Page 16 of The Pakhan's Bride
I could run, I think. I could go anywhere, be anyone. But I know that's a child's wish. The only way out is through. They'll get the best of me, except one thing. They'll never take Paris from me.
7
KONSTANTIN
The night before
Two paper cones of pommes frites and a bottle of Bordeaux, and no one to share them with. I look like an idiot, standing on Rue Saint-Denis at three in the morning, the smile on my face not turned to a grimace of disbelief yet. The bottle sweats condensation. The chips go limp in the city air. I scan the block once, twice, a third time for effect. Sofia, for lack of a real name, is gone.
She left the moment I turned my back to charm the street vendor. I missed her exit, which offends me more than I care to admit. I pride myself on knowing all movements in my surroundings, including the ones in the margins. Yet here I am, holding a late-night snack for a girl who has ghosted the world's best operator. I stuff a fry into my mouth. "Mmm," I mutter dryly as I chew. "Salt and mockery."
I let the anger come, sharp and clean. Not at her. At myself for expecting otherwise. The paper cone folds in my grip. The wine swings by the neck, a glassless toast to my own stupidity. I step under a streetlamp, shadow split by the sodium light. Paris is dead at this hour. The only witness is an old man walking aterrier who presumably has the runs, and he doesn't look up. I set the food on a bench, bottle beside it. No point in dragging the weight of disappointment through the next move when my appetite is all but gone.
My phone vibrates, presenting a good pretext to abandon the food. I answer. The line is secure but you never know who's listening. "Speak."
"Sir. Shipping manifests from Odessa just landed. Want them before or after customs?"
I like my lieutenants to be as literal as possible. Cuts down on disappointment.
"Before, obviously. Forward only what can't be traced to us."
"Yes, sir."
"Good lad," I say and hang up before he can be offended. You keep men loyal by making sure they want to kill you a little.
I flag the next taxi. When it pulls over, I tell the driver, “Charles de Gaulle, full speed.” The man nods, eyes me in the mirror, and then ignores me as if he's seen a thousand guys in black coats tonight. He probably has. I watch the city through the window, filaments of light tangled with rain streaks and regret. The roads are empty except for municipal sweepers and a girl in a dress two blocks over, head down, clutching her phone like a drowning man. Not my girl. Wrong shape, wrong gait. Hers is feline, all hips and angles, impossible to mistake.
For one sliver of a second, I entertain the idea of finding her. I know the hotel she put up at, and the right amount of pushing will get the staff there to admit everything, her whole history. But then again, I saw her eyes, the way she hid so much and so well. My finding her won't stop her from running as soon as she sees me. Instead, I thumb my contacts and pick the Moscow number.
The man answers on the first ring. "Konstantin. You will be arriving at the office tomorrow, yes?"
"Can you get me on the first flight out of the city? Business class."
A brief pause, then, "Yes, consider it done."
I keep my eyes on the city. "Push the meeting. I want a full readout on Baranov movements in the Black Sea first. Use the new satellites."
There's a pause. "Expensive, the satellites."
"More expensive to be surprised," I say. "Get me the logs before I land."
Another pause, this one edged with pride. "Da."
I hang up. The driver stares at me in the rearview, but I don't entertain the questions in his gaze. I like to think I am the only man in Paris with nothing to confess.
At the airport, I walk through security quietly. Unlike other families with wealth that rivals mine, there is no private jet waiting for me. Getting one would be easy, and perhaps half the men on my payroll would call it a matter of dignity. But I've seen what private fuel burns through the world. You don't need to play saint to stop lighting the sky on fire just because you're rich enough to pretend it doesn't count. So I always book commercial. Business class. Clean trail. No unnecessary attention.
At the airport, security lets me through without delay. No luggage, no duty-free, no chatter. My passport does the work. In the lounge, I pour a drink and watch the others. A salesman murmurs into a headset. A pair of hedge fund types scroll through their phones without looking up. A woman in pearls stares past her husband, her fingers wrapped around a sweating flute of champagne.
Across the room, two teenage girls whisper and glance my way. I hold their gaze until one of them flushes and looks down. The other rolls her eyes, but not convincingly. I sit with my back to the wall, ice melting in my glass, waiting to be called.
My flight is called. I board in silence. Seat 2A, window. I never look out. There's nothing down there I haven't already lost or taken. I hang my jacket neatly, settle in, and close my eyes before the safety demonstration begins. A steward offers me champagne. I take water instead.
The plane ascends with a low hum, smooth and forgettable. I let the pressure shift in my ears, let it remind me that I am moving. Sometimes, that's the only proof. I close my eyes and count to ten, but sleep does not come. My mind is already in Moscow, sifting through files and faces, prepping for the next move.
The Next Day
I hit Moscow a few hours later, when the city's ugliness is at its most honest. Traffic is a standstill of black sedans and battered Ladas, all heading nowhere with the urgency of men late for their own funerals. The rain is a thin gray, barely worth the name, but it sticks to every surface and seeps into your bones. I like it. Makes the city feel real.
