Peter’s eyebrows rise. “The Serbian arms dealer?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Kent releases Yulia’s hand, his mouth tightening. “He’s been interfering with our business, and we had to retaliate. Unfortunately, the CIA was in the middle of a sting operation when we struck, and we blew up a few agents. Not on purpose, mind you. But Traum is still pissed, because that operation was his baby.”
“You know, I heard something about that,” Peter says thoughtfully. Turning to Anton, he says, “Remind me… the shit show that our hackers were talking about in August—was that in Belgrade?”
“That’s right,” Anton says, nodding. “Two warehouses full of C-4, fifteen armored trucks, and a factory near that village. Was that your doing, Kent?”
Our host’s smile is sharper than a blade. “Indeed. We had to impress our seriousness on Novak. Undercutting us on prices is one thing, but breaking into our Indonesian facility and killing all the staff? That crossed a line.”
Listening in horrified fascination, I steal a glance at Yulia to see how she’s reacting to all this. Could one get used to dinner conversation revolving around staff killings and blowing up of factories?
Sure enough, Kent’s wife is eating calmly, seemingly unruffled. She either has no problem with her husband’s violent business, or she’s an excellent actress. For some reason, I suspect it’s a little of both, which makes me wonder about Yulia’s background. Has she always been in the restaurant industry, and if not, what did she do before? How did she and her husband meet?
In general, how does one encounter a man from this world if one’s husband doesn’t have the misfortune to be on an assassin’s revenge list?
Driven by curiosity, I get up to help when Yulia starts clearing away the dishes. She tries to wave away my assistance, but I insist on helping her carry everything into the kitchen, leaving the men to discuss whatever went down in Belgrade. It’s important that I get close to Kent’s wife, and not just because I want to learn more about her.
If I’m to stand a chance of getting away before Peter returns, I’ll need her help.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask as she takes several desserts out of a restaurant-sized fridge. “You speak perfect English, but your name…”
“It’s Ukrainian,” she explains, smiling. “Though it could just as easily be Russian. The name is common in both countries. If it’s hard for you to pronounce, you can call me Julia—that would be the English equivalent.”
I smile back and start rinsing dirty dishes. “I think I can pronounce the real thing. Yu-lee-yah, right?”
She looks pleased. “You got it. Some Americans have trouble, which is why I’ve been letting them do the Julia bit. Your pronunciation is really good, though—better than most.”
“Thank you. It should be—I’ve had a lot of exposure to the Russian language lately,” I say, stacking the rinsed plates in the dishwasher. I’m hoping she’ll ask about that, but Yulia merely smiles and carries the first set of desserts out into the dining room before returning to the kitchen for more.
I don’t get a chance to talk to her again, because she keeps going back and forth, getting everyone tea and coffee to go along with dessert. Frustrated, I go back to the table, where the men are now discussing the situation in Syria and the continued turmoil in Ukraine. I try to follow their conversation, but they might as well be speaking Russian. Every other word is a place or name I don’t know, alongside strange initials like UUR. The only thing I learn is that Kent’s business thrives on conflict of all kinds, from small-scale rivalry between drug cartels to full-blown wars between nations.
Every man at this table contributes, in one way or another, to death and suffering around the globe.
By now, I should be used to that—I’ve been living with a team of assassins for months—but it’s still startling to realize how normal this is to them, and how utterly unconcerned they are with such banalities as good and evil. Where I come from, people feel ashamed if they don’t recycle or donate their used clothes, much less say or do anything to hurt another. The bad men in my world cheat on their wives, drive drunk, or refuse to give up their seat for a pregnant woman. They don’t kill for money or sell weapons that can wipe out entire towns.
That’s a whole other level of evil.
Yet even as I tell myself that, I can’t help being aware of the treacherous passage of time, of how each minute brings us closer to the end of this meal and Peter’s departure. Given everything, it should be a relief to have him leave, but I can’t suppress the anxiety simmering underneath my fear and anger.
No matter what, I can’t stop worrying about the monster I should hate.
All too soon, the desserts are consumed—most of them by Anton—and the tea is finished. Getting up, Peter and his men thank Yulia, praising the meal in glowing terms, and then Anton and the twins head to the exit, accompanied by our host. Yulia disappears into the kitchen, and I find myself alone with Peter for the first time since his revelation.
Coming up to me, he gently brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “I have to go,” he says quietly, and I nod, trying to ignore the painful lump expanding in my throat.
“Okay,” I manage to say semi-calmly. “Good luck.”
Be careful. Come back to me. I need you. The aching confession is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold the words back, suppressing the urge to step into his embrace and kiss him. He’s not my lover going off to war; he’s my kidnapper, my captor. By the time he returns, I might be gone, and if I’m not, we’ll have the biggest battle on our hands. What Peter wants—to impregnate me against my consent—is worse than kidnapping, more terrible than torture.
It would deprive me of the most basic choice of all and bring an innocent child into the twisted mess of our relationship.
Peter holds my gaze, and I can tell he’s waiting. For what, I don’t know, but when I continue to stand there silently, his face tightens and he drops his hand.
“I will see you soon,” he says grimly, turning away, and I watch, my heart breaking into pieces, as he leaves the room.
42
Peter
* * *
It’s just before midnight when we land on a private airstrip near Istanbul, less than five miles from our target’s suburban mansion. Our task for tonight is to scope out the area in person, as we’ve been going by satellite and drone imagery so far.
If all goes well, we’ll strike in a few days.
We’re all tired and jet-lagged—it’s already morning in Japan—so we keep our reconnaissance brief. Anton and Yan drive around the gated community where the mansion is located, noting key landmarks and potential escape routes, while Ilya and I enter the community on foot, using the guard shift change to scale the ten-foot fence near the main gate.