Page 4 of The Crimson Lily
Mechanically, I amble to whatever the source of the noise was. It comes from the vicinity of the TV. The coffee table. I walk toward it, toward this black piece of plastic that vibrates erratically like it’s about to explode. It’s a phone. I was right—a nineties’ device.
John F. Kennedy International Airport. Terminal 1. AF 7. 4:30 p.m.
I’m not even surprised. My initial thought: That’s definitely the Bratva. There’s no doubt possible—they left this phone for me, and I’m supposed to execute their orders and take a flight to who knows where. All right, time to go! I check the clock above the TV: 3:24 p.m.
Shit.
Have I slept that long? I need to think. It saysInternational Airport, so I’ll probably go somewhere abroad. Yesterday, Olga mentioned something aboutmy boss taking the safe across theocean. Europe? My best guess is Europe. What’s the weather like there? Will we go to France, Belgium, Germany? As all these country names go by, I start remembering things about them. Brussels was nice, Berlin was amazing, and Paris…That’s one of the most beautiful yet chaotic cities I’ve ever seen. I’ve been to Paris! I have actually been to all these cities. Yes! I remember now. Also, there’s the more obviousAF 7part—that’s an Air France flight, for sure. That makes sense to me. Paris is definitely where I’m going. Good, Liliana. Now, time to pack your things!
Hang on, pack my things? What the hell am I doing? Am I really about to dump all my clothes in a suitcase and head out the door just because the Bratva said so? This could be them luring me somewhere so they can kill me. So they can make me disappear. Have I become some kind of crazy person or what?
Yes.
I shrug. What do I have to lose? If the Bratva really wanted me dead, they would have killed me long ago. Plus, I’m on extended leave anyway, so who’s going to notice that I’m off to Paris? Who’s going to care? I pack as many things as I can come up with, not forgetting the Bratva phone, of course. I even take my medical file, which I only just now notice lies open on the desk. Maybe Olga decided to have a look after all. The thought of Maksim suddenly crosses my mind, the man whointerrogatedme last night. The man who didn’tgive it his everything. Oh, how I wanted to hit him right now. Fragments of the night rush by, mostly the vision of his silver eyes. If he went soft on me, there’s probably a reason. The Bratva wants me alive, in one piece, and with my motor functions up and running. So, I’d better do as they say. I’d better head to JFK Airport now while I can still make it in time. It would be a stupid idea to disobey the Russian mafia.
Too crowded. Terminal One iswaytoo crowded. I’ve bumped into at least seventeen people. There’s too much noise. Ever since the world has been back on its feet after the 2020 pandemic?—
Hey! I remember the pandemic.
Man, I’ve remembered way more things in one night and a day than I have in the past two months. Maybe I should get the Bratva to beat the memories into me again. That proved way more effective than a therapist.
My taxi dropped me off at exactly 4:23 p.m. at the entrance of Terminal One. Now I’m walking aimlessly, like a lost kid quietly searching for a parent, dragging a suitcase bigger than them. My blond hair is tied up in a ponytail, and I’m wearing jeans with white sneakers, a simple beige shirt, and a blue letterman jacket. I have a white scarf loosely draped around my neck, one I fetched from the bottom of a drawer, and a small brown purse strapped over my shoulder. Glancing at the other people around me, almost all of them taller than me, I definitely look like a wandering child. I didn’t find red pumps or other types ofwoman-likeshoes in my closet. I guess I’ve never been that much into heels. They look pretty, but no—not my thing.
I stop by the board listing departures and meet eyes with the 7:30 p.m. AF 7 flight to—you’ll never guess—Paris. There is one slight problem though. What now? How am I supposed to board a plane to Paris without a plane ticket? I expected to get another one of these messages with further instructions, like a booking number, but I have nothing. People have begun looking at me weirdly. At first, I don’t realize why, but when I overhear one of them mentioning that mark on my cheek, I get it. I forgot to put on makeup. Oh well, it’s notthatbad, I think. So why are they staring?
Twenty minutes later, tired of walking in circles like a polar bear on melting ice, I head to the check-in line. I figure the Bratva will have arranged something, and maybe I just need to give my name at the counter. I make my way to the end of the line, analyzing my surroundings while pursing and biting my lips nervously.
My heart takes the highest of leaps.
Standing at the end of the line, obviously waiting for someone, is Maksim, my interrogator. My entire spine feels like it collapses on itself. I look at him, blinking a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating. He wears a slim-cut dark-gray suit that looks as expensive as an apartment in Cobble Hill. His hair, short and black, is smoothly brushed back, almost flawlessly. Not one wild lock or frizzle. I can see his firm cheekbones and jawline very well, now that he stands with his profile to me instead of his fists. He carries a black leather jacket over one arm and a black duffle bag in the other. How typical. I thought black was the mafia’s color only in movies. I guess it’s Maksim’s color in real life too.
I walk up to him like I’m stuttering, but with my feet. For a second, I’m looking at his watch, then at his fist, remembering yesterday, the time it could have touched my face. I shake my head as I really don’t want to linger on that particular thought. As I get closer, he looks at me, and our eyes make four. I actually have to crane my neck to meet his blue eyes, and my spine crumbles again.
I come to about an arm’s length in front of him before I scavenge the might to speak.
“Privet!” I spontaneously say in Russian—what the hell?—and immediately feel dumb about it. I clear my throat before sounding less like a moron. “Is this the line?” I ask. Of course this is the line. There is a big Air France logo on each monitorabove every counter. AF 7 to Paris is even written in bold. Could I be any more of a goose?
He doesn’t reply. He’s barely even looking at me. He turns around and queues up without saying anything to me, and he doesn’t really have to, as I’m already following him behind the swarm of future passengers, all eager to get a boarding pass to Paris. In the line, he is as silent as a stone. It really gets me nervous. I look at his fists at least once or twice more. I have to say something to break out of this gut-wrenching stillness.
“So…” I begin, then press my lips together and pop them. “Paris, huh?”
No response, which isn’t surprising. It’s not like my question was any good. But now I know I’m traveling with a mute giant. I’d better dive my nose into my phone instead, the one with the internet connection, not the Bratva phone back in my purse. I end up somewhere on Twitter, scrolling through posts about cute animals. That’s a good way to kill time. As I’m about to click on anothersignificant otter, we make it to the counter.
I’m tall enough not to have to stand on my toes to see the attendant, a lady in a black uniform dress with a cute red bowtie belt. Maksim speaks with her—I don’t have to say a thing. It’s the first time I actually hear him speak English, and he has an absolutely impeccable American accent. I just have to show my passport, discard my suitcase, and voilà, the lady hands Maksim two boarding passes, and he relays one to me. It’s a window seat in the premium economy class. I catch a little spark of glee in my chest when I take the ticket from his hands, like I’ve been given some kind of present. I curse myself for feeling that.
The lady casts a furtive glance at me, at my face. I know what she’s thinking. Her big brown eyes want to ask me something. They bounce between Maksim and me, but she relaxes her posture after he smiles at her. A man with such a beautiful gentleman’s smile inspires no evil.
We board the plane quite quickly. I’ve still not gotten much out of Maksim, mostly silence and a few glances. It really starts to get on my nerves. I’m not angry, but it’s uncomfortable, and I’m more than nervous sitting next to him. I can’t take the stillness anymore.
“Why are we going to Paris?” I ask. I blurt the question in what seems like one syllable.
He finally looks at me, his eyes bluer than I remember. I see his gaze quickly examine my face.
“Because your boss is there,” he replies, with no emotion whatsoever in his voice.
I retort with a simple “Hmm” and a series of ample nods. I don’t know what else to say, but then again, I’m not going to let the silence settle in again. “Why this dagger in particular?”
He sighs deeply, a long exhale. It seems like I annoy him more than anything else. “That’s none of your business.”
