“I was looking forward to spending a little time here. Or going home to Sochi for a bit.”
He seemed to relax a little bit. He picked up his fork and gazed down at his breakfast. “You will. All in good time. This is a speed bump, that’s all. No, it’s a detour. A detour to America. You like America,” he said, the last sentence a small, slight dig. “But then you’ll come back. Or go home. Whichever you want.”
“Okay.”
He looked over her shoulder and pointed. She turned and saw a pair of myna birds on an outside railing just behind her, their yellow beaks phosphorescent in the sun. “Even the birds here eavesdrop,” he said, smiling. But then his tone grew serious. “You asked me how much time you have,” he said. “The fact the flash drive was of no value—no use—doesn’t reflect well on you. You should know that no one is happy about that. I am just being honest. So, I think you should move quickly. For your own sake, Elena. For your own good. Soon would be best—for everyone.”
14
Cassie saw that she was on page nine of the New York Post and page eleven of the Daily News. At the same time that she bought the two newspapers at the Rite-Aid a block from her apartment, she bought new sunglasses: big and bulky and a completely different shape from her old ones. The ones in the photograph. On her way back to her building, she threw away the sunglasses she was wearing in Dubai, as well as the scarf with the arabesque patterns. It was pretty and she knew she would miss it. She deposited them into an overflowing trash can on the corner, because the garbage would be collected later that morning.
The article was identical to the version she had read online, and she was rather surprised by how tame it all seemed now that she had read Sokolov’s obituary. Usually the Post wrote the worst or the wildest things that anyone thought or suspected but would never say aloud. But there was no conjecture that Alex was CIA or KGB, no innuendo at all that he was a spy. Alex was portrayed as just another hedge fund guy who happened to go to places like Moscow and Dubai for work.
On the sidewalk near her apartment, she saw three schoolgirls walking toward her in matching plaid uniform skirts and white blouses, and guessed they were close to her nephew’s age: they looked about eleven. Each was using her phone as a compact, flipping the camera lens as if taking a selfie, but she could tell by the anxiety in all of their eyes that they weren’t merely checking their makeup—were they wearing anything more than lipstick?—but were instead examining their faces for uncorrectable imperfections. One of the girls had twin constellations of freckles on her cheeks. Another, who looked closest to tears, had a slight bump along the ridge of her nose. They were pretty girls, and their self-doubt and their fear seemed needless. But Cassie understood. She had no idea where they were going because she doubted even private schools started this early in August. Perhaps it was some sort of summer program or summer day trip. It didn’t matter. She recalled feeling the way they did herself. She knew her niece would soon. All of Jessica’s confidence would disappear like a helium balloon released on a blustery autumn afternoon. Maybe some of it would return, but it would never be as bold and pure as it once was.
When the children were behind her, Cassie looked again at the picture of herself in the tabloid. Utterly disgusted, she shook her head exactly like the girl with the freckles.
* * *
? ?
Almost as soon as she was back in her apartment, her phone rang and she saw it was Megan. She paused for a brief moment but then answered it. “Hey, there,” she said. “Aren’t you in Berlin?”
“I am. The flight’s delayed, so I thought I’d check in with you. You okay?”
“Let’s see: I’m speaking again to the FBI this afternoon and I’m kind of wigged out by the newspapers. Other than that, what could possibly be wrong?”
“I get it. The FBI talked to me again, too.”
She stared at Hammond’s business card on her refrigerator. Suddenly she felt as if she had just dodged a bullet not saying anything more to Megan. She told herself that she was being crazy, but an idea came to her: this conversation is being recorded. The FBI was using Megan to get her to incriminate herself. And so, just in case, she responded, “I hope they get to the bottom of this soon. I feel so bad for that poor man’s family.” She said a small prayer that Megan wouldn’t bring up the fact that she had asked her friend to lie for her when they had spoken last.
“Vaughn feels that way, too,” Megan agreed, referring to her husband. “When he read the newspaper stories, he called and said he didn’t understand why it’s all about the mystery woman and not the guy who was killed.”
“How is Vaughn?”
“Good. Same old, same old.”
“What’s he working on these days?” she asked. She had no interest at all in what Vaughn Briscoe did for a living as a consultant, but the question struck her as innocuous and safe. She felt bad not trusting her friend, but just in case, she had to get this conversation as far from Dubai as she could.
“More government nonsense. He’s in Edgewater, Maryland, again. He’s happier when he’s with private-sector clients, but it makes our life so much easier when he’s working in Maryland or inside the Beltway. When the girls were younger and he was working for that pharmaceutical company in Colorado, childcare was a nightmare. He was always away. Always traveling. Kind of like me. Now he’s home every night, and this fall he’ll be able to pick them up from the ten trillion places they have to be after school when I can’t.”
“How was Berlin?”
“It was fine. Are you nervous about this afternoon?”
“No,” Cassie lied. “How many times and how many ways can they ask me about what Sokolov was like on the flight or whether he said anything of interest?”
“That’s all they’re asking?”
“So far. Maybe they’ll have more interesting questions for me this afternoon.”
“Look, Cassie…”
“Go on.”
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I just feel so bad for you. I just—”
“I’m fine,” Cassie said. She wanted to cut her friend off before she could say something they both might regret. “I need to run. My family’s coming to town from Kentucky this weekend, and I have a thousand things to do. But I really appreciate the offer, and I love hearing your voice. I love it. But I’m okay.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah. Berlin,” she answered, and she laughed ever so slightly. Her friend, if she needed her, probably would be on another continent and in a time zone six hours distant.
* * *
? ?
To try and take her mind off the newspapers and what loomed that afternoon, she finished “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” on the couch, occasionally glancing up at the Empire State Building when her mind wandered from nineteenth-century Russia. She felt neither virtuous for reading Tolstoy nor relieved by Ilyich’s transformation: the way he went from fearing to welcoming that great, ineludible light. Mostly she continued to hope that Alex Sokolov hadn’t woke up when his throat was being cut.
* * *
? ?
It was hot and sunny again that Friday, and so Ani directed Cassie to a glass table in a shady spot of the courtyard, and the two of them brought their street falafel there. The city felt quiet to Cassie, even for the start of a weekend in the middle of the summer.