by Camilla Monk
With a final desperate gulp of air, I go under. In the murky water, I glimpse shadows undulating away from the car—swimming. My brain wants to, urges me to paddle, move, do anything, but I’m struggling in icy treacle, my muscles petrified by the cold. Even reaching the door handle seems impossible. I strive toward it uselessly, but I’m not the one to open it. Hands clasp around my shoulders, someone snakes an arm around my torso, and I’m being hauled out of the car.
I recognize March’s black turtleneck right before asphyxia kicks in. I hold on to him and fight the urge to breathe, as hard as I can, until my lungs betray me, and I inhale pure ice. Spasms shake my body as I start drowning, but all of a sudden, the cold becomes a prickle on my face, an icy wind biting my skin. My head is out of the water, and I cough until I’m on the verge of throwing up. March is little more than a shivering blur, but I feel his chin against my cheek, and I can’t believe I’m still alive.
Splashing sounds alert me to the presence of several men around us. Most are swimming away, crawling toward the shore. Amid the chaos, I glimpse an eye patch, and Morgan’s face, distorted with rage. Renewed chills threaten to make me suffocate when I hear March’s pant in my ear. “Hold on tight.”
Am I not? I’m not sure; my arms are so numb. I’m trying to squeeze him, but maybe I’m slipping away. I don’t get what’s happening until I see his fist, closed around a grappling hook similar to the ones that dragged us into the river in the first place. Suddenly, we’re gliding so fast I’m sure it’s not March swimming like that. I mean, he’s amazing, but he’s not a dolphin. Or a speedboat. My eyes flutter shut, choosing to close the curtain on reality and replace it with bright, colorful spots and dolphins, dolphins everywhere.
I think I’ve passed out.
•••
“For God’s sake, does he need to be under the blanket too? He looked fine! A little swim never killed anyone.” That hushed growl . . . it’s Dries, bitching to someone from behind a door.
I’m warm. Almost too much, in fact: there’s a burning ache in my extremities. My head hurts too; a lingering headache throbs under my temples. As I come to my senses, a single thought boomerangs in my skull. March . . . is he okay? My rising pulse eases at the feeling of hot skin against mine and the best chest hair in the entire universe tickling my shoulder blades. His breath fans over my cheek; we’re spooning on a narrow mattress under something weightless and shiny that hurts my eyeballs and my brain when I crack an eye open. I immediately screw it shut. No light for now. I stir painfully while March nuzzles my hair and readjusts the thermal blanket over us. “Take it slow, biscuit . . . You’re safe.”
I roll to face him with a wince. Braving the wretched glare, I make another attempt at opening my eyes to examine his face. I stroke his cheeks, the soft bristles on his temples. There’re bruises on his forehead, at the corner of his mouth, a shiner under his left eye . . . all eclipsed by that warm, boyish smile I realize I’ve come to need like oxygen. I feel his dimples crease under my fingertips, and I can’t help but grin too. “Let’s agree to bring floaties next time,” I rasp.
His smile falters. “Island, I’m sorry I—”
I know what’s coming next; I press my lips to his to silence his apology, tasting him. If I never learn anything else in my life, at least I can say I understand the meaning of carpe diem better than most people ever will. And true to that motto, I intend to make the most of each passing second, savor them while I can . . .
I let March pull me closer, noticing for the first time that we’re almost naked, our underwear the last shred of propriety standing between us. I do experience a fleeting moment of embarrassment, but it’s little more than an ingrained reflex. In truth, nothing has ever felt so good, so right as his body stretching atop mine. The kiss grows feverish, exploratory, and I don’t miss the way his hands stroke my sides, massage me, eager for more . . . but ultimately shy. He gives one last tug to my lower lip. “Biscuit, I really wish we could keep going but—”
“We’re not alone,” I complete with a sigh, taking in my surroundings for the first time. The continuous hum in the background suggests a plane, and indeed, we’re in a small cabin, entirely lined with a dull combo of gray plastic and carpet. Hold on . . . Through a pair of round windows on the wall, I glimpse stormy weather muddying the sea horizon. So that thing I saw on the river was a boat after all? I sit up, fighting the shivers coursing across my skin when cool air insinuates itself under the thermal blanket. “Dries . . . I heard his voice. He’s here? What happened?”
March presses a kiss to my shoulder. “A lot. First let’s find you something to wear and a hot drink.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE SEA MONSTER
I’m getting used to wearing whatever I can scrape together to cover my temptress body. Like those black mechanic pants I found in our cabin’s closet—I actually think they’re cool—and a green Springboks sweatshirt, courtesy of Dominik. The only other clean T-shirt in his bag read “It won’t suck itself” on the front; we both averted our eyes and tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed.
Isiporho lent March some clothes, since they’re about the same size, so he at least gets to look normal, in dark wool pants, a gray sweater, and a clean white shirt underneath. As soon as he’s put on the sweater, he sets to rolling the sleeves up with meticulous gestures. Two perfectly equal folds, measured using the cuff, and thoroughly flattened. Once he’s through, he inspects the result with a satisfied huff.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
He nods, but his eyebrows pinch in concern. “I know this isn’t ideal . . . I contacted Phyllis; she’ll have a suitcase ready for you in Istanbul.”
“So that’s where we’re going?”
“Yes—”
The cabin’s door slams open before March has the time to finish his answer. Yup, Dries somehow escaped Erwin’s claws, and it seems my biological father never learned to knock. He gauges me, regal in a navy striped three-piece suit that looks like it came straight from dry cleaning. He takes a sip from a fuming coffee mug in his hand. “Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
We follow him out, and upon discovering the rest of the ship, my confusion deepens. The ship is a plane after all. I gather the small bedroom March and I warmed ourselves in is located at the tail, and the long, cathedral-like cabin we just entered looks every bit like the inside of a military plane: no windows in sight, and rather than the smooth plastic covering the walls of commercial aircraft, it’s steel, levers, and buttons everywhere, completed by large nets meant to secure cargo. Two rows of seats face each other on the sides, all empty—save for two.
The usual carefree grin lights up Isiporho’s face when he sees us, and he rises from his seat. Dominik’s hand jerks in the semblance of a greeting, but he doesn’t look up from his laptop, his fingers rapping feverishly on the keyboard. I don’t think he’s that busy: more likely he doesn’t want to make eye contact with me after the T-shirt incident.
Isiporho looks up to the plane’s ceiling and gestures to the imposing structure with a swipe of his arm. “Not bad, huh?”
“It’s amazing,” I concede. “But . . . what is this thing?”
Dries’s chest swells with pride. “Let me show you.”
We follow him to the other end of the cabin, up narrow stairs, and to the cockpit door. On the other side, Jan and Andrea sit respectively in the pilot and copilot seats, cocooned in a jungle of wires, switches, buttons, and dials. It’s the stormy sea stretching as far as the eye can see that steals my breath though. I instinctively squeeze March’s hand, an astonished grin taking over my face. We’re not in the sky. We’re racing, gliding above the Black Sea at dizzying speed. Yet, inside the cockpit, there’s only this continuous hum, like we’re in a quiet bubble, sheltered from the tons of water we lift in our wake.
I know this. I can’t remember where I learned it, but the physics principle behind the magic is still here, engraved in my mind. Short wingspan combined with low-altitude flight, close
to the ground: reduces drag, increases lift, allowing it to hover over any surface at incredible speed. “It’s a ground-effect craft!” I squeak.
“Meet the Caspian Sea Monster!” Dikkenek confirms with a cheerful bellow, echoed by Andrea’s excited bark.
Dries seems in an equally good mood. “It’s a Soviet ekranoplan prototype they built in the seventies, a Lun class. Those poor idiots dropped the program and let that beauty rot on dry land. I bought it from the Russians in the nineties, but Anies never really saw the point. We renovated it, but we didn’t do much with it either.”
“She’s been waiting for years in a hangar in Odessa, and all she wanted was to fly!” Dikkenek laughs.
Dries toasts him with his coffee mug. “Twenty to forty feet above the water.” He points to one of the innumerable dials on the dashboard. “Four hundred miles per hour under radar-detection level.” He shakes his head. “Anies never saw the point, but believe me, I do . . .”
At the evocation of Anies’s name, the past few hours rush back to me, and chills run down my spine. Stiles. He knew it was Dries as soon as he saw the ekranoplan, but I’m getting the feeling that there’s more to this. His southern drawl echoes in my head again. Don’t worry about Mr. November . . . His fairy godmother watches over him.
“What happened?” I ask Dries. “How did you escape Erwin? How did you know where to intercept us?”
He takes a long sip, his golden gaze darkening, almost amber in the dim cockpit light. “One thing at a time. Let’s sit down and have a little chat.”
•••
There’s some uncertainty regarding when exactly the cocoa powder that went in my mug was produced, but Dries said it’s fine, that these things never go bad and that Soviet-era cocoa was mostly beet sugar and color additives anyway. That’s precisely what I feared, but I’m starving, so I’m dipping my third Soldier Fuel peanut butter bar in the brownish water in my mug while March watches me with no small amount of concern over his coffee cup. Isiporho joined us, but he noted that the only thing he trusted in the ekranoplan’s galley was the tea—March hasn’t touched his coffee since.
After I’ve gulped down the last bite of my energy bar, I take a circular look at the three men gathered with me around a table in the aircraft’s briefing room. A continuous drizzle hits the windows, coming from the massive trail of surf we leave in our wake. I rest my elbows on the melamine and lace my fingers. “So, how did you find us?” I ask. “Was it because of Erwin’s men? They were following us before the Lions killed them.”
Dries chuckles. “At least they were useful once in their life.”
“But how did you escape?” I probe.
He waves his hand dismissively. “There was no need to escape . . . What did you think? That I couldn’t deal with that deplorable clown? He needs me. Right now I’m his only hope to ever crawl out from the archives.”
I frown. “The archives?”
March chimes in. “Well, much like the rest of us, Mr. Erwin has been going through a bit of a rough patch since the Poseidon incident.”
“They flushed that malodorous turd . . . Good riddance.” Dries snorts.
Okay, I’m increasingly lost . . . “They?”
“Mr. Erwin used to be the unofficial head of the Directorate of Foreign Operations,” March explains. “But with two rogue agents joining a criminal organization, six hundred victims in the plane bombing, and an entire vacation resort sunk in the Pacific . . . the agency decided it was time for new leadership.”
I nod. “So he got fired? Or is he in charge of the archives now? But he had all those soldiers with him . . .”
“To the best of my knowledge, he’s been offered a position within the declassified archives department, to oversee the sorting of all cafeteria-related complaints from 1947 to 1990,” March says.
I wince. “I . . . I don’t think that’s what he’s doing right now.”
“Neither do I. He may not have the ear of the new administration, but he siphoned considerable sums from his budget over the years, and he’s well connected. I’m assuming he’s using those resources to go after Anies.”
“On his own?”
Isiporho shrugs. “Possibly, but you never know with men like him . . .”
“No.” Dries considers his empty cup with a smirk. “He’s hunting alone, probably hiring ex–black ops. Steed and his team don’t trust the agency. They purged the old dogs and replaced them with a bunch of brain-addled brown-nosers. Good for our business. Bad for Erwin’s . . .”
I listen, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “So you made a deal with him?” I ask Dries.
“Not quite, but he understands I’m after Anies too, and his best hope to take him down is to let me lure him out.”
“Unless it’s the other way other around,” Isiporho notes dryly.
I stiffen. “What do you mean?”
Dries fishes something from his inner pocket that he tosses onto the table. Casting a faint golden hue on the melamine is my pendant. Or rather two halves of it. The amber has been shattered, and with it, the frail wings of the butterfly. I touch it tentatively, both relieved and ashamed. It might have been Anies’s gift, but it was also a precious archeological piece, and now it’s been destroyed. “Did it break in the river? It was in my pocket . . . but it was intact when Stiles gave it back to me.”
March reaches to take my hand in his as Dries growls, “He’s playing with us. I should have dumped that little cunt in a meat grinder when I had the chance . . .”
Around me, I feel the walls tilt, and I’m getting seasick. I squeeze March’s fingers to anchor myself. “You broke it.” And I think I know why.
Isiporho shakes his head with a bitter smile. “We were so focused on that thing in your head and the plate in your wrist that we never thought to search for a bug anywhere else.”
March points to the golden metal loop and the larger piece of metal that used to secure the disc of amber. “It’s high-end technology, undetectable when it’s not actively transmitting. The signal itself was short range, but we believe the tracker was capable of hooking on to unsecured wireless networks as well. I believe that’s why it took them so long to locate us in Finland. They didn’t have precise coordinates.”
“And when we landed in Romania, the pendant found a network to connect and signal our position,” I complete, my voice tight.
Dries takes one of the pendant’s broken pieces and studies it with piercing eyes. “At least now we’re free to move.”
I fight the laces tightening around my throat. “But Viktor is dead.”
Isiporho nods, an unexpected sadness shadowing his eyes. “We found him at the casino.”
Killed by Stiles, or one of his men . . . I look down at March’s and my joined hands. A lone spark lights up in my long-abused neurons. “Odysseus . . . did Erwin say anything about it?”
That sends Dries’s brow shooting upward in an expression of genuine surprise that looks almost foreign on his features. “Is anyone not looking for that wreck these days?”
Excellent question . . . “So he mentioned it too?” I say, springing back to life. “Stiles told me he thought I was even more precious to Anies than Odysseus. I knew there was something!”
March strokes my wrist pensively, searching Dries’s now-shuttered expression. “There’s a nuclear reactor inside the ship . . . do you think the Lions could have stolen it? To bargain with the US government?”
Isiporho leans back in his chair and runs a hand across his chin. “Eish . . .”
Dries gazes past us, through the window, as if lost in a world of his own. It seems the energy that continuously drives him past all obstacles has deserted him. “‘All men dream,’” he says slowly, “‘but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.’”
I get the feeling h
e’s quoting someone, but there’s nothing to retrieve from the empty shelves of my brain. “Is that from somewhere?”
He remains silent. I don’t like that he shut down on us—or maybe what upsets me is the realization that even he can be rattled.
March eventually answers for him. “Lawrence of Arabia wrote that, in the Seven Pillars of Wisdom.”
“Okay, so . . .”
“We’re going to need your boy,” Dries tells March, his knuckles rapping on the table—a sure sign that his personal brand of unflappable determination is back. “That little poes who hacked Auben’s phone in Rio. What was his name?”
“Colin,” March replies. “Colin Jeon.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
He winks at me. “Someone who’ll be happy to see you.”
Isiporho leaves the table to retrieve a small laptop from a metal case, which he hands to March. “I installed your game. Is that really how you contact him?”
March nods, his fingers flying fast on the keyboard to launch a colorful window. I watch in perplexity as he logs on to . . . Kawaii Farm. He selects his character, a little ostrich with huge eyes wearing jeans overalls and a straw hat. God, it even has a little rake: this is so cute! The map loads, and March’s ostrich runs across flower fields and orchards, guided by the direction keys.
I go through the stats panel at the bottom of the screen. Whoever this Colin person is, March didn’t play Kawaii Farm just to contact him . . . 67 orchards, 223 crop fields, over 400 hamsters working the fields full time for minimum wage, a staggering ten million “coinz” stashed at the Kawaii Bank of Investment, gold-shovel medal, platinum-wheelbarrow trophy . . . March’s ostrich has built an empire.
Meanwhile, the bird leaps among coconut trees and tropical pink flowers, all the way to another farm. He knocks at the door of a turtle-shaped house, prompting the launch of a chat window.
