Page 50 of Air Force One (Miranda Chase #16)

Inessa had nearly leapt out of her skin when her phone rang last night. For three long hours she’d paced her broken top-floor refuge. Should she make a run for the border? Would they let her escape? Would anyone on the other side of any border accept her arrival?

For the first hour after risking the message, she’d awaited the arrival of an FSB kidnap squad to assist her in suffering a fatal accident to release Artemy into Murov’s plans.

For the next hour, she’d slowly shifted to hope that the message she’d dared send just might have arrived safely and securely.

And by the third hour, Inessa had recovered enough sanity to start thinking about how she might save herself if she never received an answer—though she’d found no solution yet.

Any attempt to leave on a commercial flight would fail.

She must assume that her name was already on every database.

Murov couldn’t afford to have Artemy’s wife alive and out of the country.

If she remained in Russia, that would give him the necessary time to arrange her accident.

Escaping abroad or being disappeared would only taint Artemy’s political future—she had to die very publicly.

To escape, she’d need her own pilot and plane. But would she be shot down for trying to fly over a closed border, even if she could find a pilot willing to do so rather than betray her? She simply didn’t know.

But it was guaranteed that she knew too much to be left alive.

Not only had she counseled Artemy, but General Murov had often asked her advice of late.

If she ran, they would hunt her down. Her fate would become that of the Skripals and Gebrev in England, and Navalny when he’d refused to die any other way—killed by poison.

And how could she—

The phone call was all that saved her from madness.

It came from that same odd number as before, with a single ring.

As before, she’d swung the phone in a slow circle about the room.

Two years ago someone had hacked her phone’s camera and not actually called until she’d proved she was alone.

Once she had shown her empty room, it rang again.

Holly Harper’s voice was such a gift, she’d had to stop her after twenty seconds and ask her to start over. She hadn’t heard a word through the intense wave of relief.

“Do you ever travel to remote places for your business?”

“All the time. I try to cultivate universal appeal by resourcing designs from—”

“Is one of those places Nalchik?”

It wasn’t.

“I want you to pick a series of small cities you’ve never been to. Hire a private jet and go on an…I don’t know what.”

“A fashion scouting tour?”

“Sure, yeah, whatever that is.”

Under other circumstances, Inessa might have smiled. She would probably never find a person who cared less for her life’s work in fashion.

“In twenty-four hours, I want you in Nalchik. Make it your second stop and the next stop should be to the west from there.”

“It’s midnight here. And most of what lies to the west is the Black Sea and the Ukraine War.”

“By dawn then. Thirty hours from now. Figure out something. We’re out of time for the security of this call. All I can promise is that we’ll try. If we aren’t at Nalchik, you can send flowers to our funeral. Dress warmly.”

Inessa managed a laugh. “It is January in Russia, even that far south it is never warm.”

But she was talking to herself.

She cradled the phone to her chest and felt hope. Barely a thread wide, yet a mighty swath of cloth compared to what she’d felt lately. Not just Artemy. Nor since the crash of the American plane, no. Perhaps not in the three years since Murov had truly first favored Artemy.

Inessa’s experience had taught her how easily a thread could break. She would nurse this one for everything she was worth.

First, she went to her rolltop desk and selected a piece of her custom note paper and a fountain pen. She would leave her note for Artemy by the coffeemaker. He would definitely need coffee after today’s overindulgence.

My Dearest,

You were amazing last night. Thank you. You have inspired me. A “change of pace” is exactly what is needed. I have spent too long focused on the fashions I know rather than the ones I don’t. I’m off on a quick tour to scout a few new fashion regions to collect fresh ideas.

I won’t be gone for more than three days. I can’t thank you enough for opening my eyes.

Or was that too direct? No, Artemy wouldn’t see through this. Murov might, if Artemy showed it to him. But even that didn’t matter. By then she’d be either fictionally or truly dead.

I’ll be back in your arms ever so soon. Or at least her, hopefully fictional, ashes would.

She wanted him to feel riddled with guilt but that would show her hand. Instead, she settled for just a little guilt.

Yours for as long as we both shall live, The promise he had broken this afternoon.

Inessa

Creasing it neatly, she tucked it into an envelope and licked just the very tip of the flap before scribing his name across the front.

Next, she researched likely places to stop on her tour.

After that, she hired a jet to depart before sunrise.

Finally, she packed. Her laptop and handwritten address book were first—the only two things that could incriminate the ladies of her social salon.

She would miss them all, but she’d miss them even more if she was dead.

After that, she focused on warm clothes, starting with sheep-fleece-lined knee-high boots. There was no reason that fashion couldn’t be warm—especially if one lived in Russia.