“I am okay, Gracie,” he tells me, my face still cradled in between his hands. “Do you hear me? I’m okay. I’m going to be okay. No one is trying to hurt me.”
I want to believe him. I swear, I really do. It’s not like I enjoy this terror that consumes me, this never-ending pulse of fear that pounds in my veins and echoes in my mind so hard that even when I cover my ears I hear it.
I don’t want to be right.
But I’m too terrified of what might happen if Alexei is wrong.
Down below, the car sits idling in the Russian courtyard, and the crowd waits with bated breath. They are watching the front doors of the embassy, not the far end of the street. They haven’t seen us. Yet.
Alexei looks toward them, certain of where he must go and what he must do.
“We’re going to figure out who did it,” I tell him. “We’re going to find Spence’s killer. Before it’s too late.”
“What do you think’s going to happen to me, Gracie?” Alexei says it with a grin. It’s almost like a dare.
But that must be too much irony for the universe to handle, because, just then, the big black car explodes, fire and black smoke filling the sky.
The room was probably beautiful once. But now when I pull off the white sheets that cover the furniture, a cloud of dust billows up. Moldy drapes cover the windows, but Megan pulls them aside just a crack and peers out onto Embassy Row. From the second story of Iran we can see the street. The chaos. That’s why we aren’t in the basement. No, we’re here, watching the black smoke rise into the sky, listening to the constant chorus of sirens, shrill and piercing, playing like an old-fashioned phonograph turning in another room.
The protestors have been replaced by spectators who push against barricades. Police cars and fire engines and every news crew in Adria fill the streets. The story has changed, and for a moment, the crowd waits, reverent and still.
But soon … soon they’re going to start looking for Alexei.
The world is right outside that dirty window, but we stay in this dusty, decaying shell of an embassy, none of us certain what comes next.
“We can’t stay here.” Noah can’t stop pacing. He’s right, of course, but I don’t say so. We know the Scarred Man used to meet the prime minister here — maybe other people come here, too. It’s a risk that we can’t take, and Noah knows it.
“Do you think we’d be better off out there?” Megan points to the street.
“We can use the tunnels,” Noah says.
“And come out where?” Megan asks. “Where are we supposed to go? Where is Alexei supposed to go?”
“I don’t know,” Noah snaps. “But I know we can’t stay here.”
“You’re right,” I say. For a moment, I consider the Society and its massive underground headquarters. Ms. Chancellor said that she didn’t think Alexei was guilty, but she didn’t offer to prove that he’s innocent either. I could ask her to hide him. I could ask the Society to help. But they’ve already become embroiled in one international conspiracy on my behalf. And if I’m being honest with myself, it scares me.
If I’m being really honest, a part of me can’t help but fear they might be in the midst of another.
“Grace?” Noah is at my elbow. “Grace, what do you think?”
“You’re both right. We’re probably stuck here until the sun goes down. We’ll find someplace safe for tonight, but eventually we’ve got to get Alexei out of the country. Noah, can you get your mom’s van?”
“Yes, but I won’t.”
“You have to!”
“We can’t just smuggle a hot Russian across the border,” Noah snaps, then realizes what he’s said. “I mean, a fugitive Russian. Not a hot Russian. Not that Alexei isn’t extremely attractive. You are, it’s just that …”
“We get it.” Megan places a hand on his arm and stops him, saving Noah from himself.
Through it all, Alexei is silent. He hasn’t spoken since the street. Maybe it’s the trauma. He almost died. I know how that feels, and the sensation takes a while to get used to.
Megan and Noah are watching him, too. He doesn’t rock, doesn’t shake. It’s more like he’s still seeing it, a nightmare on a loop inside his mind.
He’s so quiet that when he finally whispers, “I knew him,” I’m not sure if Alexei even realizes that he has spoken aloud.
Then he looks at me.
“The man in the car. His name was Mikhail. He was my father’s personal driver. I know him. I mean … I knew him. He taught me to ride a bicycle.”
“I’m so sorry, Alexei,” Megan says, patting his hand. “We’re all so, so sorry.”
Spence is dead. And now Mikhail. People are dying! I want to scream as I look out the window at the chaos that still fills Embassy Row. I’m three years and thousands of miles away from my mother, but it feels like I will never outrun the smoke.
“Grace!” I hear a voice echoing up from the basement. “Grace, are you in —”