by Gayle Lynds
Eva was resting her head back against her seat. She looked tired, but then all of them were. It had been a long day.
“I’m puzzled, Judd.” She sat up, folded her hands in her lap, and peered down at them. “You told me you couldn’t be with me because you hadn’t liked what you’d become in Iraq and needed a different life for yourself—different from all of the reminders you’d have with me. But just a few hours ago, you killed Chapman and two of his guards when they weren’t a threat to us—at least for the moment. Are you happy you did it?”
“Happy isn’t the word I’d use. I’d say a weight was lifted from me. It was as if time stopped. The noise receded. I felt at peace.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Peace.”
“If it’s any comfort, it was a cold peace, almost as if I was removed from the world. Why won’t you look at me?”
She lifted her head. “Four months ago you told me you didn’t want to kill again, and now you’ve just erased Chapman. That was personal, right?”
He frowned. “If he’d had the chance, he would’ve killed us. I traded his life for ours. Doing Chapman was necessary.”
She hesitated. Then: “Do you have flashbacks about the black work you were doing in Iraq and Pakistan?”
“No. Why?”
“If you had them, would you tell me?”
“Of course,” he said. “Sure.”
Her expression said she did not believe him.
Then he understood and felt a pain close to his heart: “You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid I’ll hurt you.”
Her expression was unforgiving. “I didn’t know you’d done clean-up work in Iraq,” she reminded him. “You waited until I’d fallen in love with you to tell me. That was bad enough. Now you say you found a ‘cold peace’ wiping Chapman. You felt ‘removed from the world.’”
“Eva, please. Those were just my emotions in a very special set of circumstances. They’re not who I am. Certainly not the way I think about you. I’d never hurt you.”
When she said nothing, he changed the subject. “How do you feel about being kicked out of the CIA?”
“Terrible. My career as an intelligence officer ended before it could begin. And I hate that it looks as if it’s my fault. How do you feel about it?”
“Relieved. You’re free now.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, to hold her in his arms again. He took a deep breath. “Do you at least trust me enough to work with me again?”
She seemed to think about it. “We were a good team last time,” she decided.
It was a start. “Then we’ll keep it at that. Partners. Nothing personal.”
43
Marrakech, Morocco
Francesca Fabiano had come to Marrakech again, drawn back by a dream of something she could not name, something good. Pyotr Azarov told her he did not trust dreams, but she forgave him. She knew dreams had power, especially when one paid attention.
When she had explained it to him, he had listened attentively, his gaze sober.
“You’re better off using your brain than your emotions,” he advised. “You have a good brain, you know.”
It had all begun yesterday morning. As usual she had left her hotel on Avenue Hassan II and walked to the intersection with rue Mauritania. Both streets were a madhouse, with unmufflered cars and trucks, whining mopeds, and the occasional bellowing camel.
She waited at the curb for the traffic to stop. Near her, a young couple linked arms. Then a man carrying an English version of a Marrakech guidebook arrived and stood between her and the couple. He glanced at her and smiled.
She felt something shift inside her. Something wonderful. It was not just his good looks, although he was a striking figure with a shock of black hair silvered at the temples and a strong chin shadowed by a little vacation beard growth. His sunglasses were black as sin. Perhaps six feet tall, he gave off a feeling of athleticism in his beige slacks, open-neck white shirt, and sturdy leather sandals. He was probably in his fifties. She had just turned forty. Not an impossible age difference. He wore no wedding band.
Keeping her expression neutral, she looked away. There were many good-looking men on holiday in Marrakech. She would never see him again.
She focused on the bedlam in the street. A donkey was pulling a cart of vegetables down Hassan. It was staying close to the sidewalk to avoid the worst of the traffic. But then a pickup swerved, and a taxi driver leaned on his horn. The donkey’s ears lay back and he bolted, his hoofs pounding the pavement, the cart swaying, the driver’s face turning beet red as he yelled in Arabic and tried to control the animal.
Francesca jumped back and stumbled. Pytor caught her. That was Marrakech for you, she thought later. Where else would you meet a handsome man and fall in lust because of a freaked-out donkey?
“Are you all right?” He had a warm voice.
His arm was still around her back, supporting her. Each of his hands held one of her arms. They were firm, strong hands.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you. That was quick of you.”
He smiled, and this time she smiled back.
“That’s me,” he said. “Speedy Gonzales. You know about Speedy?” When she shook her head, he explained, “He’s a cartoon mouse. The fastest mouse in all Mexico.”
She liked him. And she liked that he was concerned about her. She taught kindergarten in Portland, Maine, where female kindergarten teachers tended to marry early and well. Apparently some men—the kind with jobs and a future—had fantasies about them, which made the profession a slam dunk for women who wanted marriage. But she had not.
The stranger was holding her a little longer than he needed to, she realized.
“You’re trembling.” His forehead furrowed. “You could’ve been hurt. You need to sit down and relax. Let’s go to that outdoor café.” Releasing her, he gestured. “That’s where I’m staying—the Hotel Fashion.”
“I’m staying there, too.” Wow. “You saved my life. My name is Francesca Fabiano.”
“I’m Pyotr. Pyotr Azarov.” He spelled the first name. “You pronounce it ‘Peter,’ though.”
“Russian?”
“Cossack, from the Ukraine.” He was built like a Cossack, with the very good shoulders, the broad chest, and the long athletic legs bred to tame wild horses.
They sat at a small round table and ordered caffè lattes and hot croissants. They slathered the croissants with butter and jam then looked at each other and laughed, surprised each had wanted the same breakfast.
Pyotr drank his latte. “Imagine that, a blond Italian from Maine.”
“My people came from Milan, in northern Italy,” she lied. “There are a lot of blondes and redheads there.” Self-consciously she ran her fingers through her short hair, pushing it behind her ears. It was so pale it looked bleached white. She had a heart-shaped face, too, and a nose that turned up at the end.
“Yes, I remember that now.” He studied her. “It’s strange, but I feel we’ve met before.”
“Impossible. But I wish we had.”
* * *
Francesca and Pyotr took one of the shiny green calèches—horse-drawn carriages—to Marjorelle Gardens, the former home of Yves Saint Laurent. They strolled along shady paths, enjoying the vibrantly blooming trees and flowers.
He kept glancing at her. “Do you realize you’re beautiful? I have a feeling you don’t know that.”
Surprised, she looked away. “Thank you.”
“You’re here alone?” he wondered.
“Yes. I’ve traveled here five times now,” she said. “My mother worked here for a couple of years back in the eighties.” That was her biological mother, not the good-hearted woman in Maine who had ended up raising her and who she told the world was her mother.
“Did she work in the airport duty-free shop?” he asked casually.
She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “How did you know?”
“Oh,” he said airily, “that’s just one of the jobs America
ns did back then in an outpost like Marrakech.”
44
As night approached, Francesca and Pyotr took a taxi to Place Djemaa el-Fna, Marrakech’s outdoor marketplace, and hurried into Chez Chegrouni and upstairs. The aroma of couscous made Francesca salivate. On the roof terrace, they chose a table at the railing where the view across the teeming market was panoramic.
“I’ve been told Djemaa el-Fna is Africa’s largest marketplace,” he said.
She inhaled. “It’s an amphetamine rush to the senses.”
As they ate traditional tajine slow-cooked stew, the sun set in a tangerine glow. “You really grew up in Maine?” Pyotr asked curiously. “I know this is crazy, but there was a woman I once knew named Roza Levinchev. It was a long time ago, and I was a young man, but I’ll never forget her.”
Francesca could hardly swallow. Her mind was in turmoil. She busied herself with her food.
“Our families were living in a little city called Bedford,” he went on. “As it turns out, almost every state in the United States has a town called Bedford. Anyway, this Bedford was in the southern part of the old Soviet Union, near the Baltic. It was never on any map. Probably still isn’t. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She widened her eyes. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Why would a Soviet city be named Bedford?”
He set down his fork. “We bought our groceries at Safeway, got ice cream cones at Dairy Queen, and ate quarter-pounders at McDonald’s. I was a bachelor so I lived at home. My mother watched As the World Turns on TV. My father and I read The New York Times and the Financial Times—they were on our doorstep every morning. We spoke America’s version of English. Our teachers taught us American history, American music, American literature.” He looked around for eavesdroppers. “Bedford was a first-class school for Soviet spies, sleepers, and moles.”
It was her turn to set down her fork. “Who are you?” She stared at his handsome face, at his lying Cossack eyes. The shit had been wooing not her, but her past.
“I think you’re Roza’s daughter—Katia. You don’t remember me at all, do you? Well, it’s no surprise. You must’ve been eight or ten then. It was a long time ago, and I’ve had several cosmetic surgeries. Your mother was a star student, but you probably know that. As I recall, you and your mother got assigned to Washington, D.C. Later I heard she was in Marrakech, working in the duty-free store, but what she was really doing was helping to move arms, ammo, and explosives with the PLO. The PLO did a lot of dirty work for us in those days.” He gave her a compassionate look. “It must’ve been terrible for you to lose her. It sounds as if she set up some kind of situation in Maine to take care of you while she was gone. I heard her remains were found in her car at the bottom of a cliff in the Atlas Mountains. If it’s any comfort, we were sure she didn’t kill herself. She must’ve been burned, and the CIA took her out.”
Katia leaned forward. Her voice was low and hard. “I don’t know who in hell you are or what you want. I do know you’ve just made up a story so far-fetched that the only solution is for you to see a therapist. See one often.”
She started to push back her chair, but he reached across the table with both hands and grabbed her forearms. A little thrill started up her spine, but she stopped it cold.
He spoke in a rush. “I assume you’re a sleeper, but I’m not here to activate you. I’ve told you things about myself I haven’t told anyone in decades. See what you brought out of me? Please, give me a chance. I mean it. I want to retire. I’m not activating you.”
She shook free and stood. “You’re a lunatic. Stay away from me.”
* * *
Francesca—Katia—needed to walk, to think, to clear her head. She strode past the marketplace’s stalls, hardly hearing the blare of Arabic music, ignoring the whirling dancers. There was a tourist, a woman, with gray fluffy hair, a softly lined face, and a digital camera who seemed always behind her, sometimes close, sometimes distant. It was a coincidence, she told herself. But because of Pyotr, she was feeling paranoid.
A veiled woman held out a flat basket, her bracelets jingling. “Moroccan dates,” she crooned in French-accented English. “Moroccan dates. The finest you will find anywhere—”
Katia rushed past and into the souk. She was moving so fast she broke into a sweat.
The older woman with the digital camera bumped into her. “Pardonnez-moi!”
“C’est pas grave.” Katia hurried on. There were some two miles of convoluted passageways. She was getting confused.
Then Pyotr was at her side, walking with her and leaning over to speak in her ear. “Stop. Please, Katia. I’m sorry. I’m really not here to pull you back into the business. Will you give a fellow Russian, an old compatriot, a chance? I know this must be very hard on you—”
A dark wave of loneliness swept through her. She turned. Somehow Pyotr’s arms were around her.
He held her tight, and she sank into him and wept into his white shirt. She could smell his aftershave, feel the prickles of his vacation beard on her forehead. She could hear her mother’s voice calling long-distance from Marrakech. “I love you, Francesca. I’ll see you soon. Be a good girl.” Always in English. Never in Russian.
“It’s all right,” Pyotr murmured in Russian. “There, there.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “There, there.”
When she finally pushed away, Pyotr handed her a big white handkerchief. She glanced around, realized people were staring. There was that gray-haired woman again, the one with the camera who had bumped into her. Had she been photographing them? She was shooting a tall clay pot now.
Katia wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Pyotr took her arm and led her back. As they walked through the souk, he slid his arm around her waist. There was something more protective about the gesture than sexual.
She had been thinking. “You didn’t just recognize me, did you, Pyotr? You must’ve known I’d be here in Marrakech. It’s no coincidence we’re staying in the same hotel.”
Guilt flashed across his face. “You’re right. I was standing on the corner, trying to figure out how to introduce myself to you, when the donkey bolted, and you stumbled and I caught you. I wanted to meet you—Roza’s daughter. I always admired Roza, and I wanted to touch base with my past. I had a small hope you’d remember me.”
“I’m not a sleeper,” she told him, “I was too young to be trained to be one.” But then in Russian: “Kharashóh, Pyotr. Shto vam núzhna?” All right, Pyotr. What do you really need from me?
“Your friendship,” he said solemnly. “Will you be my friend? With you, I thought I could talk about the old times.” His black eyes were tender. “I could use a friend, and I thought maybe you could, too.”
She was falling in love with Pyotr. This was crazy, she told herself. Crazy. He had pretended they were meeting accidentally. In other words, he had lied to her. But now that he had explained, it made sense. Or maybe she just wanted to believe him. She was excited and giddy and … crazy. Falling in love was making her nuts.
He was telling her again he was out of the spy business and not in Marrakech to activate her. “Vi panimáyitye minyá?” he asked finally.
“Da. Da. Yes, Pyotr. Of course I understand what you’re saying.” And then she heard herself say, “I believe you. Really I do. And I’m relieved.” She meant it.
Back in the hotel, he accompanied her up to her room on the third floor. His room was below, on the second floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and turned to face him. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid he could hear it.
“You’ll be okay?” His black Cossack eyes devoured her.
It was hard for her to speak, so she nodded. Her chin lifted, she studied him. She wanted to stroke the bristles of his beard, move her fingers down his throat, slide them under his shirt. She wondered what his skin tasted like.
As he leaned toward her, she reached into her room, fumbled across the wall until she found the switch, and turned on the light. She grabbed the door ja
mb for support. “I’ve got to go in. I need to … go to bed.”
His lips were so close she could almost feel them on her mouth.
“May I see you tomorrow?” he said. “Will you spend the day with me again? I have to leave early the next morning. I would really like more time with you.”
She felt her cheeks flush. “Yes. Breakfast in the café again. Nine o’clock.” And then before she could change her mind, she stepped back into her room. “Good night.”
Closing the door, she could see the smile on his face fade. He was disappointed she had not invited him in. She could not believe he was leaving Marrakech so soon.
45
The next morning, Katia and Pyotr met again at the little café for lattes and hot croissants. Sitting beside newspaper racks, she saw headlines about the terrible bombings, kidnappings, and murders in Baghdad. She closed her eyes, willing away memories. When she opened them, she saw Pyotr’s happy smile.
The traffic roared, and the sun climbed the sky. They caught a taxi to a grand old Berber palace, now the Museum of Moroccan Arts. She found herself glancing around, wondering whether she would see the older woman with the camera who might have been following her last night.
The air was cool inside the museum. The art, furnishings, and architecture were a stunning mix of Spanish and Moorish.
“How long have you lived in the States?” Pyotr asked curiously.
“Since I was fifteen. I wanted to move to Marrakech with Mother, but she insisted I finish my education in the States. A widow who’d been like a grandmother to me had left Washington and gone to Maine, so Mother sent me to live with her. That’s where I grew up. I love teaching kindergartners. And I love the woman I came to call Mom. But now that I look back, I realize I’ve been terrified someone would find out who I really was. It was better to never let anyone get close.”
He stopped her beneath a tiled archway. Turning her to face him, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked gravely down at her. “I know exactly who you are, Katia Levinchev. It’s an honor to have met you again after all these years.”
