Chapter 21 #2
I study the photos of both locations, trying to imagine our life in either place.
Montenegro looks like something from a fairy tale—dramatic coastlines, medieval towns, and mountain villages that seem untouched by time.
Morocco offers a different kind of magic—bustling souks, desert landscapes, and architecture that’s been standing for centuries.
“What about the practical stuff? Language barriers, getting residency, that kind of thing?”
“Montenegro would be easier in some ways. English is more common, especially in the expat communities along the coast.”
“But?”
He half-shrugs. “ Morocco offers something Montenegro doesn’t—complete anonymity. We could disappear into the medina of Fez or Marrakech and never be found.”
I study the photos of winding alleyways and crowded markets. “That sounds claustrophobic.”
“Not the cities necessarily. Look at this.” He clicks on the listing showing the riad nestled in mountain foothills to make it the dominant tab on the screen. “We could have privacy and space but still blend into the local population when needed.”
“What about for the baby? Medical care and schools eventually?”
“Both countries have decent healthcare in the major cities. Morocco actually has some excellent private facilities, especially in Casablanca and Rabat.” He scrolls through more listings. “And international schools in both places, though Morocco has more options, or we can hire private tutors.”
I can’t hide how impressed I am. “You’ve really researched this thoroughly.”
He looks almost bashful for a moment. “I want us to have real choices, not just pick the first place that seems safe.”
I imagine raising our child in either location—a little girl or boy playing in a courtyard filled with orange trees, learning multiple languages, and growing up far from the violence that brought their parents together.
The thought fills me with longing so intense it takes my breath away.
“What about the culture shock? Morocco would be completely different from anything either of us has experienced.”
He nods. “True. Montenegro would feel more familiar to me with its similar climate to parts of Russia, Orthodox churches, and Slavic influences.” He pauses, considering. “But maybe different is good. Maybe we need to become completely new people.”
“I like that idea.” I lean closer to study the Moroccan listings. “Starting fresh and learning everything together.”
Yefrem nods again. “The Atlas Mountains could be perfect for raising a child. Clean air, beautiful scenery, and close-knit communities.”
“And far enough from major cities that we’d have privacy but not isolation.” That sounds appealing, reminding me of the quiet suburb where I lived in Lake Tahoe. The scenery is different, but the sense of belonging could be the same.
“Exactly. Plus, if we ever needed to disappear quickly, there are dozens of villages and valleys where we could blend in.” He lifts a hand. “Not that I anticipate that happening once we set our plan in motion, but I like have contingency plans.”
I nod my approval and trace the outline of a courtyard garden in the riad photo. “This one looks like something from a fairy tale.”
“Traditional architecture, modern amenities, and enough space for a family.” His voice carries a note of longing. “Our child could grow up playing in that courtyard, learning Arabic and French from the neighbors.”
“What about you? Would you miss the cold?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I’d miss snow at Christmas, but I’d rather give our child warm winters and the sound of fountains than the memories I associate with Russian winters. The men who came for our parents came during a bitterly cold February…” He trails off with a haunted expression.
I put my hand on his for comfort. “Morocco it is, then?”
He slowly nods. “No Russian Mafia boss, no murdered federal agents, and no corruption scandals.”
I grin. “Just a businessman and his wife who want to raise their family somewhere beautiful and peaceful.”
I lean closer to the screen, studying the listing for the riad in the Atlas Mountains.
The photos show rooms with soaring ceilings, carved wood details, and terraces that overlook valleys dotted with olive groves.
It’s the kind of place where you could hear nothing but wind through the trees and distant calls to prayer, where the loudest sound might be our child’s laughter echoing off ancient walls.
“It’s beautiful.” I tap the screen lightly. “I can picture us there.”
“Really?” Something in his voice suggests my approval matters more than he wants to admit.
“Really. It feels like a place where we could build something lasting that belongs to us instead of being shaped by what we’re running from.”
He closes the laptop and turns to face me fully. “It won’t be easy. New language, new culture, and a completely different way of life.”
“We’ve already adapted to living in armed compounds and exposing federal corruption.” I reach for his hand. “I think we can handle learning Arabic and haggling in souks.”
The smile that crosses his face is different from any I’ve seen before, becoming lighter and more hopeful. “Our child will grow up trilingual.”
“Trilingual?”
“English, Arabic, and Russian. French too, so quad-lingual? I want them to know where they come from, even if we never tell them the whole truth about how we got there.”
The image of our son or daughter switching easily between languages, comfortable in multiple worlds, fills me with a pride that surprises me with its intensity. This child will be stronger than either of us, shaped by love instead of violence, and protected fiercely.
“When do you think we’ll be ready to go?” I ask.
“Whenever we’ve completely destroyed Lang’s network, established our new identities, and make sure there’s no one left who might come looking for us.
Ideally, I want us on a plane the night we leak the information to the press and the FBI, already over international waters.
” His hand moves to rest on my stomach. “We have to be finished with this before we can start our new life as a family.”
I cover his hand with mine, imagining the three of us walking through narrow streets filled with the scent of spices and sound of fountains, our child secure in the knowledge that their parents love each other and chose this life together.
“I want to learn everything about Morocco before we go, including the language, the culture, and the history. I want to be ready to make it our home.”
“We’ll learn together. All of us.” His thumb traces gentle circles on my hand. “Our child will grow up believing this was always the plan, that we chose Morocco because we fell in love with it, not because we were running from anything.”
The story we’ll tell our child takes shape in my mind—two people who met and fell in love, who decided to start fresh in a beautiful country far from home.
No mention of corruption or violence, with no hint of the danger that brought us together.
Just love and adventure and the desire to build something beautiful together.
For the first time since learning about the pregnancy, I feel something close to peace.
We have a plan, a destination, and a future that exists beyond the immediate dangers we’re facing.
Morocco feels like hope made tangible, a place where we can become the people our child deserves as parents.
“I want to start learning Arabic now, and French too, since Morocco was a French protectorate. I want to be ready, and let’s just say, my high school French class didn’t go well. ”
He laughs. “We’ll learn together. Leonid too. He’ll need new languages for wherever he decides to settle.”
“You think he’ll come with us?”
“For a while, probably. Until he’s sure we’re safe and established.” Yefrem closes the laptop and pulls me closer. “I think he’ll stay, but if he chooses to leave us at some point, he’s earned the right to disappear into whatever life he wants.”
The loyalty between them amazes me sometimes. Brothers by choice rather than blood, bound by shared survival and absolute trust. Our child will understand that kind of devotion, will grow up knowing that family extends beyond genetics to include the people who choose to stand with you.
“I wish I had some way to alert my mom ahead of time to start learning Arabic and French and be ready for a drastic move.” I can’t imagine she’ll choose not to come with us, especially with a grandchild involved.
She has a good life she’s created since being widowed, but I know her first alliance will be to me and the baby. I just hate to spring it on her.
He looks alarmed. “You can’t?—”
I’m already nodding. “I know. The music box will have to be all the communication for now, but I feel hopeful about seeing her soon and starting our lives together.” I fold his hand with mine.
“I love you.” The words come out soft but certain.
“I love you, and I love the life we’re building together, and I love that our child will grow up in a place as beautiful as this. ”
He pulls me closer, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Somewhere in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, there’s a riad waiting for us, with rooms that will echo with our child’s first words, and terraces where we’ll watch sunsets and plan our future together.
We just have to survive long enough to get there.