Chapter 8 #5
Crowley smiled. “You’re not the only one with thoughts of vengeance.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of snow shifting from the sky.
“What do you want?”
“To offer my condolences.” Crowley’s voice softened, and for a moment the calculated intelligence in his predatory eyes gave way to something that looked almost human. “You never forget them. Never stop missing them. The pain simply changes from sharpness to a terrible ache.”
Alan’s throat tightened.
“And she was pregnant too, according to the autopsy.”
He blinked at Crowley. “You found her body.”
Crowley nodded, probably thinking of his daughter, and his grandson, murdered at the age of four. York’s wife and child. York, who’d stayed in Russia, probably on his own mission of vengeance.
They stood in silence for a moment.
Inside the apartment, little Eszter stirred in her father’s arms.
“They’ve moved on,” Crowley said eventually, nodding toward the warm scene inside. “As they should.”
“Good for them.”
“York’s moved on too.”
Alan looked at him, the way Crowley’s eyes tightened at the edges.
“He’s got a new woman now,” Crowley continued, voice distant. “Lovely girl. Blonde. Podcaster in Russia.”
“Good for him.”
“Senator White’s just been elected to his second term. He’s wildly popular. Won’t be long before he thinks of a run for president.”
This time Alan did turn to look at Crowley fully. “You know White’s the one who ordered the hit.”
“How did you find out?”
Alan blinked at him. “Damien showed me the evidence. He said that White was involved with the Petrovs—was worried I’d walk away with information.” He shook his head. “I knew nothing about it.”
“And you believed him.”
“It makes sense.” The words tasted bitter. “There were rumors of an American official working with some high-level Russians. An inside man. I was a loose end.”
Crowley was quiet for a long moment, studying Alan’s face. “What if I told you there is a faction of CIA patriots who don’t like where America is headed? They see the warming of Russian relations for what it is—we are being played by diplomacy.”
Alan frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Crowley drew in a breath. “White is dangerous. He is on the wrong side of this, and if he keeps going, he’ll get us all killed.”
Alan stilled.
“White—and all of the CIA—thinks you’re dead. Which makes you the perfect asset to stop him.”
“York knows I’m alive.”
Crowley frowned.
“He saw me—back when the metro was bombed. I was . . . I was there.”
“Perhaps he thinks he saw a ghost.”
Maybe.
“They’ve all moved on,” Crowley repeated quietly. “While you’re still here in the snow, watching through windows, living in the past, White’s building a political career. York’s found love with someone new.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that your wife deserved better.” Crowley gestured toward the apartment. “You should be in there with your own family. Your only mistake was wanting a different life.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Crowley was quiet for a long moment, studying Alan’s face with those calculating eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft. Almost paternal.
“Justice.”
“You’re talking about revenge.”
“I’m talking about prevention.” Crowley’s expression didn’t change. “I’m talking about making sure that those in power can’t use people like chess pieces.”
“And you want me to stop them.”
“I want to give you the opportunity to stop them.” Crowley reached into his coat, pulled out a small card, held it between two fingers. “No pressure. No timeline. Just . . . an option. When you’re ready to stop watching through windows and start acting.”
Alan stared at the card without taking it. “What makes you think I’m ready for anything?”
“Because you’re here.” Crowley nodded toward the apartment window. “Because you keep coming back, year after year, torturing yourself with what you’ve lost instead of honoring it with what you could do. Because you’re not just grieving, Alan—you’re waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Permission. Purpose. A reason to be back in the game.” He flicked the card with his thumb. “It won’t bring her back. But maybe it will mean that the world is a safer place.”
Alan took the card.
It was simple, expensive—cream-colored cardstock with a single phone number embossed in gold. No name, no title, no organization.
“What happens when I call?”
“You’ll find out.” Crowley buttoned his coat against the falling snow. “Merry Christmas, Alan. I hope next year finds you somewhere warmer.” He turned and walked away, footsteps crunching in the snow, disappearing into the darkness between streetlights as if he’d never been there at all.
Alan stood alone under the oak tree, holding the card, watching Timea’s family through the window. They were clearing away the glasses now. Zoltan carrying his sleeping daughter toward what must be a bedroom. Kata helping her mother fold the blankets.
One phone call. That’s all it would take to step out of this limbo, to stop being a spectator in his own life.
He turned and walked away through the snow, leaving footprints that would be covered by morning. Behind him, the apartment went dark, and the ghost of Christmas past finally, mercifully, let him go.