Chapter 6 #4
“Every detail,” Frank said with a sigh. “Can’t build a life on secrets.
She loves me not just in spite of what I did but because I served my country the best way I knew how.
Because I kept my heart while doing the hard things.
” He gestured around the kitchen. “This farm, my family. I still have something to defend. It’s all about protecting something.
Building something. Making sure our world stays a little safer.
“I don’t know you, son. But here’s what I do know. You can be a warrior and a good man. They’re not mutually exclusive. And in case you forget that…that’s what your wife is for—to remind you.”
“What if mercy gets her killed?”
“Mercy isn’t weakness, son. Sometimes the most merciful thing we can do is stop those who have none. But we do it remembering why—not for revenge, not for pleasure. We do it to protect. To serve. To keep our humanity while facing the inhumane.”
Frank got up then and walked over to a small built-in kitchen desk. Picked up a cordless phone and handed it to North.
“Find her,” Frank said quietly. “Save her. But don’t lose yourself doing it. That’s what separates us from them—the ability to do dangerous things while keeping our souls intact.”
Miriam came down the stairs. “Those kids. They want their pops to tuck them into bed.”
He glanced at North. “Pops to the rescue.” He got up.
North picked up his phone. Opened his contacts. Selah’s, of course, was at the top. The charging cord was too short for him to call and keep power, so he punched her number into the cordless phone.
Please answer.
The phone rang once. Twice.
And a male voice answered.
* * *
Sixteen or so years ago…
Alexander had been gone too long this time, and his heart felt it. The deep ache of missing Timea’s laughter, the feel of her hair between his fingers, the comfort of her body against his.
The image of two caskets—one heartbreakingly small—still haunted him. Claire Newgate’s father, Tom Crowley, had stood like stone beside them, his face ravaged by grief.
No one had mentioned York’s absence. Or the fact that he was probably on the streets of Moscow, hunting down Damien Gustov. Looking for answers behind the murder of his wife and son.
Alexander’s hands shook slightly as he held the flowers, climbing the worn marble stairs in the inner courtyard of the prewar building.
Through open windows, he caught fragments of life—someone practicing Liszt on a piano, the scent of paprika-rich goulash, children’s voices echoing in the closed yard below.
Late-afternoon sun painted the building a deep gold. Old Mrs. Nagy watered the geraniums in clay pots by her door, humming a folk song his grandmother might have known. She nodded as he passed, her young grandson playing with trucks at her feet. The boy’s laugh pierced Alexander’s heart.
Don’t think about it.
The peonies dropped pink petals at his feet as he unlocked their door.
Four years in this apartment, and still his pulse quickened at the sound of Timea moving inside.
Their home wrapped around him. Books stacked on every surface, her watercolor paintings on the walls, the antique desk where she graded papers, her laptop abandoned on the coffee table.
Home.
Timea sat at their kitchen table, reading glasses perched on her nose, red pen hovering over final exams. Sunlight caught in her dark hair, twisted up with a hair comb, tendrils falling to frame her face.
A half-empty cup of tea sat beside her, the spoon still bearing traces of the honey she always added.
“Peonies.” She smiled without looking up, but something in her voice made his chest tighten. “You must have done something terrible.”
“Maybe I just love you.” He picked up the empty crystal vase, the one from that first Christmas market, when snow had dusted her eyelashes and he’d known, even then, that he couldn’t let her go.
She looked up, watching him arrange the flowers. The moment stretched between them.
He turned, frowned. Usually she found her feet, threw herself into his arms. His chest tightened. “What? Am I in trouble?”
“No, love.” She got up then and walked to him. She wore a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt and smelled of her lavender bath soap.
When she kissed him, it was languid and sweet, and he wanted to pull her up into his arms and make her forget her homework. But she stepped back, and something about her voice…
“I need to tell you something.”
“Oh?”
Her eyes searched his. “I went to the doctor yesterday.”
He stilled. Oh no. Her grandmother had died last year, cancer, and…well—please, no—“Are you sick?”
“No.” She gave a small laugh. “I’m pregnant.”
What? He simply didn’t expect the very joy that burst through him, instant and bright—
And then…Oh no. No…He backed away from her, seeing for a terrible moment Lucas’s tiny casket. Claire’s face, peaceful, as if she and her son were only sleeping…
“Alexander?” Timea took a step toward him, drawing her brows together. “Are you—”
“Happy. So happy.” He pulled her into his arms. Buried his face in her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling her heart beat against his.
He would not let that be their fate.
“Are you sure? You seem…Talk to me.” Her fingers threaded through his hair. “You’re scaring me.”
He pulled back, cupped her face in his hands. Everything he loved, everything he could lose.
It was his fault. York had gotten in too deep, chasing Damien, following him into the dark world of the Bratva. And Alexander hadn’t stopped him. They’d both believed his cover, and maybe even his connections, would keep York and his family safe.
Not in this life. This world.
“I need to tell you something.” The words scraped his throat. “And I need you to listen without speaking until I’m done.”
She searched his face, then nodded slowly.
“First, I love you. More than my life. More than anything.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Which is why I can’t lie to you anymore. Not with our child…” His hand drifted to her still-flat stomach.
He walked her over to the sofa and knelt in front of her.
“I’m not who you think I am.” The truth felt foreign on his tongue after so long. “The business degree, the consulting work—it’s all a cover. I work for the United States government. The CIA.”
She went very still. But she didn’t pull her hands from his.
“I’ve spent four years lying to you. Protecting you by keeping you in the dark. But I just came from a funeral…” His voice broke. “The wife of…my partner. And her little boy. They died because York made the same choice I did—tried to balance this life with love.”
“Oh, Alexander.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.” She reached for him.
“I can’t—” He met her eyes. “I won’t risk that happening to you. To our child.” He took a breath. “I’ve been…I’ve been planning this. For a while now…”
“Planning what?”
He moved to sit beside her on the sofa. “I bought a house. On Crete. Remote, private. And I have enough money to last us…well, for a while. A long while.” He took her hands again. “We can disappear. Start over. Build a life without lies.”
“You want to leave Budapest?”
“I want to build a life with you. A safe life. For…us.” He covered her hand with his. “Just say yes.”
She pulled away slowly, frowning, then stood.
And his heart nearly stopped beating. But she only walked to the window, touching the peonies as she passed. Below, children still played in the courtyard, their voices floating up like music.
“I always knew.” She didn’t turn around. “Not what, exactly. But something. The way you’d disappear. The calls that would wake you at night. How you’d sometimes look at me like…” She pressed her hand to the glass. “Like you were memorizing my face before you lost it.”
Oh.
“It was just like in a John le Carré novel.”
Alexander moved behind her, close enough to touch but not touching her. Outside, the linden trees threw long shadows across the courtyard. An old woman dragged her shopping cart across the cobblestones. A teenager practiced violin scales, the notes drifting through an open window.
“There were signs.” Her voice softened. “That Christmas your phone rang seventeen times during dinner. The scar on your shoulder you said came from a skiing accident, but you hate skiing. The way you scan every room before you relax.”
She turned, and there were tears in her eyes. “The nightmares you won’t talk about.”
His throat closed. “I wanted to tell you so many times.”
“Was it always a game?”
“Never a game. Not with you.”
She touched his face, her fingers tracing the worry lines at his eyes. “I believe you.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m terrified. But not of you.” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “Of losing you. Of raising this child alone.”
“That’s why we have to go.” He covered her hand with his. “I’ve seen what this life does to families.” His voice caught. “I won’t bury you. Either of you.”
She crossed to their old secretary desk. “My passport is in here somewhere.” Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled open drawers. “I’ll need my medical records.”
“No.” He caught her wrist gently. “Nothing traceable. We’ll get new passports, new names.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “We’re not coming back, are we?”
“No. Once we leave, we disappear. Completely.”
She sank back onto the couch. Outside, Budapest’s evening lights began to twinkle. A tram rattled past on the street below, and somewhere, a church bell tolled.
“My family…” Her voice caught.
“I’m sorry.” He knelt before her again, took both her hands. “We can’t tell anyone. Not even family. Especially not family. They’ll be watched.”
“By whom?” Fear edged into her voice. “Who’s watching us?”
He thought of York somewhere in the cold Russian night, hunting his family’s killers. Of Damien’s new friends, their long reach. Of a dozen other shadows that could touch their lives.
“It doesn’t matter.” He squeezed her hands. “What matters is keeping you safe. Both of you.”
She met his eyes. Nodded. “Tell me about Crete.”
He slid onto the sofa beside her. She leaned into him, put her head on his chest. “A house on a cliff above the sea. Olive trees. A garden for your herbs. Space for the baby to run.” He breathed her in. “No phones. No missions. No lies.”
“Just us?”
“Just us.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she lifted her head, and he saw everything he loved about her in her eyes. Strength, understanding, the fierce intelligence that had first drawn him in.
“When do we leave?”
“End of term is next week. They’ll think you’ve gone on holiday.”
He left out the part about not telling the agency. But by the time they figured out he’d left, he would have erased everything.
“What about the baby? I’ll need doctors, care—”
“I’ll figure it out.” He caught a strand of her hair, wound it around his finger. “Starting with marrying you.”
Her breath caught. “You never did, you know. Ask me.”
“Because I couldn’t bear promising you a life built on lies.” He shifted, pulling her closer. “But now…”
“The answer is yes.”
Yes. He smiled, the joy again breaking through. Yes.
He pulled her close. “I promise, I’m going to keep you—us—safe. No matter what.”