Claim Me(Capture Me: Book 3)(12)
“Yes.” My voice sounds hoarse, and I have to clear my throat before continuing. “I’ll need to brush up on a number of subjects before I go to Istanbul.”
“Of course,” Obenko says. “You have a week before the start of the summer semester. I suggest you get busy.”
He leaves the kitchen, and I pick up my half-full plate with unsteady hands. Carrying it over to the garbage, I dump the remnants of my breakfast, wash the plate, and walk to my room, a ghost of a plan forming in my mind.
For the first time in my life, I may have a choice about my future, and I intend to seize the opportunity with both hands.
* * *
Over the next week, I learn the basics of Turkish language and culture. I don’t need to know a lot, just enough to pass for an American graduate student interested in the subject. I also memorize Mary Becker’s background and brush up on American college life. I prepare stories about my roommates and frat parties, read Economics textbooks, and come up with Mary’s interests and hobbies. Obenko and Mateyenko quiz me daily, and when they’re satisfied that I make a convincing Mary Becker, they buy me a plane ticket to Berlin.
“You’ll travel as Elena Depeshkova to Berlin,” Obenko explains. “And as Claudia Schreider from Berlin to New York. Once you’re in the United States, your identity as Mary Becker will go into effect, and you’ll fly from there to Istanbul. This way, nobody will be able to connect you to Ukraine. Yulia Tzakova will disappear for good.”
“Got it,” I say, slicking on a bright red lipstick in front of a mirror. I’ll be wearing a dark wig for Elena’s role, so I’ll need bolder makeup for that. “Elena, Claudia, then Mary.”
Obenko nods and makes me repeat the names of all of Mary’s relatives, beginning with distant cousins and ending with parents. I don’t make a single mistake, and when he leaves that day, I know my hard work has paid off.
My boss believes I’ll make an excellent Mary Becker.
The next morning, Obenko drives me to the airport, dropping me off at the Departures area. I’m Elena now, so I’m wearing the wig and high-heeled boots that go well with my dark jeans and stylish jacket. Obenko helps me load my suitcases onto a cart before driving away, and I wave him goodbye as he disappears into the airport traffic.
The minute his car is out of sight, I spring into action. Leaving my suitcases on the cart, I run to the Arrivals area and grab a cab.
“Head toward the city,” I tell the driver. “I need to pull up the exact address.”
He starts driving, and I take out my phone. Opening the tracking app I installed a couple of days ago, I locate a small red dot heading toward the city a kilometer or two ahead of us. It’s the tiny GPS chip I surreptitiously placed in Obenko’s phone back at the safe house.
I may have no intention of carrying out the Istanbul mission, but I certainly found use for the surveillance equipment UUR gave me.
“Take a left here,” I instruct the driver when I see the red dot turning left off the highway. “Then keep going straight.”
I give him directions like this until I see Obenko’s dot come to a stop in the center of Kiev. Telling the driver to stop a block away, I take out my wallet and pay him; then I jump out and walk the rest of the way, keeping a close eye on my app to make sure Obenko doesn’t go anywhere.
I find Obenko’s car in front of a tall building. It looks like some kind of office space, with an international corporation’s logo blazing at the top and the first floor occupied by businesses ranging from a trendy coffee shop to a high-end clothing boutique.
Slowly, I approach the building, scanning my surrounding every few seconds to make sure I’m not being watched.
What I’m doing is a long shot: there’s zero guarantee Obenko will visit his sister any time soon. However, this is the only way I can think of to find Misha. Given their recent relocation, my brother’s adoptive parents are still getting settled into their new lives, and there’s a chance they might need something from Obenko, something that will necessitate him to visit them personally.
If I follow my boss long enough, he might lead me to my brother.
I know my plan is both desperate and borderline insane. Since I’m walking away from UUR, my best bet is to disappear somewhere in Berlin, or better yet, go all the way to New York. And I’m planning to do exactly that—after I see my brother with my own eyes.
I can’t leave Ukraine without making sure Misha is okay.
Two days, I tell myself. I will do this for a maximum of two days. If I still haven’t found my brother by then, I’ll leave. They won’t realize I didn’t board the plane until I don’t meet my handler in Istanbul in three days—which gives me a little over forty-eight hours to tail Obenko before getting out of the country.
The dot on my phone indicates that Obenko is on the second floor of the building. I’m curious what he’s doing there, but I don’t want to expose myself by following him in. I doubt my brother’s family is here; Obenko would’ve relocated them out of the city—assuming they’d lived in the city before. My boss never disclosed their location to me for security reasons, but from the backgrounds in my brother’s pictures, I gathered that they’d lived in an urban environment, like Kiev.
Entering the coffee shop, I order a pastry and a cup of Earl Grey and wait for Obenko’s dot to start moving again. When it does, I grab another cab and follow him to his next destination: our safe house.
He stays at the apartment for several hours before the dot starts moving again. By then, I’ve had lunch at a nearby restaurant and swapped my dark wig for a red one I brought with me for this purpose. I’ve also changed my jeans for a long-sleeved gray dress, and the high-heeled boots for flat booties—the most comfortable option “Elena” had in her carry-on bag.
Obenko’s next destination appears to be another office building downtown. He stays there for a couple of hours before heading back to the safe house. I follow him again, feeling increasingly discouraged.
This is clearly not the way to find my brother.
My phone is beginning to run low on batteries, so I go to another coffee shop to charge it while Obenko is at the safe house. I also get online and buy a plane ticket to Berlin for the next morning to replace the one that has gone unused today.
It’s time to admit defeat and disappear for good.
Sighing, I order myself another tea and drink it as I read the news on my phone. Obenko seems to be settled in for the night, his dot sitting firmly in the safe house every time I check the app. Finishing my tea, I get up, deciding to go to a hotel and get some rest before the long journey tomorrow. Just as I step outside, however, my phone beeps in my bag, signifying movement on the app.
My heart leaps. Fishing out the phone, I glance at the screen and see that Obenko’s dot is going north—possibly out of the city.
This could be it.
Instantly energized, I jump into a cab and follow Obenko. I know there’s a 99.9 percent chance this has nothing to do with my brother, but I can’t help the irrational hope that grips me as I watch Obenko’s dot heading farther north.
“Are you sure you know where you’re going, young lady?” the cab driver says when we’re out of the city. “You said you were going to get directions from your boyfriend.”
“Yes, he’s texting me as we speak,” I assure him. “It’s not much farther.”
I’m lying through my teeth—I have no idea how far we’re going—but I’m hoping it’s not far. With all my cab rides, I’m running low on cash, and I’ll need whatever I still have to get to the airport tomorrow morning.
“Fine,” the driver mutters. “But you better tell me soon, else I’m dropping you off at the nearest bus stop.”
“Just another fifteen minutes,” I say, seeing the dot turn left and stop a half-kilometer later. “Turn left at the next intersection.”
The driver shoots me a dirty look in the rearview mirror but does as I ask. The road we end up on is dark and full of potholes, and I hear him curse as he swerves to avoid a hole wide enough to swallow our whole car.
“Stop here,” I tell him when the tracker app says we’re two hundred meters away. Exiting the car, I approach the driver’s window and hand him a stack of bills, saying, “Here’s half of what I owe you. Please wait for me, and I’ll give you the rest when you bring me back to the city.”
“What?” He glares at me. “Fuck, no. Give me the full amount, bitch.”
I ignore him, turning to walk away, but he leaps out of the car and grabs my arm. Instinctively, I whirl around, my fist catching the underside of his chin as my knee hits him in the balls. He collapses to the ground, wheezing and clutching at his groin, and I bring my foot down on his temple, knocking him out.
I feel awful hurting this civilian, but I can’t let him drive off in this cab. If he leaves, I’ll have no way of getting back to the city and I’ll miss my flight tomorrow morning.
Pushing aside my guilt, I check the driver’s pulse to verify that he’s alive, grab the keys from the car in case he wakes up, and then head toward the blinking red dot on my phone map.