Page 61 of Don't Look Back

The apartment was locked tight, and Kira was in the shower. Rand checked in with Freya. She had notified her CIA contact about fake Andre, and it was highly likely the man was being extracted from Kira’s hotel room as she and Rand spoke.

Whether he lived or died was up to his own people. He’d come after Kira when she was unarmed and alone. Rand didn’t feel one iota of remorse for what would happen to him now. He’d probably been the one to bury the real Andre in the backyard. He certainly had other people’s blood on his hands.

He hung up with Freya and called his commanding officer to give him an update. The fact that Russian spies were involved meant this remained relevant to the DoD, but it was looking more and more like it was connected to Kira and not JEB Little Creek. As far as his commander was concerned, it had been the right call to send Rand to Malta, and they’d keep him there as long as they could. He was pleased with Freya’s handling of the FSB agent through CIA channels. His final order was to keep him in the loop, then he hung up.

Rand booted up his computer—he was glad that with the security on the apartment, he could keep his computer close instead of storing it in the car—and started reading the full dossier on the Kulik family. They were their best lead at this point. On the drive here, Kira had given him the rundown on what Reuben said at the outdoor bar while she drank Sex on the Beach and Rand brooded over a Cisk.

They’d traveled quite a journey since then. Rand knew she and Freya had talked before fake Andre arrived, and he had a feeling that had smoothed over some of Kira’s hurt feelings, but it didn’t exonerate him. For now, they were on even terms. He was thankful and wouldn’t push.

He read the dossier, then rose and went to the kitchen. They’d stopped at a store on their way out of Valletta and gotten a few basics, including a six-pack of Cisk in bottles. He grabbed one and popped off the top and returned to the couch. He scanned the dossier again as he sipped the Maltese lager.

Kira entered the living room, hair still dripping. She wore a pink satin camisole with matching pajama pants, and he wanted a fucking medal for not losing his mind with how sexy she looked.

“You want to shower?”

With you. Yeah.

He shook his head. He wouldn’t say the thought aloud. They still had a lot of road to travel before they could return to the place they’d been when she kissed him on the Fort St. Angelo wall.

“You ready to look at the letters?”

She nodded. “It’s about time.”

As they’d promised Freya they’d do, they photographed everything before Kira split the seal on the letter she’d been given in Birgu. She studied the envelope and the angular script with her father’s name and the Birgu address in black ink.

A fountain pen, were he to guess. Who still used fountain pens?

“The postmark is several days after his death.”

Rand wrapped an arm around her and gave a gentle squeeze. It was easier to comfort her over Conrad Hanson’s passing now that they had an inkling of why the man had rejected him for Kira practically on sight.

Rand wanted to believe he was worthy of Kira Hanson. He wondered if, given a chance, he could have won either or both of her parents over. Conrad was fiercely protective of his only child, but in this, the man had spectacularly failed.

Rand was the one protecting her now.

But then there was Kira herself, who’d proved herself no damsel. She’d brought a baseball bat to Malta and used it without hesitation.

She pulled a single sheaf of paper from the envelope. The writing was in German and, just like the letters she’d found in her dad’s fire safe, unsigned.

Rand sat down in a large, plush chair and pulled Kira onto his lap.

“What are you doing?” She wiggled and leaned to stand.

“Please? Let me hold you?”

She stopped squirming and settled into him. “Okay. I think I might need to be held.”

He kissed her temple. “And I really need to do the holding.” He closed his eyes and saw the bloody, unconscious man on the floor. His arms tightened around her. “Read the letter to me? I don’t speak German.”

“The writing is stilted, but uses the informaldu, notSie. I think this man was a friend of my father, but German wasn’t his first language. I suspect he’s Russian, which my father wasn’t fluent in. My mother always translated his Russian research materials for him.”

“But your mother didn’t see these letters.”

“I suspect that’s why they were written in German. My father grew up in the US and spoke English without an accent, but his German was pitch-perfect too. He lived in West Germany for a few years before I was born.”

She settled back against his chest and read it silently before reading aloud for Rand. He followed along, recognizing some of the words on the page.

My dear friend, there is movement in the art world you must know about. I have news of interest to our friends.

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