by Camilla Monk
Gravelly voice—no wonder, with the kind of stuff he smokes—and American. From the US base Isiporho mentioned then? March doesn’t move a muscle, but I register Dries’s soft, dangerous whisper to the treacherous airport employee still in Dominik’s grasp. “Make no mistake, my little snake, you won’t slither out of here.”
The old guy smirks. “And isn’t that Mr. Kovius? Risen from the waters of the Styx as well.” He’s now standing mere feet away from of us, and his dark, beady eyes are focused on March—no, on me? A smoke ring spins our way. “That’s some very precious cargo you have there, Mr. November. You can trust us to treat it with the utmost care.”
A muscle contracts in March’s jaw, but his gun remains pointed toward the cigarillo man, his voice steady and almost cordial as he responds, “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
That doesn’t ruffle the asshole one bit. His forefinger taps the cigarillo, sending ash snowing to the ground. “Let’s be reasonable. Mr. Kovius and Miss Chaptal are coming with us. And if they prove useful, you have a slim hope of seeing her again once I’m done with her.”
A slim hope? I curl behind March, who seems oblivious to the red gem still gleaming on his temple. “You’re acting far beyond your new mandate,” he tells our host. “And you know I won’t let you take her.”
Take me where? And more importantly, what for? This whole ambush doesn’t exactly scream official police business . . .
“Let’s try this again, perhaps more serenely,” Cigarillo-man replies before raising his hand and waving two fingers in the air. The red dots that had been marking us until now vanish instantly. He tilts his head to March expectantly, who lowers his gun in response. Dries and the others soon follow, but this collective gesture of goodwill does little to alleviate the tension in the lobby. It’s in the air, in every shallow breath I take, dancing across my skin like static electricity.
Another cloud of smoke stretches our way while Cigarillo-man’s gaze sets on Dries. “Miss Chaptal spent eight months with your brother. As you can imagine, I have many questions for her . . . and for you.”
Dries glances my way; if he didn’t look so arrogant all the time, I’d swear I just caught a flicker of worry in his eyes. How the hell does this guy know so much about us anyway?
Cigarillo-man’s attention returns to March. “Once she’s helped us, I’m certain we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mr. November.”
“How kind of you. However, I’m afraid Island needs urgent medical attention. No one questions her until she’s seen Viktor and certainly not without me present,” March retorts icily.
“Bugorski? Does Miss Chaptal know what kind of care he provides?” Cigarillo-man asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“What do you mean?” The question crosses my lips before I can stop myself. I’m getting a creepy vibe from this . . .
Dries steps in with what I gather he means to be a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Viktor; he’s a leading expert in his field.”
Isiporho, who’s been observing the exchange silently until now, points at the Beriev still parked on the tarmac. “He’s the one who made Dikkenek’s arm.”
“Really?” I ask hesitantly—are neurosurgeons even supposed to deal with prosthetics?
“He’s good,” Isiporho confirms with a wink.
But that doesn’t seem to satisfy Cigarillo-man. “In any case . . . I’d rather question Miss Chaptal before”—he makes a little show of searching his memory—“Viktor der Butcher gets hold of her.”
Viktor . . . der Butcher?
March turns to check on me, reading the silent question in my eyes. “It’s only a nickname they gave him in Germany; it really isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
SEVENTEEN
DOCTOR WHO?
“But does he have an actual license?”
It’s the fourth time I ask, and the explanations I get are still as vague as they were ten minutes ago. So far, all I got is that Viktor Bugorski is supposedly a Russian “doctor” who ran into trouble with the East German state police when he worked for them in the eighties and subsequently fled to Thailand, then returned to Russia, then Ukraine, where he made a small fortune selling breast implants and borscht-flavored vitamins, but now he works here in Romania. What he did for those Stasi police guys remains wholly unclear though, just as much as what led them to want him dead at the time . . .
The cigarillo firmly stuck between his lips, our mysterious host watches the drama unfolding before him with an expression of boredom. Around us, a few soldiers wearing dark fatigues step out of the shadows, all carrying assault rifles and wearing weird goggles that make them look like giant insects. They too have taken an interest in the exchange, and from the corner of my eye, I see one of them scratch his head.
“Do you ever check whether your dentist has a license before sitting in the chair? I don’t. What I check is whether I can trust the man,” Dries insists while, next to him, Dominik and the Romanian traitor nod in agreement.
“What are you talking about? Is he a dentist or a neurosurgeon?”
March clears his throat. “He’s a bit of a jack-of-all-trades like, say, Leonardo da Vinci.”
Dries waves to his disciple. “Yes, exactly. Thank you!” He then towers over me with an accusing look. “Would you ask if da Vinci had a license?”
My eyes trained on the veins in the marble floor, I search my recent memory for passages I read in one of Anies’s books, about the first guy who tested one of da Vinci’s flying machines—and subsequently broke his leg. I come to a decision. “Bentsen was bad enough. I’m not getting near another mad scientist again.”
“I can arrange for a reputed, licensed practitioner to see you immediately, Miss Chaptal,” Cigarillo-man offers suavely.
“Out of the question,” March snaps.
I gauge that old fart warily. “I’m good, thanks.”
March moves to shield me. “I believe we’re done. I’ll make sure to contact you as soon as Island is well enough to be questioned, Mr. Erwin.”
Erwin? I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I’m not sure. I tilt my head at him. “Did we know each other before today?”
A thousand wrinkles appear on the guy’s brow. March too sobers abruptly—well, if it’s possible for someone like him to get any more sober, that is. I think he didn’t want that guy to know about my amnesia.
“I like to think we know each other well enough, Miss Chaptal,” Erwin says cuttingly.
Around my shoulder, March’s fingers tighten, and Dries steps closer.
“Who are you?” I ask.
This time Erwin tilts his head like a predator. He’s figured it out. “A vast question. I work for the government of the United States. You could say I solve problems no one else will.”
CIA. The moment the thought crosses my mind, it sounds so evident that I wonder what took me so long . . . In my brain, it’s like the faces of a rusty Rubik’s cube are slowly starting to rotate. “But you couldn’t solve the plane bombing or what happened at the Poseidon, and you can’t solve Anies.”
Erwin’s wry, scary smile returns. “Well, I can’t without your help. But you seem quite . . . diminished.”
“I remember nothing before April,” I admit. “My long-term memory is pretty much shot.”
He takes a deep, slow drag of his cigarillo, his eyes drilling holes through my skull, as if he could look in there and see the empty shelves for himself. “How unfortunate . . . and convenient. Nothing at all? I miss Agents Morgan and Stiles terribly—I’d been hoping you could reassure me they’re—”
Agents? Like . . . CIA agents? The fear I can’t control is rushing back in my veins. Pirate Morgan taping my mouth, Stiles’s betrayal . . . “Y-you know them too? They worked for you?”
Through the curls of smoke, his voice becomes softer, almost enveloping. The gravel doesn’t feel so rough as he says, “I’m not a monster, Island. My favorite weapon is compromise. I can tell there’s a lot you need to
know, and I believe we can help—”
March moves too fast for me to see, and on our bodies the shiny red dots reappear instantly. Dries steps in front of me, gun in hand, while the soldiers surrounding us have raised their weapons, ready to shoot. Around Erwin’s nape, March’s gloved fingers curl slowly. The old man remains perfectly calm as March pulls him close enough to whisper something in his ear. I can’t hear anything, but I’m mesmerized by the slow movement of his lips, the faintest snarl as he finishes his sentence.
March lets go of his prey and raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Erwin and I understand each other.”
Indeed. Again, Erwin gestures for his men to lower their weapons and tells March, “I give you twelve hours. Take her to Bugorski if you want, but know we’ll be watching you. Once he’s seen her, I will interrogate her.” His gaze cuts to Dries, and I’m getting the feeling he’s about to issue a challenge. “Mr. Kovius will remain our guest until then . . . as a guarantee.”
My mouth falls open. Obviously he doesn’t know Dries, as if a guy like him would ever . . .
“Acceptable. Dominik will send you a list of my demands. Don’t expect me to sit down and chat if my comfort requirements aren’t met.” Dries adjusts his cuffs with an air of regal disdain, and I’m gonna need to pick up my jaw from the floor. “I hope for you that you know where to find French croissants and a decent bottle of cognac at this hour.”
Dominik glares at the soldiers surrounding us, but Isiporho pulls him back with a shake of his head. March makes no attempt to step in either, and I search his eyes in dismay. This isn’t right; I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, as if I’m getting seasick. How the hell can Dries surrender to that CIA douche without a fight, when he’s basically been killing whoever dared stand in his way until now?
Dries walks away from our little group and allows the soldiers to circle him and take his gun, the haughty expression never leaving his face. When an overzealous goon attempts a body search though, he grabs his wrist lightning fast. “Let us all remain courteous to each other, and no one will get hurt,” he warns with a carnivorous smile that bares his gap tooth.
“He’s right, no need for that,” Erwin confirms, prompting his men to take a step back. “Mr. Kovius will cooperate fully”—he marks a pause to look at me, his expression softening into something I could almost mistake for compassion—“for the well-being of his child.”
The words fly in my face, prickling my skin like a slap. He knows. Dries’s cold mask cracks, letting through a flicker of vulnerability that seems almost foreign on him. He doesn’t say a word, but the wrinkles on his brow deepen, and whatever doubt I might still have entertained about him dissolves, washed away by a feeling I recognize. It’s the same warmth, the same yearning as when I try to remember my mother.
“Don’t go with them,” I plead with him. “Don’t . . .” Don’t leave me.
“Island, it’s going to be all right.” March’s arm snakes around my shoulder, warm and protective, but I don’t want it. I stagger back.
Erwin’s hands clasp together, the sound loud and sharp, rattling down my spine like a shock wave. “I understand there’s a lot your little family needs to work through, Mr. Kovius, but I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave, if you don’t mind.”
I look around in sudden panic, at March’s sorrowful eyes, Dominik’s hate-filled ones, and the men closing in on Dries to escort him away. They can’t take him . . . not now, when I’m barely starting to understand how much I need him . . . “No! Please, I”—my mind races for a solution—“I’ll go with you too. Let me go with him!”
My plea doesn’t fall on deaf ears. A victorious sneer distorts Erwin’s features through the smoke curtain. Of course, that’s what he was trying to achieve.
“Miss Chaptal seems well enough to talk to us after all,” Erwin notes sardonically.
I nod in agreement and elbow March when he tries to stop me, without much success—I’m not even sure he felt it. Erwin’s men are taking Dries outside, toward a pair of black minivans that just parked on the tarmac. I free myself from March’s grip for the second time and tell Erwin, “I’m going with you.”
March is at my side again in a heartbeat, like a goddamn piece of gum. “Island, no! He’s baiting you . . . Dries knows what he’s doing.”
Erwin doesn’t move. He waits, his smile a terrifying invitation. I take another step forward when a powerful roar freezes me to the bone. “March, sorg vir jou damn vrou!” March, take care of your damn woman!
I stare at Dries through the windows, stunned. On the snowy tarmac, he’s stopped and turned to face us, his gaze smoldering with rage. Yet he doesn’t scare me. I instinctively know that his anger isn’t directed at me or even at March. I leap forward; I want to go to him—need to. It’s my legs, my heart doing all the thinking now.
But I go nowhere, caught midair by March’s arms. He hauls me back, and I shriek and kick in vain as Erwin’s men usher Dries into one the vans and the door slides shut, leaving only black windows reflecting the snow and the lampposts’ bleary light.
With the faintest shrug, Erwin turns his back on me and leaves, escorted by a few remaining men wearing ordinary suits rather than military gear. Like a vise slowly tightening around my torso, March’s embrace crushes me, kills the fight in me. I pant, croak as the vans start driving away, but I’m too exhausted; I can’t break free.
It’s only after they’re gone that March releases his hold. I scramble away and glare at him. “They’ll never let him go, and you know it!”
A tired sigh deflates him. “Island, I think he made the right decision.”
I stare down at the floor, at the tips of my boots, muddy. His, spit-shined. “Let me go,” I grind out at last. “I don’t want to see that Viktor guy, and I never asked for your help. I want to go to the US embassy, and I’ll figure out my options there.”
Isiporho runs a hand across his face while in front of me, March has turned to stone. His chest heaves, and his fingers curl, as if he is about to lose his temper, but they unfurl almost as soon. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t do that.”
“Then”—I swallow to steady my voice—“how are you any better than Anies?”
EIGHTEEN
BRACE YOURSELF
There was a car waiting for us on the airport's parking lot—a black Mercedes Dominik patted affectionately for a while, like he would have a horse. He eventually took the wheel while Isiporho climbed in the front. March sat with me in the back, and they head-butted the Romanian traitor and put him in the trunk, because March is after all a sensitive soul: he didn’t want his brothers to shoot him in front of me—as if sparing me another bloodbath would somehow earn him back my trust.
My cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, I watch headlights flash by in the fog, studying the continuous black ribbon imprinted in the snow by hundreds of tires. I’ve curled as far as humanly possible from March in the back seat and try to ignore his eyes, reflected in the window as he watches me with that beaten-dog look of his . . . The events of the night replay in my mind, over and over. I can still smell the cigarillo, as if the smell now clings to our clothes like an unspoken threat.
“What did you tell him?” I ask quietly.
In the reflection, March’s eyebrows jerk, his expression one of incomprehension.
I turn to look at him. “That Erwin guy, he said you were trying to blackmail him. What did you say for him to let us go?”
In the mirror, I see Isiporho’s mouth quirk in amusement. March appears to hesitate before he says, “I told him I was considering publishing my memoirs.”
Dominik’s eyes too dart to the mirror, full of curiosity. “For real?”
March gives a faint shrug. “I did start to write them. I had to find something to keep me busy in that hospital bed.”
I meticulously file each word of his explanation. Erwin joked that March was back from the dead. Did he get badly wounded, at the Poseidon? I can tell I’m missing
some essential piece of this new puzzle, hovering infuriatingly out of reach in the wasteland of my brain.
“You know, you should publish them anyway,” Isiporho tells March with a chuckle. “I like your style. Easy to read, very direct . . . like a phone book.”
“I’ll consider your feedback,” March replies tartly.
I have a zillion questions, but Dominik beats me to it. He gives Isiporho a befuddled side-eye. “You’ve seriously read it?”
The interested party nods. “A Million Little Bullets: Fifteen Years Spent Killing for Governments and Crime Lords Alike.”
I stare at March in awe and horror. Governments—as in US government? You bet a guy like Erwin doesn’t want to see that kind of best seller lining the aisles at Walmart . . . “You said you left the Lions,” I recall. “What did you do . . . after?”
His jaw works silently at first, and I detect something that could be regret—or maybe guilt?—filtering through an otherwise masterful poker face. “I sold my services—as a private contractor of sorts.”
Behind the wheel, Dominik snickers; I find nothing to laugh about. “You’re a hit man.”
“Were. I retired a little over a year ago.”
It dawns on me that Isiporho and Dominik have stopped smiling and gone silent altogether when I ask, “Why?”
March’s eyes fill with that tender sadness I’ve come to associate with him. I thought I could find it in myself to be stronger around him, to lock up that part of me that feels so raw, so powerless whenever he does that, but he wins again, and inside me, another wall collapses when he murmurs, “I wanted to be with you.”
I take slow breaths to keep it together, stare down at my lap, the scar on my wrist. I don’t think he understands what it does to me, how much it hurts every time he opens a tiny window to that life I’ve lost. It only serves to remind me that I’m standing in ashes, surrounded by strangers I have no idea how to connect to.
