Once upon a time, the Tenderloin was a seedy part of town, or so Mom and Dad tell me. But Union Square Park is now bordered by Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy’s, Nordstrom. Most people are bundled up in coats; to me, after weeks in St. Petersburg, the day doesn’t feel so cold. Everyone seems busy and cheerful, especially the crowds on the ice-skating rink, the one they always set up during the holidays. For a moment, the whirling, giggling figures on the ice take me back to St. Petersburg—and then I see one still, silent person in the background.
Paul stands near the foot of the Victoria Monument, wearing his one good winter coat, the one Mom gave him. He must have seen me before I saw him, because he doesn’t flinch. Instead he squares his shoulders, like he’s preparing for a fight.
Paul. My heart is equal parts joy, pain, and fear. Joy to see him alive again. Pain because this isn’t the same Paul who died in Russia—because his very presence is a reminder that a Paul I loved, a Paul who loved me, is gone forever.
Fear because I still don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know whether Paul’s saving me or leading me even deeper into danger than I already am.
I can’t make myself keep walking forward. It’s as though I’m pinned to the spot. But Paul is already coming to me, closing the rest of the distance. Every step he takes toward me brings him into sharper focus, and I find myself noticing each detail that reminds me of Paul in Russia, and each one that makes them different.
He speaks first. “Thank you for coming here. For trusting me.”
I still can’t get over seeing him alive again. “How—how did you get out of Russia?”
“Azarenko returned the Firebird to me before the battle. I leaped out not long after the fighting started.”
Paul looks worried, and I realize he wants to ask about his other self. Whether he lived. I can’t bring myself to talk about Lieutenant Markov. I’d break down, and I can’t afford that, not now. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve taken a room in a nearby hostel. Theo got me a fake ID last year, so I used it to check in, and hostels take cash. Even Conley can’t trace me here. Tomorrow morning, early, I’m taking the train to the airport. I’ve got a flight to Quito.”
That’s nice, but so not what I was asking.
He adds, “Quito is in Ecuador.”
“I know where Quito is!” I snap, which is technically true because he just told me. “I meant, what’s going on? With you and with Conley and all of it. Don’t tell me to go back home like a good girl. If you do that again, I swear—”
“I won’t do that again.” But Paul says it less like a promise, more like . . . admitting defeat. “You should have gone home when I told you to, but now it’s too late.”
“So are you going to explain? Finally?”
“Yes.” Paul looks up at the sky, as though he’s afraid we’re being watched. Then again, Triad owns satellites. Conley could watch us from space if he wanted to.
I think Paul’s paranoia is infecting me.
“Come on,” Paul says. “Let’s go back to the hostel.”
We walk there together, side by side, without saying a word. Lieutenant Markov in Russia might have offered me his arm; if he knew nobody was watching, he would have held my hand. Paul doesn’t.
Most of what I know about hostels comes from Josie, who backpacked around Europe one summer and around Australia and Southeast Asia the next. According to her, they’re for people who want all the discomfort of camping out but none of the peace and quiet. She likes them anyway, though, because you get to meet people from all over the world. Sure enough, the lobby is filled with a group of Swedish college students trying to figure out the best time to visit Alcatraz. Paul pays the extra $10 to have a second guest, introducing me as his “girlfriend” so awkwardly that I wonder if the lady at the desk thinks I’m a hooker. But she signs me in, under my own fake ID.
“Hostels have private rooms?” I say, as Paul shuts the door behind us.
“Sometimes. I took one here because I knew I needed some privacy to work.”
The room looks like a split-open supercomputer. He’s hooked together five different laptops and a couple of devices I don’t recognize. The screens scroll on and on with lines of glowing code. Although the room is shadowy, almost devoid of natural light, Paul doesn’t turn on the lamp, maybe to avoid glare on the screens, which flicker with every new line of data. “What are you doing?”
“Tapping into Triad’s servers.”
“I thought you already did that.” Sure enough, a tablet computer propped against the wall flips through various security camera images from within Triad headquarters.
“Some data is more heavily protected. If I can break into that before I leave the country, great. If not, I’ll have to make some educated guesses.”
“About what?”
Paul doesn’t answer me directly, just takes off his coat. The Firebird gleams dully against his black sweater. “You wanted answers. So let’s begin.”