Epilogue
Albany, New York
Christmas Eve Morning
Nika Kapralov stood at the window of Jameson Reid’s old condominium and watched snow drift across the quiet street outside.
Albany was not what he had expected.
Neither was this place.
From the outside, the building looked plain, and Nika thought that was part of its charm.
It stood with other old buildings on a street most people would pass by without a second glance.
There was nothing fancy here, nothing to hint that the woman who once lived here was now the First Lady of the United States.
Inside was another matter.
Jameson Reid had clearly put great thought and care into fixing up the apartment.
The floors were polished and warm, the kitchen’s stainless steel was modern without being cold, and the old moldings had been preserved and restored to blend seamlessly into the room.
Brick, wood, and light made the place feel modern while still honoring its past. The loft above the main room made the apartment feel more spacious than it seemed from outside.
Nika appreciated deception when it was accomplished with taste.
This was not a bunker, not a safe house in the crude sense. It fit a moment it had never been intended for.
That impressed him.
Jameson Reid impressed him.
Albany surprised him, too. The city seemed to have changed so much that it didn’t care if anyone noticed how important it once was.
Old row houses stood close together, their faded colors showing dignity, weariness, or maybe a little stubborn hope.
The streets that were once busy with families, shops, and politics now felt much quieter.
A diminished majesty.
Nika understood that.
Cities, like countries, can keep believing in their own stories long after it makes sense to do so.
A key turned in the lock behind him.
“You were told to keep the chain on,” Alex said.
Kapralov smiled. “Good morning to you as well, Alexis.”
The door closed. The lock clicked back into place.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Alex crossed the room and set a paper bag on the small kitchen table. “Coffee. Bagels. Thank the First Lady. She told me where to get them. And she said something about a peace offering. I wouldn’t bet the president knows.”
He chuckled. “She is a resourceful woman.”
“She is.”
“She creates majesty and comfort. Not an easy feat. Not a simple woman.”
Alex looked around the apartment. “No, she isn’t.” She sighed. “You’ll stay here until we can prepare the other location,” she said.
“A space beneath Washington.”
Alex nodded. “Something with better proximity.”
She moved to the table, feeling more tired than she wanted to show. Ferro had called twice. Stephanie and Alexandra were holding onto hope. Alex knew that inside, they were falling apart. She hated keeping them in the dark about anything.
The media was alight with the story of Jane Merrow. What happened to the beloved former First Lady? Claire had been right. It had given them cover to extricate Kapralov. Pyotr had agreed to help, suggesting that Ian Mitchell take the lead.
Kapralov stepped closer to the small Christmas tree Jameson had placed near the window. Its white lights reflected in the glass. A tiny American flag hung from one branch, a wooden star from another, and a miniature Statue of Liberty tilted slightly to the left.
Kapralov gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit, Alexis.” Kapralov looked back at the tree. “This is an unusual first Christmas in America.”
“You expected something different?”
“I expected not to have one.”
That silenced her.
For a moment, the apartment felt smaller.
Alex reached into her coat pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. She placed it on the table beside the bag. “Rules. Contact protocols. Emergency numbers you won’t use unless it’s actually an emergency.”
“And if I wish to take a walk?”
“You don’t.”
“If I wish to smoke?”
“You don’t.”
“If I wish to adjust the thermostat?”
Alex finally smiled. “Jameson said to leave it on the timer.”
He nodded. “You brought me here to speak with me,” he said. “Yet you still seem uncertain you wish to begin.”
“I’m not sure I can trust anything you tell me.”
“I would expect nothing less. But I have no reason to lie to you.”
“Jim trusts you.”
Kapralov nodded.
“He considers you a friend,” Alex said.
“Your father-in-law is a good man, Alexis. You may not believe that, but it is true.”
“I’m not sure what makes a good man or a bad man, but I know he cares deeply for the people he loves.”
“As do most.”
“Most, but not all?”
Kapralov took a breath. “Not all. Some have no ability to love. Some love but cannot let go of their ambition.”
“Why leave Russia?” Alex asked. “Why give away your power?”
“It was time. Now sit.”
Alex regarded him thoughtfully and finally pulled out a chair to sit across from him.
“I do not desire to see my country become a footnote in history,” he said. “Change is inevitable for us all.”
“Why not stay and help the change along?”
Kapralov laughed lightly. “I am not that man. The FSB would have me removed before I made an inch of progress.”
“To democracy?”
“You think only in terms of America. It is the only way for you.”
“No. It’s the best way.”
“For you.”
Alex shook her head.
“Hubris,” he said. “We all have it. America, perhaps, has more than any other nation.”
“Pride and hubris aren’t the same.”
“No. But when pride is not tethered to reality, it becomes hubris.”
Kapralov’s voice softened. “America looks at the rest of the world with a degree of disdain.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Mm. Many people came to your nation in search of opportunity and safety. They have not all been met with either.”
“That could be said of any country.”
“Yes. But not every country sells the promise of exceptionalism for the individual.”
“We don’t sell a promise. We offer a chance.”
“Mm. With uneven odds.”
“Better odds than one would have in Russia.”
“Perhaps so,” Kapralov conceded. “But it is measured differently, Alexis. Your history teaches the idea that everyone wishes to be American. It is not so. My country has a longer history. Troubled. Complicated. It is not your history. Yet we have fought by your side.”
“Long ago.”
“Not so long ago,” he said. “You believe a century—not even a century—is long ago?” He laughed. “It is a moment.”
Alex crossed her arms. “Explain things to me, Mr. President.”
“Call me Nika.”
Alex huffed.
“Alexis, I have watched you grow from afar. Heard tales of your life from your father. I am not your enemy.”
“That doesn’t make you my friend.”
“It makes me your ally.”
“That depends on what you want.”
Kapralov smiled faintly. “You are very much your father’s daughter.”
“Don’t.”
“I did not mean it as an insult.”
“I didn’t ask what you meant.”
“No,” he said. “You asked what I want.”
Alex waited.
Kapralov looked around the apartment at the old floors, the small tree, the simple kitchen, and the gentle sense of American home life that hid him better than any bunker could.
“I want Russia to survive what men like Popov would sacrifice it for,” he said. “And I want to prevent the war that would follow.”
“And you believe helping us accomplishes that?”
“I believe preventing a war accomplishes that.”
“That’s generous.”
“It is practical.”
“Practical men have caused a lot of damage.”
“So have idealists.”
“Touché.”
Kapralov’s mouth curved into a genuine smile. “You Americans like to believe idealism protects you from corruption.”
“No. We like to believe it gives us something to correct toward.”
“Mm. A useful phrase.”
“It’s also true.”
“Sometimes.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed.
Kapralov rested his hands on the table. “Do you know how the world sees America? How Russians do? Not with the disdain your critics imagine. Also, not with the envy your patriots prefer. Both are fantasies. America is watched because America is loud, and what it says carries consequences.”
“Loud?”
“Culturally. Militarily. Economically. Morally. Your leaders speak in declarations even when they pretend to whisper. America tells the world who it is with great confidence, and then is surprised when the world remembers what it said.”
Alex did not answer.
“You sell possibility,” Kapralov continued. “That is not nothing. The possibility of achieving more is worth crossing oceans, risking death, losing language, family, and certainty for many. Possibility is not the same as promise.”
“We know that.”
“Do you?”
Alex’s jaw tensed.
“You say anyone can become American,” he said. “It is a powerful idea. Beautiful, even. But your country often fears those who believe you.”
“That’s not unique to America.”
“No. But America professes uniqueness.”
Alex looked away for half a second, then back. “And Russia claims soul.”
Kapralov’s expression shifted.
“Perhaps,” he said. “It is the Motherland. It demands sacrifice. It claims endurance, and it possesses history. It views its suffering as proof of its greatness.”
“You want to talk about national myths?” Alex asked. “Fine. Yours has teeth, too.”
A slow smile touched his face. “Yes.”
“Don’t look so pleased.”
“I am pleased because you are listening.”
“I’m arguing.”
“In my experience, with Americans, it is often the same thing.”
Alex almost smiled.
Kapralov’s amusement faded. “You are right. Russia has myths. Dangerous ones. We tell ourselves suffering makes us noble, invasion has taught us suspicion, and Russia’s survival justifies its cruelty.
We claim the West threatens us merely by existing differently.
” He paused. “Popov believes these myths. Believe me, he will use them to his advantage.”
“And you?”
“Myths are a device,” Kapralov said, “used to evoke fear and elicit loyalty. A wise leader understands when to put them down.”
“Did you?”
“Not always.”
The honesty surprised her more than any denial would have.
“You expected defensiveness,” he said.
“I expected calculation.”
Kapralov took a breath. “I am here because your father trusted me.”
Alex’s expression went cold. “That is less than enough.”