Last Snow

SIXTEEN

JACK AWOKE with the scent of Annika on him, and it was as if he were in another world, as if he’d eaten a bowl of peaches last night and now smelled of them. Nevertheless, opening his eyes, he immediately felt a kind of remorse. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself, because he had, immensely; what occurred to him were the consequences, because experience had taught him that there were always consequences from having sex with another human being, no matter what your partner claimed at the time. If you had any emotions they were bound to be stirred by intimacy of any sort. He’d known plenty of guys who hadn’t cared who they’d slept with—to a man they were either in loveless marriages or divorced. In any case, they still inhabited the same bars where, back in the day, they’d always scored. Now, however, they felt old, isolated from the feverish pace of a dating scene they no longer belonged to, or even understood.

Next to him, Annika was still asleep, her cruel scars rising and falling with her slow breathing. She turned, then, her head still burrowed in the pillow, facing him. For a moment, he did nothing but watch her, as if, in her sleep, she would tell him something about herself. But she remained resolutely a mystery, as, in fact, all women were mysteries, and he wondered now whether he knew her any better than he knew Sharon. On the face of it, an absurd notion, equating a woman he’d just met with the woman he had lived with for twenty-three years. But the truth was staring at him with Annika’s quiescent face, which held no expression, or perhaps just the hint of a smile, as if her dream were more real to her than the world around her, than Jack himself. It made him wonder whether it was possible for one person to know another. Weren’t there always surprises, like layers of an onion being peeled away only to reveal another person, one we scarcely knew, or had for years tried our best not to understand, preferring a manufactured reality that reflected the things we required?

This was what he’d done with Sharon, and now that the reality he’d manufactured had cracked and crumbled away he knew Emma was right: they’d never had a chance. And yet, in retrospect it was heartbreaking to see how one misstep had led to another, and another, and so on, small accretions of mistakes that had become a life less lived. It seemed odd to him, even ludicrous that he had once held her in his arms, that they had whispered intimacies to one another, that they could have said “I love you,” in any conceivable setting. That time had collapsed in on itself; it was the opposite of when you walked into a house you used to live in or a room you’d once known like the back of your hand and nothing had changed. Now that house, that room, that woman were all changed, unfamiliar to him, as if observed in another man’s life. He closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to completely uproot all the acrid memories and stark revelations cropping up in his mind like weeds after a soaking rain.

Lifting the covers, he rolled out of bed carefully enough not to wake her. Slipping into clothes, he opened the door and padded into the living room, where Alli, already awake, sat curled on the end of the chocolate velvet sofa directly beneath the mandala. She held a mug half filled with hot tea, which she handed to him as he sat down beside her.

“Have fun?” she said as he took a sip.

Jack tried to assess her tone. Was she disapproving, pissed, being ironic, or trying for casually adult? He came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter. Sitting beside her made him realize how foolish his brief stab of fear had been; he’d never be like those former acquaintances of his, not as long as he had Alli. “She’s yours, Jack, for better or for worse,” Annika had said last night.

“Did you?” he said at length.

She took back the mug of tea he offered her. “I didn’t even have to put my ear to the wall.” When he looked over at her, she added mischievously, “I heard everything.”

His face drained of blood. “I’m sorry you heard anything.”

“I didn’t.” She laughed. “But now I know what the two of you did.” Leaning over, she sniffed him. “Besides, you smell like a rutting animal.”

“Charming.”

She shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Hey, we’re all animals when you come right down to it.”

“So you don’t disapprove?”

“Would you care?”

He considered for only an instant. “Yes, I think I would.”

She looked surprised, or perhaps a better word would be amused. “Thank you.”

Jack took the tea back from her. He was feeling both the warmth and the caffeine.

Watching him sip what was left of the tea, she said, “Now I want to hear all about the visit from Emma.”

Alli was the only one who believed that Emma had returned, or hadn’t actually gone away, he’d given up trying to figure out which. It was a relief being able to confide this aspect of his life, which was both eerie and joyous.

“And then you’ll tell me everything, right?”

Her face screwed up in a quizzical look. “About what?”

“You know about what, about what happened to you when you were with Morgan Herr.”

With the mention of her abductor’s name her expression changed subtly. Perhaps he was the only one who would have noticed, and a wave of regret washed over him, because the last thing he wanted was to alienate her. But he was trusting Annika now, trusting what she had said to him last night: “She wants to tell you.”

Alli cocked her head to one side, a bad sign, he knew. “Are you proposing a quid pro quo?”

“I’m asking—”

“Like a politician? Is that what you are now?”

“Forget it.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t want to know.”

“Why not?” Her voice changed suddenly, grown deeper and darker, as if with an adult’s disappointments and loss. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s too late, it’s over, there’s nothing in the past except tears.”

The little sound she made caused him to look over, to see that she was crying, the tears overflowing her lids and rolling down her cheeks.

“Don’t take her away from me, I already miss her too much.”

“I’m not taking anything away from you,” he said as he gathered her into his arms, “least of all Emma.”

But it wasn’t just Emma she meant, he was certain of that, she was also saying, Don’t take away my chance to tell you. And now he knew for a certainty that Annika had been right. So he recounted word for word—a quirk of his dyslexic brain—his conversation with Emma last night, and when he was finished, she said: “Is it true what she said about you and Sharon?”

He nodded. “We were just fooling ourselves. There’s nothing left, because there was nothing to begin with, nothing but sex.”

“ ‘Things fall apart; the center cannot hold,’ ” Alli said, quoting Yeats, one of the poets she’d learned to love from Emma. “Emma always said everything that’s born holds the seeds of its own destruction.”

And Jack thought again of dissolution, of how being an Outsider, of hiding in the shadows, observing without yourself being observed, was its own form of dissolution long before the advent of death.

“Did Emma say that or did Morgan Herr?”

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Alli said, pulling away, “but they both did.”

Jack felt a shiver run through him, as if Herr had somehow managed to walk over his grave. “Did Emma get her philosophy from him?”

Alli shook her head. “No, but on some level they were both nihilists. I don’t think Emma ever saw the point in life, and I know he didn’t.”

“He said that to you?”

“Not in so many words.” Her eyes could not meet his. “He didn’t have to.”

“I’ll make us more tea,” he said gently.

“No. Stay here, don’t leave me.”

He settled back into the sofa cushions. It was getting toward nine; he knew they needed to get moving because the longer they stayed in Kiev the colder Magnussen’s trail would become. On the other hand, he was reluctant to make a move that would break the tenuous strand to Alli’s past she had begun to spin. Besides, with her wounded arm, Annika could use all the sleep she could get.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

She smiled at him, but it was thin and brittle enough to put him on edge. What could be coming? he wondered. What had she been bottling up inside her since her abduction?

“Emma knew him way before I did.”

Jack knew this, just as he knew she was speaking of Morgan Herr, whose name she couldn’t bear to say.

“Emma saw something in him—she never told me what—but I imagine they sat around and talked about how things were falling apart, how the center couldn’t hold, how chaos ruled everyone and everything.”

Jack wanted to interject a comment, but he bit his lip instead, trying to warm his abruptly chilled extremities.

“He was charismatic, girls especially were drawn to him—as you know. But with Emma it was different. She wasn’t sucked into his orbit, she never adored him or was fooled by his charming exterior. She knew what he was; in fact, I’m convinced now that was why she spent time with him. He was an Outsider on a level it would never occur to her to go. Emma would never harm another human being, but I think she wanted to know why he would.”

Jack was listening very carefully, even though Alli was talking about his daughter and not about herself. Or was she? He knew that whatever had happened to her during the week she had been under Morgan Herr’s control had had a profound effect on her, possibly even changed her, perhaps forever. Whatever this thing was she had been struggling with it for months, trying to understand it, or to see it for what it really was.

“I . . . I never told you the truth, during that time before the inauguration.” Alli stared at her hands. “He told me not to.”

Jack couldn’t help himself now. “Of course he told you not to, that was part of the brainwashing.”

She shook her head, slowly but firmly. “It wasn’t only the brainwashing—I mean I don’t remember that part. I wanted to do what he told me to do. I wanted to carry the anthrax, I wanted to hurt all those people. I hated my parents so much for all the years they didn’t—”

She broke down abruptly and Jack took her to him again, feeling her body wracked with sobs.

“I was weak. Emma would never have been so stupid to do what he wanted—she knew that beneath the charismatic exterior he was the worst kind of monster. I knew nothing, he hooked me when he got inside my head, he knew all the strings to pull, all the buttons to push. He knew where I was weak, which was easy, because, unlike Emma, I had no strength anywhere inside me, and he knew that, too.” Her sobbing had taken on epic proportions. “How do you fight someone who knows you better than you know yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said gently. “I don’t think anyone—”

“Oh, but Emma could, and that’s the point. I’m a product of privilege, there isn’t anything I wanted that my parents didn’t get me—every piece of crap, no matter how expensive. And what did that do? It made me soft—that’s what he said to me, ‘You’re soft as the underbelly of a sow, you wallow in money, prestige, privilege, and what have you to show for it? You make me sick to my stomach, but you can change that, you can become tough as nails, hard as a rock if you set your mind to it. Like your best friend, like Emma.’ ”

She clutched at him as if he were a lifeline, as if he were the only resource she had to keep her from drowning in the deep sea of her emotions. “And I wanted to be like Emma so, so much. He knew that, just like he knew everything else about me. He knew how much I envied Emma, he knew that even though I loved her I was jealous of what she had—not money, not prestige, not privilege, those were all as phony, as ineffectual as I was. She was tough, she was hard, she could be anything she wanted to be, and it all came from inside herself. She was everything I ever dreamed of being, and I was nothing, nothing at all.”

“What’s going on here?”

Jack held Alli tighter as if needing to protect her from Annika’s question. “Nothing,” he said. “She’s out here in the back of beyond, she’s just homesick, that’s all.”

“That’s all?”

He heard the skepticism in her voice and he said more harshly than he had perhaps intended, “That’s enough—more than enough.”

“Of course it is.”

Annika turned and went down the hall into the bathroom. Through the closed door he could just barely hear the sound of running water over Alli’s slowly weakening sobs.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“That’s what I want. You don’t know . . .”

But he did know, because it was what he wanted, too. Emma’s death had been a nightmare, and then Alli’s abduction, a nightmare for everyone. Where was it going to end, when was it going to end? If everything was moving toward dissolution why wasn’t it ending, why were both he and Alli still suffering so?

With a conscious effort, he pushed her away from him, held her at arm’s length until he willed her to look at him. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself, that’s only your guilt talking. You’re brave and smart and resourceful. Maybe Emma was the catalyst, but those things came from inside you, they’re nobody else’s, they’re yours.”

Alli’s eyes, still enlarged with tears, locked onto his, and a wan smile crossed her face. “Guilt isn’t all that binds us, is it, Jack? I’d hate to think—”

“It’s not,” he said. “Of course it’s not.”

“That’s what Annika thinks, I’m sure of it.”

“Does that bother you?”

She tried to laugh, wiping away the tracks of her tears. “I wish it didn’t.”

“She’s the psycho-bitch, remember?”

Now Alli did laugh. “She isn’t, you know she isn’t.”

Jack was somewhat surprised. “What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know, I—”

“Enough crying, for pity’s sake!” For the second time, Annika interrupted them. She had emerged from the bathroom, her head to one side, drying her hair with a towel. “With that flood of misery anyone would think you’re Russian. Come on, what are we waiting for?”

Both Jack and Alli jumped up as if they were stung. As Alli passed Annika on the way to the bathroom, Jack said, “We need to get to Alushta. Driving will be the safest way.”

“Also the slowest.” She threw her damp towel onto the sofa cushion where Alli had been sitting and, before her, Emma. She watched to see if he would protest, or even comment. When he didn’t, she continued. “It will take us too long to get to the coast by car. Besides, there are regular roadblocks between here and the Crimean peninsula to catch contraband. Thankfully we have your private jet.”

“It’s not my private jet,” Jack said, “but I take your point.”

While Alli padded by him to get dressed he pulled out his cell phone and punched in the pilot’s number.

“Give me forty minutes and we’ll be ready to go,” the pilot said, “but I need to log a flight plan. Where are we going?”

“To the airport nearest Alushta,” Jack told him, “in the Crimea, on the Black Sea coast.”

“I’ll get right on it,” the pilot said, and disconnected.

Forty minutes later the three of them arrived at Zhulyany Airport.

“SIMFEROPOL NORTH Airport.”

“Where?” Kirilenko pressed the cell phone to his ear so hard the cartilage ached. “Where the hell is that?”

“Crimea.” His assistant’s voice came through the ether hard, abrupt, and ominous, like a nail punched through a tin can. “She showed up on the Zhulyany Airport CCTV as she passed through into the VIP terminal.”

“The VIP terminal?” Kirilenko, driving back to Kiev from the wild-goose chase in Brovary, was trying to process information that was coming at him too quickly. “First, tell me, was Annika Dementieva alone?”

“She was with a man and girl,” his assistant said.

Kirilenko pulled out Limonev’s cell phone and looked again at the low-resolution photo of the people caught emerging from Rochev’s dacha. In his mind’s eye he saw again the three sets of footprints in the woods: the man’s, the woman’s—and the girl’s. Yes, yes, he thought excitedly, he was onto something here. “Did you get photos of them from the CCTV images?”

“Of course. They’re on your desk.”

“Tell me you discovered why Annika Dementieva and her friends were in the VIP terminal.”

“I have the information right here.” There came the sound of shuffling papers. “They boarded a private jet that’s on its way to, as I said, Simferopol.”

Kirilenko scowled. Something was not adding up here. “Since when does a fugitive have access to a private jet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, dammit, bloody well find out!”

“I already tried,” his assistant said. “But the jet is American, under full diplomatic protection. I can’t find out a thing about it, except its next destination, which, if you have the right contacts, is public knowledge.”

His assistant was of course trying to recoup points he’d lost with his boss, but Kirilenko scarcely noticed. He’d broken out into a cold sweat. This must be Harry Martin’s doing, he thought, panic-stricken. That sonuvabitch has been playing me, he’s known all along about Annika’s ties to Karl Rochev, or at least suspected them. As soon as I brought him to Rochev’s dacha he must have known. That was why he sent me to that absurd town, Brovary, while he returned at once to Kiev. It was a ruse to keep me occupied while he reeled Annika in like a fish. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Christ, he thought, what are the Americans up to?

Such was the turmoil of his mind that he almost missed what his assistant said next: “As I said, Simferopol North Airport is in the Crimea, approximately midway between Balaklava and Alushta.”

His initial panic turned to outrage at being manipulated by the Americans—of all people!—and then to rage at Henry Martin in particular. In so doing he managed to gather himself. If that was how Martin was going to play it, he told himself grimly, then that’s how it would be played all around.

“I’m only twenty minutes away from Kiev,” Kirilenko said, heading directly for the airport. “I want to be on the next flight out from Zhulyany to Simferopol North.”

“Two seats, I assume, one for you and one for Harry Martin,” his assistant said.

“One seat.” Kirilenko put on speed. “If Martin asks, I’m still in Brovary, my nose to the grindstone. And if word of where I’ve gone should leak to the Americans I will personally shoot you in the back of the head.”