

  “Now look at that girl. Here.�
��

  Underling and Queen Elsa look at the Moskva River photograph. The one with Sean Raynes and me, strolling along by the water.

  “Do you see?”

  Silence.

  “It is same girl!”

  And now it dawns on the both of them. It is same girl. And that same girl happens to be me. Ladies and gentlemen, Paige Nolan, at your service.

  Dimitri looks at Underling.

  “You. Get me that girl.”

  28

  It’s sunrise, which means check-in/exercise time with Madden. Currently, I am being yelled at as I run past Red Square and Saint Basil’s Cathedral, bobbling into the morning light.

  “You’re moving too slowly, Paige. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Fucker, I have to make him trust me, and to make him trust me takes time.”

  Two babushkas give me a disapproving look outside the cathedral.

  “You know, you’re not the only one interested in Sean Raynes, Paige.”

  “I know. You are. RAITH is. I get it.”

  “No, what I mean is, we’re not the only ones.”

  “I know. FSB. Putin. Embarrassment. America bashing. Got it.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “The mob.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Our sources say that the Russian mafia is planning to kidnap Raynes and sell him to the highest bidder. Could be Boko Haram, could be the Islamic State, could be Piers fucking Morgan for all we know. The point is, if you think this guy’s a hero? Whatever he has, wherever he has it, we need you to figure it out what it is. Like yesterday.”

  “So, the clock is ticking. Time is of the essence. A stitch in time saves—”

  “Paige. This isn’t a joke. Do you want Raynes to die? That is, after all his state secrets are tortured out of him by God knows who?! By Iran? By North Korea? By fucking ISIS? Is that what you want?”

  I stop, panting, on the bridge over the Moskva River, stunned by the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. It stands unimpressed, white and gold spires gleaming in the sunrise, lording over the bridge like the Taj Mahal. You would never believe this place could be so beautiful.

  “Maybe state secrets shouldn’t be such secrets.”

  “No. Trust me, Paige. You don’t want that.”

  “Who watches the watchers, Madden? How do you—”

  “Jesus Christ, I have a level-one security clearance and I know. Okay? So why don’t you do your job?”

  He hangs up.

  In front of me, the gold baubles on the top of the cathedral reach up to the sky, one giant gold bauble in the middle, making its way up to heaven.

  Why don’t I do my job?

  The church stares back at me, waiting for an answer.

  29

  You know that feeling? That feeling you get when it seems like you and he are the only two people in the world? Like every moment before this was leading to this instant—this one here, when it’s just you two. Against the world?

  No? Let me explain.

  We are in the middle of a sandstone, tree-lined garden on a rooftop in Moscow. I have no idea how they managed to make it seem, in the middle of this vast and cold-getting-colder city, like we are somewhere just footsteps from Damascus Gate in the Old City of Jerusalem. It’s truly an ambitious project. I’ll tell you one thing: whoever built this was homesick. That or, considering all the exotically themed locales I’ve inhabited during this excursion, Russia has kidnapped a trove of Disney Imagineers to use at their whim.

  There must be some kind of enclosure all around the edge of this roof, because inside, in the row of wooden mother-of-pearl-inlaid tables and chairs, with what looks like some kind of hanging garden above us, it’s cozy and warm, whereas outside it’s dipping down to whatever that is when you start to see your breath.

  Across from me, framed by the grape leaves dripping from the pergola above, is the singular presence that is Sean Raynes.

  There are hanging metal lanterns with mosaic colors glittering everywhere, adding to the feeling that we just might be eating in the Garden of Eden. Before the fall.

  Raynes’s eyes are deep set and intense. I don’t know if this is just me, or if they would be that way for anyone. But I almost can’t stand looking at him. It’s too much. Like I feel it’s just going to throw me across the room.

  Oleg sits a few tables away, in all his surly glory, as I try to guess Sean’s favorite novel.

  “The Catcher in the Rye.”

  He laughs. “Nope. Too obvious.”

  “Okay, give me a hint.”

  The waiter comes over bringing the meze: hummus, olives, tahini, tabouleh, and everything else delicious from the dawn of civilization.

  “Okay. A hint. Hmm. It’s set in World War Two.”

  “Is it . . . The Painted Bird?”

  “Wait. What? How did you guess that?! Seriously? How the hell did you just guess that?”

  I smile. “Elementary, my dear Raynes. That’s a book about somebody who is an outsider. I think maybe you see yourself as an outsider. Also, it’s a great book.”

  “Okay, but I mean, The Sun Also Rises, Catch-22, Maus? You could have picked any of those. Why—”

  “You’re not the only one who feels like a painted bird.”

  This sits there for a second.

  I wasn’t trying to have a heartfelt moment, honestly. It really just slipped out. Now I feel vulnerable. And scared. And maybe like my heart just stopped.

  “Well. I also have a runner-up favorite book, but it’s nonfiction. About the Navajo rebellion on Fortress Rock. It’s a pretty amazing story. Nobody really knows about it. The history’s been buried.”

  “Ooo. Do tell.”

  “Basically when all the Navajos where being marched off their land, you know, the Long Walk, this group of them held a meeting and crafted a plan to rebel. So they went up this impossibly tall rock, called Fortress Rock, which is seven hundred practically vertical feet, using only wooden ladders. And then they brought the ladders up. So the army couldn’t get up there. They had to just sit there at the bottom and wait for them. And it wasn’t just men. It was women and children. Pregnant women going up this insanely steep rock, almost like a skyscraper, on these wooden ladders.”

  “Really? Wait. Did it work?”

  “Yeah, it did. The army was really cocky at first. They thought the Navajos would have to come down. For food, for water. But guess what?”

  “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

  “After about a month, they were running out of water. So they waited until the army was asleep, and they formed basically this human chain down the rock. They sent one guy to go fetch the water. Then he came back, and they brought all the water back up the rock through the human chain of hands, just one by one, all the way up the rock.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty cool.”

  “And guess what happened then? The army ran out of food. And they had to leave. They gave up.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. And there are still Navajo people to this day who come from that family line. It’s kind of like a badge of pride. The ones who never surrendered.”

  “I love that story. I love everything about that story.”

  He smiles but then notices something beyond me.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” I duck like there’s an assassin over my shoulder. Which, you know, possible.

  “Look, come sit over here for a second. Don’t look up. Not until I say.”

  “Okay, I shall keep my eyes averted.”

  I sit next to Raynes and shield my eyes.

  “Now. Ready? Open them.”

  I open my eyes to see the most enormous, orange full moon coming over the horizon, just above the city lights. It looks like you could just reach up and climb right up on top of it and ride it off into the cosmos.

  “Wait. Wait. I have the perfect thing.”

  And now Raynes is rummagi
ng through his coat, and next thing I know, we both have earphones on and Elliott Smith is playing on his iPhone.

  I’ll tell you why I

  don’t want to know where you are . . .

  I got a joke

  I’ve been dying to tell you . . .

  We lean back, listening to the most wistful, melodic, sad voice and looking at the giant tangerine moon, and we are in it together, just the two of us. And there’s no one else in the world. Anywhere.

  Except the waiter.

  He comes over in all his waiter hustle and bustle but stops short when he sees us, and decides to leave us alone.

  And he should leave us alone.

  Everyone should leave us alone.

  Because it’s just him and me.

  And it is

  everything.

  30

  The good news is that on my light morning jog I see Uri.

  It’s seven in the morning, I am the picture of health, mind/body spirit connection, and yoga-style living, and there he drives up . . . in a bright yellow Humvee, blasting DMX. You know, just fitting in.

  He calls out from the driver’s side.

  “Aha! I caught you! American bouncing girl!”

  “I think you mean running . . . ?”

  “Tell me, what are you running away from, little health rat?!”

  “Wait, did you mean to say nut? Like health nut?”

  “Come, I have emergency.”

  “I’d like to, but I think I might be allergic to brightly colored Humvees, so . . .”

  “You funny! Funny, bouncing girl! Get in car.”

  “Okay, but I’m really just getting in so you stop saying that. Also, for the record, this is not a low-energy-emission vehicle.”

  Uri imitates me: “Also, for record, you kill doves with your happiness . . .”

  “Okay, fine. I’m getting in. Also, that was not a very flattering imitation, by the way.”

  I hop over to shotgun, where it’s basically a twenty-foot step up to get in.

  “This is obviously not made for little people.”

  “No, it is made for big, strong Russian with huge testicle!” He flexes his muscle, gesticulating over the music.