“Yes, really.”
“Can you start the procedure for me? I'll see that you're well remunerated.”
“Sure. Give me a couple of weeks. I'll consult the lawyers and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Dennis.”
Cassy sat down and wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money in the bank. She didn't want to be a business woman; she wanted to be a good mother. With that kind of security, she could help her children become anything they wanted. She'd never have to work again, and she could buy Michael all the care he needed.
Cassy had promised Igor she wouldn't call him for a few days. He needed time with Dima to develop a plan for the extermination of the man who had kidnapped Michael. Her sickness continued, and she often went to bed early and dreamed about how Igor would react when he found out she was expecting his child.
After a week, she started to worry. She called.
“Igor, what's happening? I'm worried.”
“Not now,” he said and hung up.
What the hell? she thought. She called back.
“Listen, I'm in the middle of something. Haven't you got any fucking patience?” Igor said.
“Sorry,” she replied.
Perhaps she'd interrupted him in the middle of the task at hand, she thought. Still, even if she had, there was no need for him to talk to her like that. When he got to London, she would inform him of her displeasure at the way he spoke to her.
*****
Michael was sitting in an armchair working out how many roses were on the wallpaper while Cassy was lying on the sofa, feeling queasy. CNN was on TV, more as background than active viewing.
Cassy started to listen when she heard the words “Albanian and Russian.”
“There has been a shootout in Brighton Beach, New York, between what is thought to be a Russian gang and an Albanian gang. It isn't clear what the motive was, but eye witnesses report a group of about twenty Russians bursting into a well-known restaurant that belongs to Murat Hyka, an Albanian businessman. The whereabouts of Mr. Hyka is unknown, but it is thought he was taken away from the scene by a group of Russian men. So far the police have made no comment, except to confirm that three Russians were killed in the shootout and five Albanians.”
“No,” Cassy said. “Oh god no. Please don't let it be him.”
“Cassy okay?” Michael asked.
“Yes, darling. I'm fine,” she sobbed.
“Don't look fine,” he observed.
“No, really, I'm fine.”
Cassy left the room and tried to call Igor. No reply. She tried Dima. Also no reply. Now she was frantic. If it was him, what would she do? No, it couldn't be. The reporter had said there had been twenty Russians and only three were dead. Chances were Igor wasn't one of them.
Throughout the evening, she kept CNN on and saw the same report time after time. It was of no comfort. The names of the dead weren't given. All she was doing was making herself more miserable, she thought.
“Bedtime Michael,” she said at half past ten.
When Cassy got ready for bed, she prayed that he was still alive. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was useless. An hour later she got up and wandered down to the sitting room. She turned on the TV and again waited for news.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Michael, go to bed,” she said.
“It isn't Michael. It's me.”
Cassy jumped up and threw herself at Igor. “How the hell did you get here so quickly?”
“It's only a five-hour flight from New York.”
“I thought you were dead. They said on CNN...”
“Never believe the press.”
He kissed her and lifted her up. “There's only one place I want to go with you,” he said.
“You'll have to be very careful with me from now on,” she said. He looked at her quizzically. “I'm pregnant.”
“What? How?”
“That's the dumbest question I've ever heard. I'm about five weeks.”
“So it's mine?”
“Jesus, Igor, what do you take me for? Of course it's yours. You're going to be a father.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“Yes.”
He took her to the bedroom and made love to her. He was a passionate lover, but this time he was gentle, tender, and loving. Cassy fell asleep more satisfied than ever before with the knowledge that he was safe.
When they woke, she rolled to him, and he put his arms around her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Dima, me, and a few others went to his restaurant. We asked him about Michel. He told us to fuck off. He was very rude. A few of his men came out and started shooting, but we soon silenced them. Then we took the fat little asshole and threw him in the river. At the time, he was wearing a concrete sock.” He squeezed Cassy to him. “It's over, Cassy. You and Michael are safe now. We can go back to New York.”