Page 12 of Lethal Alliance

I shiver despite the mild morning.

I buy two tickets to Tangiers, one on the six a.m. ferry and one on the nine a.m. Out front of the terminal, I buy an overpriced knockoff Gucci bag, more pairs of sunglasses, and several designer headscarves from one of the African hawkers. I speak in broken French, using the Moroccan accent I became accustomed to during the months Papa and I spent there, waiting for a boat to Spain.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

The hawker has a friend who exchanges currency. He wakes the man up from napping on the floor, and I change a thousand euros into dirham, the Moroccan currency, explaining that I’m just about to travel home to my family. Then I join the crowd milling around on the docks, eyeing every face carefully, but again finding nothing to cause alarm.

I board the six a.m. ferry and go straight to the bathroom, where I change clothes yet again, this time into shorts and a T-shirt with sneakers. I go back through the crowd and down the gangway, waving my nine a.m. ticket at the bored crewman, explaining in badly accented Spanish that I’m a backpacker who boarded the wrong ferry by mistake. The ticket itself I give to a backpacker, who is delighted to score a free ride.

Another taxi, this time to the bus terminal. I shop in the cheap bulk stores nearby, buying the long embroidered shirts, loose trousers, and sequined sandals favored by Moroccan women visiting Spain. Another five tickets, each to different Spanish cities. A clothing change for each purchase.

I go into the disabled toilet, lock the door, and get changed for the final time, at least for today. When I’m done, the woman looking back at me is almost entirely unrecognizable as the one who fled a ballroom last night.

My hair is in a thick bun behind my head, covered by a neatly pinned headscarf with a discreet Yves Saint Laurent logo. Bright gold earrings in a delicate Arabic pattern hang from my ears. I’m wearing one of the loose, stylish pantsuits over sandals I bought, carrying the large Gucci handbag and a single candy-striped plastic carry bag. I look exactly like every middle-class Moroccan woman straight off the ferry.

There’s only one thing missing.

I grip the edges of the metal hand dryer and take a deep breath.

Come on, Darya. You’ve had worse.

Bracing myself, I slam my right eye into the corner of the dryer.

Giving myself a black eye isn’t difficult. All I have to do is remember Roman’s white-faced contempt when he believed I had betrayed him.

The pain feels justified.

It feels like less than I deserve.

The ferries both leave for Morocco without me.

By the time I board an afternoon bus to the Spanish city of Almeria, I look exactly like what I intended to become: a battered wife, escaping her abusive Moroccan husband.

I curl into the window seat, pulling the headscarf self-consciously over my eye, avoiding the sympathetic glances from other travelers. Nobody talks to me. Nobody wants to be part of whatever mess I’m running from.

Lucky them.

I close my eyes, readying myself for the nightmares I’ve barely managed to hold at bay since I ran from Roman’s accusing eyes.

Twenty-four hours later,I’m sitting on the terrace of a small villa in Granada, a city eighty miles northeast of Malaga. Despite the short distance, I took countless buses, trains, and taxis to get here. I’ve left a labyrinthine trail behind me, one I doubt even Roman’s investigators can follow.

I can’t be found by anyone, and that includes both Roman and Alexei.

It was my father who taught me how to run, and Sergei Petrovsky is a master in the art of subterfuge. If the Orlovs didn’t catch us in all the years we ran together, I’d like to see anyone try now that I’m on my own.

The woman who eventually paid cash for a run-down one-room apartment in the gypsy district of Granada looks nothing like either Darya Petrovsky or Lucia Lopez. The woman sitting on this terrace now wears a hijab and dark sunglasses to hide her bruises. She speaks fluent Arabic but only broken Spanish, and she paid for the villa in dirham instead of euros.

My black eye has swollen impressively. Every time I press my fingers against it I remember Roman’s white-faced contempt as he told me to run. At least the shame I feel fits with my new identity.

The woman from whom I rented the villa took my money with gratitude, sympathy for the bruises, and no questions. I paid double the asking price, and she guaranteed discretion. I’ve paid for a week, but I’ll only stay a day or two.

Keep moving.

I’m holding my two passports. Neither of them are of any use to me, not anymore.

I need to disappear.

For now, that means staying in Spain. After this, in Europe. Crossing borders on foot. Staying in private rooms that don’t require a passport to register.

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