Page 9 of Lethal Alliance

I take the satchel, close the locker, and exit the luggage area, not hiding from the cameras scattered around. In the international terminal, I enter the ladies’ bathroom and head for an end stall, where I change into jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers and put my hair up under a cap. I exit from the opposite entrance to the one I came in and leave the terminal again, keeping my head down.

It takes me ten minutes to walk to the nearest airport hotel. I pay cash for three nights, using the passport Roman gave me for identification. In the room I remove everything I will need, including nearly all the cash, from the satchel. I stuff the empty bag with a towel and my cell phone. I put my slip dress and heels at the top, along with a small amount of cash. The bulk of the money and the rest of my belongings I wrap in clothing. I make the bundle watertight by using two garbage bags and stash it inside the toilet cistern.

I head back to the airport terminal with my satchel. I go into the bathroom, change back into the slip dress and heels, bundle the other clothes and money into a tight ball at the top of the satchel, and head for security.

I scan every face I pass, but I don’t see any of the Orlov men I know. Not that it means anything. They could be using anyone.

I also don’t see any of Roman’s men. But that isn’t any surprise, even if it hurts.

I try not to look at the televisions in every room, all of which show endless images of the ballroom explosion that make my every nerve seize in painful anxiety and hurt.

Half an hour later I’ve used my passport to check into the flight Alexei booked for me under the name in my new passport. I enter a duty-free shop and pay cash for some perfume, then ask the assistant for a large carry bag. I linger behind a row of shelves and quickly move the bundle of my jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt from my satchel to the duty-free bag. I join the boarding line for my flight, trying not to look over my shoulder.

“Welcome aboard, miss.” The stewardess gives me a bright smile, which I return with a wan effort that makes her frown in concern. “Are you unwell?” she asks, studying me.

“A little.” I smile feebly. “I think I’ll be okay.”

The stewardess looks unconvinced and murmurs something to her colleague as I pass.

Good.She’ll remember me.

I push my satchel far beneath the seat in front of me before either of my neighbors arrive, holding the duty-free bag on my lap, staring out the window at the walkway. I wait until I see the flight staff begin to close the doors before abruptly standing up. “Excuse me,” I mutter to the woman in the seat next to me. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She moves out of the way immediately. The stewardess eyes me worriedly as I hurtle toward her with my hand over my mouth. I shake my head, gesturing frantically at the exit, and she doesn’t stand in my way. I race up the walkway and thrust my head into the nearest bin.

Throwing up is the one thing I don’t have to fake.

“I can’t fly,” I gasp to the staff on the desk. “I’m unwell.”

No airport crew member will ever argue with that.

I head straight for the bathroom and change clothes again. Then I make my way back to check-in and repeat the entire process, this time using the passport and ticket Roman gave me. After I feign illness again, I make my way to baggage claim and wait.

Eventually I find what I’m looking for. A Moroccan woman, with my height and coloring, dressed in traditional djellaba and headscarf with large dark glasses pushed up on her head. She looks around nervously and hurries into the ladies’ room. I enter after her, waiting by the sinks. When she emerges from the stall, I smile at her.

“Salaam aleikum.”

She looks up worriedly, her eyes darting this way and that.

“Don’t be afraid,” I say to her in Arabic. “I want to help you.” She’s running from an abusive husband and takes little persuading. Ten minutes and five hundred euros later, I exit the bathroom wearing her djellaba and headscarf, her glasses covering my face. My duty-free bag I leave in the bathroom trash.

It takes me less than half an hour to get back to the hotel, recover the package from the cistern, and hide it under the voluminous skirts of my djellaba. I take the fire escape, then a taxi to the ferry terminal. The ticket office is closed—it’s past two a.m.—but the waiting room is full of Moroccans slumbering on striped plastic carry bags, waiting for their morning voyage back to Tangiers. I curl up on the plastic seats beside two older ladies, pull the hood of my djellaba over my head, and feign sleep, one eye open behind my large sunglasses.

The truth is that sleep has never been further from my mind. And I know that the moment my eyes close, the nightmares will come.

I want to know what happened. I’m terrified of knowing what happened.

The only thing I do know is that everything I loved is gone.

And if I think about that, I won’t ever be able to save the only thing that matters anymore: the life inside me.

I stare at the chipped tiles on the floor, counting the cracks in them to stop myself from staring into the horrific abyss of my thoughts.

3

ROMAN

Several Hours Earlier

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