Diego and Eduardo both nod, looking relieved as I dismiss them. When they’re gone, I pick up the phone and call the men we sent to Chicago.
Esguerra’s CIA contacts did their best to cover up our high-speed battle, but it was impossible to conceal it all, and now every news outlet in Chicago is blaring with speculation about the clandestine operation to apprehend a dangerous arms dealer. The “arms dealer” story originated with the police chief, who had been in cahoots with Sullivan. The man used the information that Sullivan uncovered about us to come up with the tale of an arms dealer smuggling explosives into Chicago. Under that pretext, he assembled the SWAT team that helped Sullivan, and told everyone that Sullivan’s men were reinforcements from another division. The operation was kept secret from other law enforcement agencies—which is why we didn’t have advance warning of the attack. So now there’s a shitload of work to be done. The police chief and any remaining Sullivan moles have to be taken care of, and the remnants of Sullivan’s organization must be wiped out before Nora’s parents can return home.
As much as I’d like to tackle Rosa’s betrayal, I have more pressing matters to deal with first.
* * *
It’s not until I’m lying in my bed late that night that I have a chance to think about Rosa again. Could she have done it? Could she have helped Yulia escape? If so, why? Out of jealousy or because someone got to the maid?
Could Yulia’s agency have bribed or threatened Rosa?
I mull over that possibility for a few minutes before deciding that it’s unlikely. The compound is isolated, and all emails and phone calls with the outside world are monitored. Esguerra is the only one whose communications are private, which means there’s no way UUR could’ve contacted Rosa without raising alarms in the system.
Whatever Rosa did, she did of her own initiative.
The knot in my chest tightens, the bitterness of betrayal mixing with the ever-present anger. Rage has been my companion since I learned of Yulia’s escape, and now I have a new target for my fury. If it weren’t for the fact that the maid has just been through an ordeal, I’d drag her in for questioning tomorrow. As it is, I’m going to give Rosa another week to heal and use the time to keep a close eye on her, just in case I’m wrong about her motivations.
If she is on someone’s payroll, I’m going to find that out. In the meantime, I have to finish the cleanup in Chicago and locate Yulia, and I have to do it soon. Not having Yulia is messing with my head. Despite working to exhaustion, I can’t sleep at night. There are dozens of urgent business matters that should occupy my thoughts, but it’s not worry over finding new guards or containing media leaks that keeps me awake. No, what I think about when I lie in bed is her.
Yulia.
My beautiful, treacherous obsession.
The moment I close my eyes, I see her—her eyes, her smile, her graceful walk. I remember her laughter and her tears, and I ache for her in a way that goes beyond my cock’s craving for her silky flesh. As much as I’d like to fuck her, I also want to hold her, to hear her breathing next to me and smell the warm peach scent of her skin.
I fucking miss her, and I hate her for it.
Does she think about me at all, or is she too busy with the man she loves? I picture her lying in his arms, drowsy and replete after sex, and my fury edges into agony, tightening my chest until I can’t breathe. I’d take a dozen broken ribs, suffer a hundred burns to avoid this sensation.
I’d do anything to have her back with me.
I love you. I’m yours.
Motherfucker.
I turn on the bedside lamp and sit up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Getting up, I walk to my library and grab a random book.
It’s only when I return to my bed that I realize the book I took was the last one I saw Yulia reading.
The tightness in my chest returns.
I have to get her back.
I simply have to.
17
Yulia
“I have a new assignment for you,” Obenko says, walking into the kitchen of the safe house apartment.
Startled, I look up from my plate of cream-of-wheat kasha. “An assignment?”
Over the past week, my boss has been busy erasing all traces of UUR’s existence from the net and reassigning key agents to lower-profile operations whenever possible. He’s also been studiously ignoring me—which is why I’m surprised to see him here this morning.
Obenko takes a seat across from me at the table. “It’s in Istanbul,” he says. “As you know, the situation with Turkey and Russia is beginning to heat up, and we need someone on the ground.”
I consume another spoonful of kasha to give myself time to think. “What do you want me to do in Istanbul?” I ask after I swallow. I have no appetite—I haven’t had one all week—but I force myself to eat to keep up appearances.
I don’t want Obenko to know how listless I feel and speculate about the cause of my malaise.
“Your assignment is to get close to a key Turkish official. To do that, you’ll matriculate at Istanbul University as part of a graduate student exchange program with the United States. We have already prepared your documents.” Obenko slides a thick folder toward me. “Your name is Mary Becker, and you’re from Washington D.C. You’re working on your Master’s in Political Science at the University of Maryland, and though your undergraduate degree is in Economics, you minored in Near Eastern Studies—hence your interest in a study abroad program in Turkey.”
The kasha I’ve eaten turns into a rock in my stomach. “So it’s another long-term play.”
“Yes.” Obenko gives me a hard look. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” I do my best to sound nonchalant. “But what about my brother? You said you’d get me the pictures.”
Obenko’s mouth thins. “They’re in that folder as well. Take a look and let me know if you have any questions.”
He gets up and walks out of the kitchen to make a call, and I flip open the folder, my hands shaking. I’m trying not to think about what this assignment will entail, but I can’t help it. My throat is cinched tight, and my insides churn with nausea.
Not now, Yulia. Just focus on Misha.
Ignoring the papers in the file, I find the photos clipped to the back of the folder. They’re of my brother—I recognize the color of his hair and the tilt of his head. The pictures were clearly taken in a rush; the photographer captured him mostly from the side and the back, with only one photo showing his face. In that picture, Misha is frowning, his youthful face looking unusually mature. Is he upset because his family had to relocate, or is something else behind his tense expression?
I study the pictures for several minutes, my heart aching, and then I force myself to set them aside so I can look at my assignment.
Ahmet Demir, a member of Turkish Parliament, is forty-seven years old and known to have a weakness for blond American women. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad-looking man—a little balding, a little chubby, but with symmetrical features and a charismatic smile. Looking at his photo shouldn’t make me want to throw up, but that’s precisely how I feel at the prospect of getting close to him.
I can’t imagine sleeping with this man—or any man who’s not Lucas.
Feeling increasingly sick, I push the papers away and take several deep breaths. The last time I felt a dread this strong was before my first assignment, when I feared a man’s touch in the wake of Kirill’s attack. It was a phobia I battled through in order to do my job, and I’m determined to overcome whatever it is I’m feeling now.
For Misha, I tell myself, picking up his pictures again. I’m doing it for Misha. Except this time, the words ring hollow in my mind. My brother is no longer a child, no longer a helpless toddler abused in an orphanage. The face in the photo is that of a young man, not a boy. Because of my mistake, his life has already been disrupted. I don’t know what reason his adoptive parents gave him for changing their identities, but I have no doubt he’s stressed and upset. The carefree, stable life I wanted for him is no longer a possibility, and despite the black guilt gnawing at my chest, I’m aware of a sense of relief.
What I feared has come to pass, and I can’t undo it.
For the first time, I consider what would happen if I left UUR—if I simply walked away. Would they let me go, or would they kill me? If I disappeared, would Obenko’s sister and her husband continue treating my brother well? I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t; he’s been their adopted son for eleven years. Only monsters would throw him out at this point, and by all indications, Misha’s adoptive parents are decent people.
They love Misha, and they wouldn’t harm him.
I pick up the documents in the folder and study them. They look authentic—a passport, a driver’s license, a birth certificate, and a social security card. If I accept this assignment, I’ll start over as Mary Becker, an American grad student. I’ll live in Istanbul, attend classes, and eventually become Ahmet Demir’s girlfriend. My interlude with Lucas Kent will fade into the past, and I’ll move on.
I’ll survive, like I always have.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Obenko asks, and I look up to see him walk back into the kitchen. “Did you have a chance to look through the file?”