Countdown in Cairo

Part Three
FIFTY-FOUR

Six weeks later, Alex was at her desk in her new office in Manhattan when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the LED and read the incoming number.

She recognized the country code: 39. Italy. She also recognized the number.

She smiled. She picked up. “Ciao, Gian Antonio,” she said.

He laughed. “I should be used to the technology by now, but I’m not,” he said in English. “You know who’s calling before you answer.”

“Consider yourself flattered,” she said. “I knew it was you and I picked up.”

“I’m deeply humbled, Signora,” he said with evident amusement.

She glanced at her watch. “What time is it there?”

“Evening,” he said. “So buona sera,”

“Buona sera.”

Within a minute, he moved to the objective of the call. “Your Russian has lost track of you,” Rizzo said.

“Which Russian?”

“There’s more than one? Federov. He’s been quite ill, you know.”

“I knew he was ill,” she said in a more somber tone. “I didn’t know how ill he was. Where is he?”

“Geneva,” Rizzo said. “He’s residing in a place called Le Clinique Perrault.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

There was a heavy pause. Rizzo’s voice assumed a grim tone. “He’s in a-What do you call it in English?” he asked. He switched to Italian to be clear. “Uno ospedale per i malati in fase terminale. Un ospizio.”

“A hospice,” Alex said, her chair moving forward. It took a moment for it to sink in. “Terminale?” she asked, making sure she had heard right.

“Terminale,” he said again.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“He phoned me. He says there is something enormously important,” Rizzo continued, changing back to English. “And he will only talk to you.”

“Give him my number,” she said gently. “He can phone me anytime that he-”

“No, no. He wishes to speak to you-and only you- in person,” Rizzo advised.

She sighed and felt the weight of the news. “Gian Antonio, I’m beat. I just started a new job in New York. I don’t know whether I have another trip in me right now. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know, I know,” he said. He paused. “Advise me what flight you will be on. I’ll meet your flight in Geneva. Would that make it any easier?”

“I didn’t say that I was going.”

“Not yet, you didn’t, no,” Rizzo said. “But I know you very well by now, Signora Alex,” he said. “I doubt if you’d turn down the request of a man who is so gravely ill.”

“I see,” she said.

“Alex?”

“Si, Gian Antonio?”

“You should come as quickly as you can.”

Two mornings later, the February sky in Geneva was gray and grim, much as it had been almost exactly a year earlier in Kiev on a similarly fateful day. Alex had taken a direct flight from New York. Gian Antonio Rizzo was at the airport in Geneva waiting reliably for her.

Their taxi drove them through the center of the city, past the Hotel de Roubaix from which Alex had been abducted. Then, five minutes later, they arrived at the Clinique Perrault on the rue Joffrin in central Geneva. The cab pulled onto the gray gravel of a wide semicircle driveway that formed the front courtyard of the medical clinic.

The driver hopped out of the cab and hurried to open the door for Alex. A small flock of startled pigeons fluttered upward from the driveway as she stepped out. The birds took roost within the crevices of the ornate façade of the Clinique, where they lurked and watched her arrival. It was all inconsequential to them.

Alex reached for the wallet in her purse, but Rizzo, ever a gentleman around those he respected, waved her off and paid for the ride from the airport. He tipped the driver generously. They both carried only overnight bags. Then another sense of déjà vu was upon her-an unwelcome flashback to Kiev again-as a slight snow had begun to fall.

Always, in her mind, there had been a light snow in Kiev. At Robert’s funeral there had been a light snow. When the RPGs had been incoming at Mihaylavski Place there had been a light snow. What might God be trying to tell her? She didn’t know.

She shivered, not from the temperature. The cold had been much worse elsewhere recently, and so had the sense of doom and foreboding and sadness. A few moments later, they were in a starkly modern but serene lobby. They presented themselves to the visitors’ desk, showing their passports. They registered properly as visitors and were directed toward a bank of elevators that would take them to Federov’s room on the fourth floor.

Rizzo continued to speak Italian. “It might be better if I waited down here,” he said.

“I think it might.” Alex agreed.

She gave Rizzo a nod. He gave her hand a squeeze. Alex continued to the elevators, and Rizzo went toward the sitting area in the lobby.

Moments later, she was on a floor of the Clinique where a middle-aged nurse named Naomi directed her toward Salle 434. The signs on the floor were in four languages. Very Swiss. French, German, Italian, and English, tacked on almost as a conceit. Every letter and word was perfect.

In the back of Alex’s mind a little spark of absurdity danced forth: Naomi had also been the name of one of the girls at the nightclub in Kiev where Alex had knocked back too much vodka and had allowed herself too much time within Federov’s grasp. This was a day, it was clear, for heavy ironies.

Well, she decided, she had come a long way from there. They both had, and it didn’t seem to matter much anymore, did it? Or did it?

She proceeded down the hall. She was on an expensive wing of the hospice.

Only the best for Federov, she mused. He had earned it, but in some ways he hadn’t. The door to Salle 434 was open. Moments later, her mind teeming, Alex peered in.

She suppressed a gasp. The vision shocked her. The man in the bed was Yuri Federov, but not the Yuri Federov that she remembered. The man she remembered was strong and vibrant. This was an extremely sick man, attached to tubes, wires, and monitors. He lay in the bed with his eyes closed, his mouth open, his head tilted at an angle as he appeared to sleep, his face pallid.

Across his chest was an open book with a Russian title. She couldn’t see it clearly yet. The book was positioned as if it had slipped from his hands when he fell asleep reading.

With a shudder, and a conscious summoning of willpower, she stepped into the room. She moved quietly. Like a giant cat, however, Federov woke instantly-first one eye opened, then the other.

It took a moment for his gaze to register an identity to go with Alex’s presence, but when it did, some of the fear and sadness washed away from his face. Under the circumstances, he looked pleased.

“Ah!” he said in English. “Bless you, Alexandra!”

“Hello, Yuri,” she said.

“Heaven exists for me after all. My angel has arrived.”

“It’s just me,” she said. “Just an overgrown American kid from California.”

His smile widened.

“You’re the person I most wished to see,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

He motioned to the book that lay open across his chest. “I’m taking your advice, you can see, hey?” he said. “Catching up on the classics.”

She looked at the jacket of the book.

He smiled, as if in a small victory.

“Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina,” she said. “Very good, Yuri. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m told it is the greatest of Russian novels,” he said. “And I’m told I should read it before I die.” He laughed. “Well, it might be a close call,” he said. He motioned to all the wires and tubes and monitors.

“It started with lung cancer,” he said dryly, as if announcing a losing football score. “That’s why I was in New York. Then it spread. Rather than being a typically slow and pokey cancer, mine was pure and aggressive. Presurgery Gleason scores of 9 or 10. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s not good,” she said.

“The higher the number on this scale of 10 the worse the news. So I had ten.”

Despite everything, she felt a caving, tumbling feeling within her. She bit a lip as she settled into a chair beside the bed.

His gaze traveled the length of her, up and down, toe to head, taking her in. Then it settled into her eyes.

“I’m very sorry. I’ll pray for you,” she said. “And anything else you’d like.”

Somehow he had the energy and nerve to raise an eyebrow, almost flirtatiously. “Anything?” he asked.

“Within reason,” she said.

He managed a sad smile and a laugh that was so weak that she was appalled. A rasp in his voice made him sound like a much older man. She had been ready for this but not really ready. Then again, what might one expect in a hospice? Not stand-up comedy.

“Well, I don’t necessarily listen to the doctors,” he said. “I know I have more time than they tell me. And as for the book, I’ve already finished it. But I don’t think I understood it, hey? So I’m reading some sections again. Seems to me in the book, everyone is very unlucky with trains and train stations. Even the brat with the toy trains at the beginning. And then there’s the part you’d like. This ‘Lev,’ he’s not a Jew, even with a Jew name, or maybe he is. He ends up accepting the Christian God at the end.”

“That was a recurring theme of Tolstoy,” she said.

“What? Tricky Jews?”

“No, the acceptance of Christianity,” Alex said. “Tolstoy was greatly influenced by the Sermon on the Mount. Much of his philosophy of peace followed from it.”

“And you know this from your study of literature or from your knowledge of your faith?”

“Both,” she said.

He tapped the book. “You’ve read this?” he asked.

“Nine or ten years ago. When I was in college.”

“And you remember it?”

“I remember it. It’s a book everyone should read. Whoever told you to read it was correct.”

“You told me. Several months ago.”

She thought back. “So I did,” she said.

“Did you like it?”

“I did when I read it. I’d like to reread it.”

“Why would you read it again if you’ve already read it? It will turn out the same way.”

She smiled. “Books can mean different things to you at different stages of your life, Yuri,” she said. “Read things at different times and you may come away with different understandings.”

“So if I read it on Monday I might think differently than on Wednesday?”

“Maybe,” she answered, aware that he was playing with her, “but I suspect the time frame there is too close.”

“But this is the end of my life,” he said. “So I hope I get the good and true meaning.”

She searched for words and didn’t have the right ones.

“Yuri,” she said. “Don’t do this to me.”

He laughed. He reached to the book, closed it, and set it on the bedside table.

“You’re quite extraordinary, Miss Alex LaDucova,” he said, playing again with her name. “I wish I had your memory. And your breadth of knowledge.”

Federov managed a laugh, which made them both feel better.

“That’s good,” he said. “Within reason. And again, very kind of you to come all the way to Geneva. Where were you when my message arrived to you?”

“New York,” she said. “That’s where my job is now.”

“Ah, New York. It was a long trip.”

“As it worked out, it wasn’t that difficult,” she said.

“You’re very kind,” he said. “I find that quaint. And ironic maybe. You’re one of the few people I’ve met in my life who I’ve had to thank for their kindness.”

“Maybe if you had thanked more people your life would have turned out differently,” she said.

“And maybe if kindness had been shown to me more often I would have turned out a different person,” he mused. With a free hand, he used a paper towel to mop his brow. “But we’ll never know, will we? Two theories maybe, hey? One is I was born a mongoose. So I would always be a mongoose. And you can’t blame a mongoose for killing a cobra, because a mongoose is a mongoose.”

She was aware that he was heavily sedated, sailing along on some synthetic morphine, she supposed, which probably had his central nervous system in chaos. The drugs made him ramble, but she found it not difficult to travel along with it.

“The other, of course, is that events made me what I am,” he said. “My father used to beat me without mercy when I was a boy, hey. So did my uncle. You know when it stopped? When I was big enough to hurt them back. Hurt. That’s the only real law in life, isn’t it? Don’t hurt me or I will hurt you. Nations, people. It all works the same.”

In another time and place, she might have taken exception. She might have found the right words to say about love and the search for it, about God, about the spirit, about human kindness instead of violence, and a system of morals based on one’s faith, or any faith, or respect for other people or the sanctity of truth and life. But that was not a discussion for here and now.

“Are we on fire?” he asked next.

“What?”

“It’s very hot,” he said. “I wonder if the building is on fire.”

“The building is fine, Yuri,” she said, realizing that the sedatives were gaining some ground. “But I can call a nurse if you’re feeling-”

“No, no!” he said, raising a clumsy hand and halting her. “Enough of nurses and enough of doctors.” She sat still and his hand went to the sheets again. He closed his eyes, and Alex wasn’t sure whether he was about to drift off. But the nano-nap helped because the eyes opened again in a flash. He seemed to have regained some lucidity.

“Hey,” he said. “Time is short. We have things to talk about.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

He motioned to the second drawer of the bedside stand. “There’s a small package in there,” he said. “Would you please take it out?”

She reached to the drawer. There was a small blue bag in it. It bore the name of Tiffany & Company, the jeweler. She frowned slightly, not knowing where this was going.

Federov nodded. She closed the drawer and opened the bag. She reached in.

“I bought this in New York,” he said as she turned over in her hand a small blue box tied with white ribbon. “It’s for you.”

“Yuri, you didn’t have to buy me a present,” she said. “And you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s something very special,” he said, watching intently now. “Please open it.”

She thought for a moment, but was in no position to decline a kindness. She pulled the ribbon open and set it aside. She opened the box and glanced up at him as she dug through the tissue paper. His eyes were suddenly very happy and almost very young, like a boy on Christmas morning.

Her hand settled then on a smaller box within the larger one. It was in dark blue velvet and was unmistakably a ring box. With reservations, she pulled it from the paper and paused for a moment.

“Yuri?” she questioned.

“Please…,” he said, “see this day through to the end.”

“As you wish,” she said gently.

She opened the box and almost lost her breath. The box contained a diamond engagement ring. It was exquisite and dazzling, a sturdy, bold, brilliant diamond set in a platinum gold band. The center stone was the largest diamond she had ever held in her hands. She was no expert, but she guessed it was eight karats set in a traditional clasp, surrounded by two rows of smaller melee diamonds, alternating with sapphires.

He smiled.

“Blue,” he said. “When you came to see me in Geneva last time, you said you liked blue.”

Yes, blue. She now recalled and better understood his question from several weeks earlier.

Blue, like the Nile. Blue like the sky. Blue like sapphires on the most stunning engagement ring she had ever seen in her life.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “I didn’t know there was a woman in your life again. Who is this for?”

Her eyes rose to meet his and her mouth opened to speak, but his words preceded any she could utter.

“It’s for you, Alex. Will you marry me?” he asked.

“What?”

“I’m asking you to marry me,” he said. “It is a serious proposal.”

Almost gasping, almost angry, thoroughly flummoxed, she struggled to answer. “Yuri… I…”

“Please say yes,” he said. He moved a hand to her and settled it on her knee. He touched her with obvious affection. He was too sick for lechery and time was too short for games.

She looked back down to the ring.

It was jewelry more befitting a movie star or a member of European royalty, not a working woman from southern California who had gone through college on scholarships and now worked in law enforcement. Again, she was no expert, but in the past she had had enough experience on a professional basis with jewelry to know that this piece probably clocked in at seventy-five to a hundred thousand dollars.

She sat before him nonplussed. The reality of the moment was sinking in upon her, the realization that he was not kidding and the offer was indeed serious.

“If you say yes,” he added with surprising gentleness, “it would be the most joyous moment of my life.”

“Yuri, I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say yes. I will call a priest whom I know here in Geneva. And we will do fast paperwork and make it official. We could do it here in the hospital as early as tomorrow. I have paperwork that has been prepared. All you would have to do is sign and-”

“My reaction isn’t so much yes or no,” she stammered, “as it is that such a proposal is completely out of the question.”

“Why?”

“For more reasons than I could explain.”

“Give me one reason,” he said.

The words came out almost reflexively. “I’m not in love with you,” she said.

He snorted a little laugh. “At this point,” he said, “what does that matter, hey?”

She groped for more words, more of an explanation, but instead was more at a loss for them than any previous time in her life. “I couldn’t possibly marry you,” she finally expanded.

She abruptly closed the ring box and set it back on the side table.

Federov was, however, neither hurt nor perturbed.

“Be realistic,” he continued. “This is my gift to you. If I am in love with you, what does it matter whether you love me? What would-?”

“Yuri, please. Stop this or I’ll leave.”

“How much time do I have left on this earth?” he pressed. “No one knows. You believe in God? Well, your God is in the process of taking me. So you give me a small gift before I die, and I will give you tremendous gifts that will last your lifetime.”

He paused and moved a hand to the ring box. He fingered it but didn’t open it.

“Let’s be honest,” he continued. “I am a very wealthy man. See that drawer? “ he asked, indicating the same drawer that had held the Tiffany bag. “All my financial information is in there. Bank accounts. Some in Ukraine, some in New York. Most of them safe here in Switzerland. You will also see letters I have on file with lawyers here in Geneva. You would have access to everything I own if you were my wife. I have a will. I have already named you as a beneficiary.”

“I don’t want your money, Yuri,” she said. “When it comes down to it, I can only be honest with you. I am appalled by the way you acquired your wealth. How many people did you betray? How many did you kill?”

“A small number compared with how many tried to harm or kill me,” he answered. “I have taken care of my daughters who live in Canada,” he said, “although they do not know it.”

“They should inherit your wealth, not me,” she said. “They’re your flesh and blood. They suffered because of you. They deserve whatever you can give them.”

“They hate me,” he said matter-of-factly. “Do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said.

“There then, you see?” he said, attempting to close an argument around her. “I want to leave my fortune to someone who doesn’t hate me. Do you understand what a wealthy woman you would be, what a wealthy widow you will be in a short period of time?”

“Yuri, I don’t think like that. And it was about a year ago that I had to get myself past the death of my fiancé in Kiev. So-”

“I believe I’m worth more than twenty-five million dollars,” he continued. “Most of it in cash.”

She blew out a long breath. “Yuri, that’s not my idea of marriage,” Alex said. “Material wealth is not what motivates me.”

“What motivates you, then?” he asked. “I’m not sure I understand. Wealth is wealth. Wealth is power. Think of all the charities you could finance, if that is your goal. You would never have to work again in your life. You are young. After my passing, which will be soon, you would be free to do as you wish. You-”

“Yuri, I hate to be so brutally frank. But I’m not in love with you! I couldn’t marry a man I didn’t love. It might seem quaint and old-fashioned to you, but that’s how I am. That’s who I am.”

“The man who died in Kiev…? The man you just mentioned…?”

“Robert.”

“Did you love him?”

“Of course I did!”

“And you still miss him?”

She opened her mouth to answer yes, but her voice broke before she could find the words. “Of course I do!” she said again, almost indignantly. “Why do you even ask me that?”

Several seconds ticked by. Finally, he spoke again.

“You know, my precious Alexandra,” he said, “my whole life, whenever I have tried to show my best innermost desires, to be generous, to be a morally good man, I have faced contempt, scorn, and disbelief. And whenever I gave in to my most base desires I was praised, respected, and encouraged. It is no different now.”

“I will not marry you,” she said. “I will not even consider it. The discussion is over.”

“All right,” he said after a pause. A flicker of a smile and, “But then, please allow a grievously ill man a final fantasy. If you would.”

“What would that be?” Alex asked.

“Put my ring on your finger. Let me see you wear it, if even for a moment before you say a final no to my offer and hand it back. Before the darkness arrives and the long night claims me, let me hold in my head the image of you wearing my ring, even if the reality of a marriage will never come to be. Let me die with that vision.”

“Yuri, I don’t know-”

“Please,” he said softly, from dry lips below beseeching eyes. “What does it cost you to give me this small amount of comfort?”

To his question, she had no immediate answer. So, “All right,” she said softly.

She removed the ring from the box under his careful gaze. Fighting back second thoughts and with a little voice within her screaming that she should know better than to do something as wildly inappropriate as this, she slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand, where Robert’s ring had once been.

Not surprisingly, Federov had chosen the band size perfectly. The ring felt exquisite and repugnant at the same time.

She looked up and her gaze met his. He was looking back and forth from her hand to her eyes, then back again. He reached forward and took her hand, the one with the ring.

“You’re sure,” he said, “the answer is no?”

“The answer is no,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled her hand to him and brought it to his face. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, then released it. She withdrew her hand from him.

“Very well,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to accept.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“One never knows.”

With her right hand, she pulled the ring off her finger. Respectfully, she replaced it in the ring box, closed the box, and handed it back to him.

“Be careful with this,” she said. “It has a great monetary value. You don’t want it to disappear.”

He took it and returned it to the drawer. “It barely matters,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give it to the nurse.” Alex wasn’t sure if he was kidding. “She might like to sell it.”

He dropped it in the drawer and stared at the drawer. He looked lost again. Alex noticed a fresh line of sweat across his brow. She waited for him to come back again. In time, he turned to her.

“I wonder then,” he said. “When the time comes, there is another thing that needs to be done. And I have no one else I can ask. No one else that I can trust.”

“Tell me what it is,” she said.

“My instructions are that my body is to be cremated,” he said. “Then, afterward, there is a place nearby here,” he said, “a very pleasant, peaceful place, a section in Geneva, just to the south of the center of the city. It’s called Plainpalais.” His voiced trailed off for a moment. “Do you know it?” he asked.

“I’m familiar with it,” she said.

“I have all that paperwork in the drawer here too,” he said. “I have made all the arrangements. So when the time comes…” With a weak smiled, he added, “Not before.”

She nodded. “Not before,” she said. “I’ll make sure that everything is done properly.”

“And you will be there?”

“If I can be,” she said. “I promise.”

“Thank you. You are more kind to me than I deserve,” he said. “Will you also forgive me? ” he asked.

“For what?”

“For my greatest sin, my greatest malefaction ever.”

“I’m not following,” she said.

“No?” Federov asked.

“No.”

“I thought you might have figured it out by now.”

A deep feeling of unease began to creep over her, as if deep within her she knew what was coming next.

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex said. “Figure what out?”

“Robert’s death,” he said. He held a long beat, and then he said very clearly, “I was the person responsible.”

“What?”

“And the attack on Barranco Lajoya, also,” he said. “Completely responsible.”

An extraordinary silence crashed down upon the room.

“I ordered the attack in Kiev,” he continued. “I ordered it, organized it, and financed it. Then I did everything I could to blame it on my opposition, the filoruskies. I wanted to get back at your government for the war they waged against me, for expelling me from America, for siding with that swine Putin, for driving me out of business, for making me into an exile in my own land.”

With wide eyes and a sense of disbelief, Alex listened to him, his familiar voice, now racked with pain that was as severe spiritually as it was physically. He was assuming complete culpability for the carnage in Kiev that had shattered her life as well as so many others, the attack that had rewritten in blood one of the worst atrocities ever aimed at her country.

And then he moved along to Venezuela.

“In Venezuela,” he continued. “I had the local fascist militia come to try to kill you. I felt you were the instrument of the government, the representative of all my enemies. So they came for you; they murdered some other people, but you escaped again. It was only later that I understood that you were only doing a job. That Comrade Cerny was my enemy. And the disgraceful Putin as well.”

A long apologia followed but the words barely made any sense. After a few moments she was not hearing it.

Disgust. Resentment. Fury.

It all welled up inside her, those emotions and more. The monstrosity of all this brought her close to despair, a despair modified with rage, and almost a wish that this conversation had never happened, that she had heard none of it, that she might have lived a happier life never knowing the truth, never having heard this rambling deathbed confession.

And although one wave of angry doubt was in mutiny against another, her heart fought against what she had always known, always somehow suspected, yet found a way to deny until this moment, that Federov had taken Robert from her, that the man now dying before her had shattered her life and left it in small pieces that had been nearly impossible to piece back together.

“So I ask you now,” Federov finally said. “Where is your faith? What is it to you? What did your Jesus Christ teach you? Do you forgive me?”

She was angry. Resentful. Fearful. Every foul and vituperative emotion welled inside her.

Somehow she managed words.

“Forgiveness is not mine to give you, Yuri. Forgiveness is for God to give you.”

“Will he?’

“Ask him.”

“But will he?”

“You’ll find out.”

He took a moment, his strength almost gone. “But do you forgive me?” he asked.

She stood in silence, tears welling, not knowing whether she wanted to answer, to flee, or-as one horrible instinct urged-to shoot him herself in revenge, except something about that would have seemed both wrong and too good for him at the same time.

“Please answer me honestly,” he said. “Don’t give me the answer you wish me to hear, but the one that has the truth. I have little patience left for anything except truth.”

Federov paused. “So, I ask you again. Do you forgive me?”

Several seconds passed. Somewhere deep in her soul, in something that seemed to her too much like a spiritual abyss, she found an answer that she didn’t know was there.

“I think in time,” she said, “with the proper strength, I will be able to. Yes. Because I need to. Because everything in my faith tells me to. Because I don’t choose to live a life burning with hatred. So with time,” she said, “with time, maybe, yes. Right now, I do not know why God has put me on this path. I hope that eventually I will understand.”

He nodded weakly. “That is good,” he said. “That is as good as I could hope for, hey. In its way, it’s a gift. So thank you.”

Words had departed her.

“Look,” she finally said, her insides raging, “that’s really all there is here. There’s nothing more to discuss. We’re finished here, right?”

He nodded and his head eased back.

“You’re a good person,” he said. “I wasn’t always. I regret.”

He closed his eyes. He was dozing within seconds, transported to wherever the dreams, illusions, and drugs took him, his memory leaping through the past.

Alex stood, turned, and went to the door.

She pulled it open, but then, responding to some inner voice, looked back one final time at the now-quiet man in the hospice bed. Dying was sometimes an eloquent act, she mused. Men and women often died in accordance with their lives: in battle, home with their families, in transit, wracked with disease.

Federov’s body was very still, and despite her insides being in turmoil, she tried to assess him once more. And almost before her eyes, he shrank to something very small and mean, and something very mortal, flawed, and harmless. She tried to develop a hatred for him, but couldn’t.

His eyes opened a sliver and his hand came up almost imperceptibly. “Hey,” he said in a near whisper. Then he was quiet again, breathing lightly.

She stared for another several seconds. In the end, he was just a man. More flawed than most others, but just a man.

She gently closed the door behind her. It latched in complete silence.