Page 32

32

LUCIA

C arlos meets us at the door. The children’s faces light up when he greets them by name.

“I remember you.” Ofelia’s relief is apparent. “You cared for Babushka Vera when she was sick last year.”

“Then you probably remember Anna, in the kitchen.” Carlos smiles as he takes Masha’s hand. “She’s baking a cake. Would you like to see?”

Thank you , I mouth to him over their heads as the kids head eagerly for the kitchen. He smiles and waves me away. He’s on the terrace , he mouths back.

I go upstairs and find Papa staring fiercely out at the distant sea. He starts when he sees me. “ Docha .” He frowns, checking his watch. “You have time?”

His speech has improved even more. Once again I feel the tug of mingled pleasure and concern.

I love that he is here and getting the help he so badly needs.

I hate that at any moment it might all disappear.

“I have time.” I sit down beside him, taking his gnarled hand in my own. “How are you?”

“Hmph.” He grunts, not looking at me.

“Is something bothering you?”

“ Nyet .” But the answer is too curt to be reassuring.

“Did you see something? Is there someone watching you?” I scan the area, but I can’t see down to the street. I can’t imagine where he would have seen anyone.

“ Nyet .” He shakes his head. He’s frowning, and I can sense his tension. His fingers move restlessly on the blanket, his eyes avoiding mine. I feel increasingly uneasy. “Papa.” I lower my voice. “Is it your contact in Argentina?”

He makes a noncommittal noise, turning his head to hide his expression.

That’s it.

“If you can’t get ahold of them, don’t worry,” I reassure him. “If we can’t get new passports, it doesn’t matter. It’s not as urgent as I thought it might be.” I feel a sneaking sense of relief at saying that, which in turn makes me feel guilty. I can’t afford to get complacent, to place my faith blindly in Roman. At the same time, every day I spend cocooned in this newfound life makes the thought of running again loom darker in my mind. Which incites a different kind of guilt.

But Papa is shaking his head. “Not that,” he says, again without his customary hesitation. There’s a dark edge to his face that sends a real glimmer of fear down my spine. There’s something he doesn’t want to say, and that worries me more than anything.

“Please.” I kneel in front of him, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Tell me what is wrong.”

He takes a deep, ragged breath and passes a hand over his face. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are shadowed with such pain it hurts me inside.

“Alexei,” he says roughly.

I’m momentarily so shocked that all I can do is stare at him. We’ve had no contact with Alexei from the day we left Miami. To my knowledge, we had no way of contacting him even if we wanted to risk it. So when I answer, all I can do is repeat the name, my voice little more than a whisper.

“Alexei?”

Papa nods. Fear grips my heart.

“Is he—oh, God. Is Alexei...?” My voice trails off, unable to speak the dreaded words.

“ Nyet, docha .” Seeing my fear, Papa grips my hand. “He is alive.”

Oh, thank God.

“My—friend. Argentina.” Papa speaks slowly, with a lot of hesitation, but still more coherently than he has in months. “Alexei—contact them.”

I frown. This is an entirely new development. Papa has never allowed me anywhere near his contact in Argentina. In fact, he’s been positively militant in keeping their identity a secret. When we first got to Argentina, Papa was still well enough to speak coherently. It’s only since his recent strokes here in Spain that his speech has been so badly affected. Back then, he was insistent that I remain entirely removed from his contact. At the time, I was new enough to our changed circumstances to accept his command without question. In the years since, however, I’ve pushed more than once for information. Papa has always staunchly refused to say a word.

To discover, after all this time, that the Argentinian contact is a potential channel of communication to the brother I love and miss so deeply feels like something akin to betrayal.

“You’ve been in contact with Alexei?” Releasing Papa’s hands, I sit back, battling to keep my anger under control.

His mouth tightens. “Never—until this.” The truth in his expression calms me somewhat. “Emergency,” Papa manages. “Only contact—if emergency.”

“Ah.” It’s beginning to make sense. “You gave Alexei the details of your Argentinian friend and told him to contact them only in the case of an emergency?”

Papa nods vigorously.

“Then what is the emergency? Did your contact tell you?”

His hesitation increases my mounting anxiety. His mouth is a grim line, and I can sense the battle he’s fighting inside himself. “Papa.” I grasp his hands again. “You told me once that nobody can fight an enemy they don’t know about. I need to know what dangers we might face. Please, trust me with this?”

I can feel his reluctance, his internal fury that he must share information like this with me, his daughter, whom he still believes it is his job to protect. Part of me is impatient; after all these years, surely I’ve earned the right to have a seat at the decision table? But a deeper part of me, perhaps the part that recently witnessed Roman’s fury at my mistrust, understands instinctively how hard this is for my father. I force myself to wait patiently.

When he finally does speak, however, a childish part of me wishes I could have remained in ignorance forever.

“Alexei,” he rasps, the words dragging from him like blood from a stone, “says—Orlovs—coming.” His blue eyes fix on mine, the reluctant truth in them striking my heart in two. “He say they—know—we here.”

Fear grips me hard enough that I’m temporarily unable to speak.

“Too—late—to run.” This last is said heavily. It’s this, I realize, that has stopped Papa from saying anything to me. He’s done the math. He knows that if Alexei has given this warning, then people are here, in Malaga, looking for us. And if they’re this close, then Papa is right: it’s too late for us to run.

“They found us?” My voice is barely a whisper.

He drops his head. “ Da ,” he says heavily. “I—think I—knew.”

I know what he means. There have been too many coincidences lately.

The robbery.

The man Papa saw with a camera.

The journalist asking questions.

I think I knew, too.

I think I’ve known for a while that the Orlovs were closing in. Maybe that’s why I took Roman’s offer, and why I confided in him after so many years of diligent silence. I think that some part of me accepted the truth before my conscious mind was able to face it.

The problem now is what I’m going to do about it.

Before I have a chance to even start thinking of solutions, the door behind me bursts open and Masha comes running onto the terrace, a frowning Carlos following close behind.

“Luce! Luce!” Beaming, she holds up her prize, a startled-looking gecko dangling by his tail from her tiny fist. “I caughted him,” she tells me proudly.

“I’m so sorry,” Carlos says behind her. I shake my head, waving off his apology.

“My goodness,” I say, putting my arm around her from my position on the ground in front of Papa. “Where shall we put him, darling?”

Masha’s face falls. “Wanna keep him.”

To my surprise, I hear Papa snort in amusement behind me. I turn to find him regarding Masha with an indulgent smile I can’t remember seeing since I was a tiny child. He holds out his hand. “Show,” he says.

Entirely unbothered by such a brief order, Masha proudly holds out the lizard, which Papa solemnly inspects. “I found him in toilet,” she says importantly.

He nods as if this is the most normal occurrence in the world. “Name,” he says, in his rasping voice.

Masha cocks her head to one side consideringly. “Potato,” she says finally.

Papa’s cough of laughter is much louder this time. “Tato,” he repeats, his laughter increasing to a shaking guffaw. “Tato!”

Shaking his head, he laughs so hard that eventually Masha bursts into a pack of giggles, which in turn sets me off. And that is how Ofelia and Mickey find us, a few moments later, all three of us in peals of laughter, repeating the word potato over and over.

“Gecko,” I gasp, pointing at the bemused lizard, who is still hanging from Masha’s hand.

“He’s named Potato,” Masha announces happily.

Ofelia and Mickey, however, laugh only briefly. They’re staring at Papa. And by their wary expressions, they’re already reconsidering their earlier relief.

“Who is that, Lucia?” Ofelia asks me in Russian. Too late, I realize that Papa is clad in a short-sleeved cotton shirt that clearly reveals the faded tattoos on his forearms. Tattoos the children would know all too well, especially the rose entwined with barbed wire that is almost identical to the one Dimitry wears, a symbol of a youth spent in jail.

Papa’s eyes narrow at the Russian words, but when his eyes cut to me, he looks resigned rather than surprised.

Mickey is staring at Papa with a hard expression. “You’re Russian,” he says flatly. “He understood you,” he adds, speaking to Ofelia, who has gone very white and is uncharacteristically silent. Mickey moves subtly to stand in front of his sisters, pushing Masha firmly behind him as he faces Papa.

Papa meets Mickey’s eyes evenly. “ Da ,” he says, his voice courteous despite the ever-present rasp. “ Ya Russky .” I am Russian.

“We don’t know you.” Mickey’s eyes move warily between Papa and me as he pulls out his phone. I know he’s contacting Roman. Ofelia is staring at me, eyes narrowed.

I turn back to Papa, my tension ratcheting up with every second. I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t expecting this moment, or at least, not yet. I particularly wasn’t expecting how it would feel to see the children looking at me with the wary suspicion I’ve worked so hard to break through. It hurts, far more than I imagined it could.

Seeing the question in my eyes, Papa shakes his head. It’s a small movement, but the resignation in his eyes tells me all I need to know. It’s too late. For lies, for subterfuge. It’s too late to run.

“Ofelia.” I turn to her, forcing a smile to my face. “I’d like to introduce you to someone very important to me.” Mickey turns, frowning, the phone still in his hand. I can see Roman’s name on the screen, but he still hasn’t pushed the call button. “This is my father,” I say gently. “His name is Juan.”

“Juan?” Ofelia glares at me. “That’s not a Russian name.”

“No.” I don’t attempt to lie. “My father has many enemies. He is old and very sick, as you can see. So now he lives under a different name, so that people can’t find him.” I have the full attention of both Mickey and Ofelia now.

“What about you?” Mickey’s normal reticence is completely gone. His eyes bore into me just as fiercely as his sister’s. “Do you have a different name, too?”

“I do.” There’s no point lying now. “But I would rather not tell you what it is. Not because I don’t trust you.” I look between them as steadily as I can, though my hands are shaking and my heart is thudding. “Because our names are a secret that is dangerous for anyone to know.”

“Does Roman know about this?” Ofelia’s voice is brittle as ice.

“Yes.” I nod at the phone in Mickey’s hand. “You can call him, if you like. I’m very sorry that I’ve made you feel unsafe or worried. But I would never, ever want you to keep secrets from your godfather. Call him,” I say again, this time more emphatically. There’s no point in any more subterfuge. Roman is going to be furious; but then again, this moment was always going to come.

In a way, it’s simply a relief.

“ Syn .” We all turn to face Papa. He is sitting stiffly upright in his chair, looking directly at Mickey, whom he has just addressed as son.

He holds out his hand. “ Govorit’ pravdu .” Speak the truth. Despite his gravelly voice and slight hesitation, there’s no doubting the command in his words. “ Eto pravil’no .” It is the right thing.

My heart lurches. How many times have I heard my father say that? To men, when a difficult job must be done. To my brother and me, on the night we left Miami. Simple words, but ones that carry so many memories they bring tears to my eyes even now. I blink hard, willing myself not to lose composure in front of the children.

Mickey hesitates, staring at my father’s hand. He glances at me, then at his sister. Whatever Mickey sees in her face is enough to make his mind up. Stepping forward, he grips Papa’s hand. “I must call my godfather.” His eyes are dark and grave, his Russian far more formal than any I’ve heard, and he meets my father’s eyes steadily.

Papa nods as seriously as if Mickey was one of his vor . “ Konechno ,” he says simply. Of course.

Mickey nods, then releases Papa’s hand. His eyes meet mine briefly, then cut guiltily away. “Mickey.” I start forward, but Papa frowns at me, and I stop. “It’s fine, Mickey,” I say quietly. “It’s the right thing to do, as Papa said.”

“Papa?” Masha pipes up, her lovely blue eyes staring at my father curiously. “Your papa?”

“Yes, darling.” I kneel beside her, gently removing the unfortunate Potato from her fist and placing the gecko in a nearby ceramic garden pot. “This is my papa.”

Masha goes closer to Papa and touches his old, wrinkled hand tentatively, as if doing something very brave, then looks up at him. He smiles at her and turns his hand over so she can inspect his palm. She does so, tracing the old lines on it with fascination, then, without a moment’s hesitation, climbs up his long legs to sit on his lap. “My papa is dead,” she says, staring at him solemnly.

Papa nods gravely. “ Mne zhal’ ,” he says. I’m sorry.

Masha regards him for a moment, then suddenly beams again. “Can we play with Potato?”

My father laughs softly, nodding toward the ceramic pot. Clambering down, Masha runs over and pulls the unfortunate gecko out, then brings it over and climbs back onto Papa’s lap.

I turn to Ofelia. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, under cover of their laughter. “Truly. I didn’t want to keep secrets from you.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs, her face shuttered and cold. “I don’t care.”

Her words cut like a knife, but I have little time to think of anything to say, because Mickey turns back to us, his eyes dark. “Roman is on his way,” he says quietly.