Alyssa looked back at Kamila, and the aunt pulled Alyssa by the arm and put the coat around her shoulders. Out on the street, the sidewalk was busy with people. Taxi cabs and loud delivery trucks rushed past them. The whole world seemed to be awake and going about its business as though there were nothing wrong.
As they walked, Alyssa looked at her aunt’s face. It didn’t seem the face of someone who would hurt her, sell her to gypsies or something like that. Maybe today she would finally meet someone who would understand her. Someone who could help her find her dad again.
Several minutes later they arrived at an open area where people were selling food and other items. It reminded Alyssa of a farmer’s market back home. Alyssa smiled at the thought of never having to see Kamila again. Of being at home with her dad. Safe in her own house.
The aunt took Alyssa from one booth to another, buying eggs, bread, some vegetables. Alyssa grew impatient and wanted to tell her aunt, to ask her what was she waiting for. Much later, Alyssa realized they were on their way back to the apartment.
Alyssa stopped on the sidewalk, and the aunt walked a few more paces before noticing. She turned to face Alyssa, a look of confusion on her face.
“We can’t go back there,” Alyssa said.
The old aunt smiled and waved her hand toward the apartment. She said something in Russian.
“No…don’t you understand…she kidnapped me…I need to find my dad.”
The aunt shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t understand a word.
“Please,” Alyssa said. “English…someone who speaks English…” She stressed the last word.
The aunt motioned again.
She wasn’t going to help her. Alyssa began sobbing, and she didn’t care if the whole world saw, because it seemed like the whole world didn’t care anyway. Why was this happening?
The aunt walked back and pulled Alyssa closer, wrapped her arm around Alyssa’s shoulder. She spoke in a calm voice. Something nice and comforting, probably. If only she spoke English.
Chapter 28
Marcus and Stormy, along with Dmitry, had escaped the Embassy thanks to Jen’s help. Marcus would deal with the consequences of their escape later. Jones could come after them, but that risked bringing more attention to himself and his clandestine activities. As long as they didn’t come to the attention of the American, or for that matter Russian, authorities, they’d be able to continue their pursuit of Kamila. But avoiding notice wasn’t going to be easy—a Russian reporter and two Americans don’t blend in so well in a place like Chechnya.
They were in Grozny by eight o’clock the next evening. Now that she’d left Moscow, the only link Marcus had to Kamila was the address on an envelope he’d found in Anna’s belongings. The address belonged to Anna and Kamila’s aunt. Marcus had never talked to the woman, but knew that Anna had kept in touch with her regularly until her death. He had no idea whether Kamila had the same relationship with the aunt, but it was worth a try. Maybe Kamila would visit the aunt, leave some clue to her plans for herself and Alyssa.
As they waited for their luggage, Marcus pulled out the crumpled letter from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Here’s where we’re going,” Marcus said.
Dmitry took the envelope. “Yes. But that’s not an address. It’s a PO Box.”
All this time, Marcus had thought he’d had the aunt’s actual address. “There’s nothing on there that can tell us where she lives?”
“These six numbers,” he said pointing to the lower left of the envelope, “show the origination of the letter. The first three, Postal code 364, mean it came from Chechnya. The final three tell us which area of Grozny, 907. I have no idea where that is. The post office will know. We will go first thing in the morning.”
“They’ll just tell us her address?” Stormy asked.
“No,” Dmitry said.
“Then what?” Marcus said.
“I have a plan. First, however,” Dmitry said, taking a step back from Stormy, “You need to cover yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not the law. Yet. But look around and you’ll notice that all of the women have their heads covered.”
“Nice,” she replied sardonically.
“It is a Muslim republic.”
“And Russian.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Dmitry said.
Outside, they hired a taxi with the word Islam printed in large letters across the doors. Apparently, the company that shared a name with the predominant religion of the region had cornered the market.
Marcus stared out the window at neighborhoods scattered with rubble and one broken edifice after another, jutting skyward like shards of glass. It reminded him of a documentary he had seen about the German bombing of London. As they neared the center of the city, newer structures rose out of the disarray. Alyssa was out there, somewhere. How close was she? In Moscow she had only been twenty or thirty minutes away at most. If only he’d known the address. Just like now.
Dmitry considered the Grozny skyline. “Grozny is a Russian phoenix rising from Chechen ashes,” he said. “They even name streets after Putin.”
“Putin?” Marcus said.
“Yes, that Putin,” Dmitry said.
“I thought the Chechens hated him,” Stormy asked.
“What better reason for the Russians to name their main street after him? We Russians won the war, if you can call it winning. And, what is your saying in English? To the winner go the spoils? Well, here the spoils are we get to name the streets. Unfortunately, the spoils also means we get to get shot at and have women with bombs strapped to their stomachs visit us at the most inconvenient times.”
As they stepped into the hotel lobby, they were greeted by the aroma of food that was exotic yet recognizably spicy. Marcus remembered for the first time in a day that he needed sustenance. A man entered from an adjoining room behind the front counter, wiping his mouth and hands with a towel.
The man studied them. “One room or two?”
“Two, of course,” Dmitry said, dramatically. He turned to Stormy. “Your honor is safe with me. As for him…” he nodded at Marcus. “Who can say?”
“Funny,” Marcus said. “Dmitry and I can share a room.”
The man was in his mid-thirties. Tall for a Chechen, he had a round belly, propped up over his belt. Despite his relatively soft physique, he looked as though he wouldn’t think twice about manhandling guests who didn’t play by his rules. Marcus was sure the man had a pistol—at least—under the counter. The man stared back at Dmitry derisively. “I’m not sure we have two rooms.”
“We have reservations,” Dmitry said. “For two rooms.”
“I’m still not sure we have two rooms.”
Dmitry turned to Marcus and Stormy. “The man requires a little motivation.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Marcus asked.
“Money.”
“We are paying to stay here. That should be enough,” Stormy said.
She was right, but this wasn’t the time to argue over a few dollars. If it got them a place to stay, and kept them from drawing attention to themselves it was worth it. Soon enough they would have Alyssa back and they would all say goodbye to this hellhole forever. Marcus opened his wallet spread a handful of bills across the counter. “That’s it, or we’re going somewhere else.”
The man nodded, sliding the cash off the counter and into his pocket. He clicked on the keyboard a few times. “We have two rooms.”
Once outside, Dmitry explained. “The rebels watch foreigners. If the locals learn we are from the outside, it puts him at risk. On the other hand, if those loyal to the Russians believe we are helping the rebels, that is even worse. Lucky for us he needs our business.”
“Watched? Are we safe here?” Stormy said.
“Safe enough for Chechnya.”
Marcus sat alone in Stormy’s room while she showered. Dmitry h
ad gone out exploring the neighborhood with a promise to return with food.
Tomorrow morning, they would find the aunt and—hopefully—Alyssa. All of the failures, the missed phone call, coming too late to Kamila’s hotel, none of that would matter once they were back home.
Twenty minutes later, Dmitry returned with an armful of takeout from a local restaurant. He set the food down on the table and pulled a fifth of Jack Daniel from his coat pocket.
Stormy opened the bathroom door and spotted Dmitry and his bottle of whiskey.
“I thought you were getting food,” Stormy said.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a drink over 30 proof in this town? Two hours a day only, ten to noon. It’s a good thing I brought my own.”
A drink sounded good. How long had it been? Since his date with Stormy? They had been after Stormy and Alyssa for almost two weeks now.
“I have food too,” Dmitry said, lifting three large plastic containers from the bag.
Marcus figured he’d better get something in his stomach before touching the hard stuff. Dmitry had brought them each an entrée, some sort of vegetable and beef mixture. Spicy, but not over the top. Anna had made something similar years ago, when they were still in Russia.
“So, in America, what is it you do?” Dmitry asked.
Marcus let Stormy answer first. Her cheeks engorged, she took a long drink of water and swallowed. “I’m an attorney.”
“Same,” Marcus said.
“Ah yes, we have many of those in Russia as well. Usually they help the rich get richer and the guilty go free, if the guilty are wealthy, of course.”
Stormy smiled. “Sounds like America.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Not all attorneys are bad. Without us, businesses couldn’t operate legally. Contracts wouldn’t be valid.”
“People couldn’t get divorced,” Dmitry said.
“Newspapers couldn’t be sued for defamation,” Marcus said.
“What a world that would be,” Dmitry said, smiling.
“You going to keep that Jack Daniels to yourself?” Marcus asked.
If he was going to listen to politics—possibly his least favorite topic—he was going to need a drink.
“I always share. It is quite a Russian thing to do.”
Dmitry placed a paper cup in front of each of them. He held the bottle in one hand, then paused. “But seriously, you don’t regret this?” He was looking at Stormy.
“Regret what?” she said, wiping her mouth and placing the napkin in the Styrofoam box.
“Being a lawyer.”
“I figure every job has its pros and cons. Take a garbage man, for example. He helps people get rid of their garbage.”
Dmitry nodded.
She continued. “But the con side is, he’s taking all of that garbage and it is piling up somewhere, probably polluting the environment.”
“Forget the environment,” Dmitry replied, pointing at her with the tip of the bottle. Was he ever going to open that thing? “What about the poor man who lives next to the garbage dump. His kids go out to play, they smell the garbage. His wife makes dinner, there again is the reek, and so on.”
“Good point,” she said.
“You really look out for the little guy,” Marcus said, trying to shield the sarcasm in his voice. By now he had been around Dmitry enough to know that, more than anything, Dmitry liked to hear himself talk. The topic didn’t matter, as long as his mouth was moving.
“Little guy?” Dmitry said.
“You know, the underdog. The poor and unfortunate.”
“Ah, yes.”
Stormy was eyeing Marcus. She had sensed the sarcasm in Marcus’s tone, if Dmitry hadn’t. Marcus turned the corner of his mouth up just slightly to acknowledge her look. “Now, there are three unfortunate souls right here is this room, who could use a drink.”
“Sorry,” he said, twisting the cap. “I get talking—”
“You do,” Marcus said.
This time, Stormy’s look was a warning. Knock it off.
Dmitry filled Stormy’s cup first.
“You sure you want that?” Marcus asked Stormy.
She took a sip from her cup, then swallowed hard as if fighting off a cough. Marcus laughed. “You think I can’t handle my liquor?” She chided. She tipped her head back and swallowed the rest of the drink.
Dmitry and Marcus laughed. “Cheers,” Marcus said, taking a more modest drink. The warmth felt good as the whiskey hit the bottom of his stomach. Dmitry pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket, lifting it up to Marcus. “You want?”
“No thanks.”
Dmitry cut the tip off and lit the cigar, inhaling deeply.
“Where were we? The unfortunate. There is a word any Russian understands. Being an underdog as you put it, for most of your life makes understanding the unfortunate of the world much easier.”
“You had a hard childhood?” Stormy asked.
Marcus reached for the bottle, pouring more into his little cup. He sensed a life story coming on.
Dmitry scoffed. “Not really. My father worked for the government since he was a boy. A bureaucrat, faithful to the Soviets even after they replaced him for no reason except to promote the nephew of some high-ranking party member.” He glanced at Stormy before pouring more in the cup he placed in front of her.
“To my father.”
“To your father,” Stormy replied.
Marcus followed suit, a little late. “Yes. To your father.”
“So, you see, a lifetime of faithfulness to the party and what does it get you? Nothing.”
“The best of both worlds.” He exhaled slowly.
“The cigar,” Stormy said.
“Does it bother you?” Dmitry asked.
“Not at all. It reminds me of my father. As a girl, I would find him alone in his den most nights, the room full of the sweet aroma. He would fall asleep in his favorite chair, cigar smoldering in the ashtray, a book resting on his belly. My job was to make sure he got to bed and the house didn’t burn down.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Marcus said.
“Well, I’m not totally inept when it comes to taking care of people. Even if I don’t have kids. Yet.” Her eyes met his.
Marcus thought back to the times he had discounted the chances of a long-term relationship with Stormy because she didn’t have kids. Why, he had asked himself, get involved with someone who would walk away when things got tough, as they always did when it came to being a parent. Maybe he’d been wrong about her.
“So,” Stormy asked, turning to Dmitry, “do you have a girlfriend?”
Dmitry chuckled. “No, no, no. Not for me. Not now. Maybe someday when I get my big break and I don’t have to make a living investigating people who want to do away with me. Don’t get me wrong. A woman is a beautiful thing. Take you for instance.”
Marcus cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” Dmitry said, pouring another round.
Stormy lifted the cup to her mouth. “No, let him continue. I want to hear this.” A wide smile spread across her lips.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Dmitry said.
“Don’t know what?” She pressed him.
“How beautiful you are.”
Who did he think he was, calling Stormy beautiful? No girlfriends my ass. This guy was obviously a player.
Stormy blushed. “Thank you.”
“Your Marcus is a very lucky man.”
“Hello? I’m here in the room,” Marcus said.
“He’s not my Marcus. He’s just a friend. A co-worker.”
Marcus stared at the two of them, incredulous. It really was like he wasn’t there.
“Hmm. So you are not in love with him?”
In the silence that followed, Marcus’s heart pounded against the inside of his chest. What was he getting so worked up about? He was both irritated that Dmitry had asked the question
, and at the same time dying to know the answer.
She put her cup on the table. “I’ll pass on that question.”
Even the few drinks he’d had couldn’t dampen the awkwardness silence that followed. Marcus wanted to look at Stormy, but didn’t want to make eye contact. What was Dmitry up to? Was he trying to put distance between Marcus and Stormy?
“She doesn’t have to answer,” Marcus said. “Leave her alone.”
“He’s just having fun,” Stormy said.
“Sometimes people should mind their own business,” Marcus said.
“Not something I am good at,” Dmitry replied. He snuffed the cigar out in the ashtray.
“No worries,” Stormy said. “Marcus knows how I feel about him.”
I do? Now would be a good time for Dmitry to disappear.
Stormy leaned forward, and pressed her mouth against Marcus’s. They stayed there for what seemed like a long time, and for a moment it was as if they were alone.
“Maybe I should leave?” Dmitry said.
Stormy stood. “Both of you. I’m tired, and not just because of the whiskey.”
“Agreed then,” Dmitry said, twisting the lid back on the bottle. “Farewell and good night.”
Stormy followed Marcus to the door. She put her hand on his chest. “Good night.” A short peck on the lips this time.
He smiled, still in shock from the display of affection a moment earlier. Maybe it was the alcohol, but it seemed that everything was working out the way it was supposed to. Soon, he’d have Alyssa back, and Stormy at his side, and all would be well with the world.
Chapter 29
Kamila awoke. A heavy, yellow-gray light filled the room, so subtle that at first she thought it was nighttime and someone had forgotten to turn the lamp off. The smell of eggs cooking made her mouth wet and she knew it was morning. She sat up and saw Alyssa standing at the stove. Kamila’s stomach growled in protest. She would leave with Alyssa, soon. Once her aunt told her where her father was. But first, she had to eat.
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