Page 64 of City Of Thieves
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“And you’resure I can call long distance with this?”
The shop assistant drags his gaze from the TV screen above me and fixes me with a bored expression. “Yup. It’s a ‘Pay As You Go,’ lady.”
“Great, I’ll take it. Can you add a hundred pounds credit?”
“Yup.” His eyes start to stray again.
Throwing my MasterCard down on the counter, I bite my nail impatiently as I wait for the card reader to connect and for him to add the credit, and then I’m practically snatching the bag out of his hand.
Finding a booth in an empty Costa Coffee across the street, I grab an espresso and unpack my new device with trembling fingers. Connecting the charger to the plug socket next to me, I wait for the phone to switch on. The moment the greeting flashes up, I’m tapping in a number I still remember off by heart.
A woman answers, all snappy and officious. “Senator Sanders’ office, how may I direct your call?”
“Is he, ah, available?” I stutter, caught off guard by her brisk efficiency.
“He’s in a meeting with the Senate Majority Leader right now, ma’am. Can I take a message?”
My newfound courage starts flailing in the wind like a ripped flag. “No, I…” I glance at the black and white photographs on the wall opposite. They’re all of popular Italian holiday destinations, selling a lie about the authenticity of this place as cheaply as it sells its coffee.
I pause on the last one.
Rome wasn’t built in a day. It needed a solid foundation first.
“Sorry, yes,” I correct hastily. “Can you please tell him his daughter called?”
“His—er…?
“Daughter,” I clarify with a wince.
There’s a shocked pause. “Can I have a number for you please, ma’am?”
“Yes, it’s…” I grab the side of the box, and reel off my new phone’s details, adding the international prefix.
Did you mean it, Seb? Is he really going to pick up the phone for me after all this time? After all I’ve done?
I hang up and ten seconds later it’s ringing.
001 Code…
America.
“H-hello?”
“Tatiana?”
The picture of Rome starts to blur. My father’s voice will always be home; that familiar mocking drawl, his open doorway. There’s no anger anymore, just a battered kind of love and concern.
“Sweetheart, is that you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Where are you?”
“London.”
There’s a rustling on the line, like he’s moving somewhere fast. “I’m on my way to the jet right now. I’ll be with you in eight hours. Just tell me where.”
