Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(35)

I look across the yard at where Alexei stands, waiting by the car. “That’s why I’m saying that I do.”

The car is older than we are. By a lot. I imagine the CIA probably stashed it here about the same time the Berlin Wall came down. But it’s ours now, and we’re grateful to have it.

Alexei is silent as he drives. The stick shift is rusty and the gears grind as we crest the hill and look down at the stark gray building that lies in the small valley.

He’s stoic and calm, utterly competent in all that he does. Even this—driving a car that’s twice as old as he is, down a beat-up road, on his way to confront the woman he used to love—seems natural for him. I almost wish he’d mess up, skip a beat. Times like this it would be nice to have proof that he is human.

But we both stay quiet as we reach the valley and drive toward the chain-link fences.

The guards meet us in the road. We’re still thirty feet from the gates, and these guys are excited. I guess they don’t see a lot of action. Today is special, I can tell. They’re going to replay this interaction for years, or so it seems, as Alexei slowly cranks down the dirty window on the driver’s side of the car.

“Zdravstvujtye,” Alexei says.

The guards rattle off something in Russian, the words like a blur I can’t even start to understand, but I nod and smile and try to act like it’s also my mother tongue.

Alexei makes a terse reply, but I tell myself that doesn’t mean much. Everything sounds terse in Russian.

Then one of the guards snaps something, hand outstretched, and I know he’s asking for our papers, our IDs. I know this is the point of no return. I could tell Alexei to turn around. We can still pretend we’re just a couple of kids out for a drive, lost and looking for a thrill.

We can still turn back.

Alexei looks at me, our gazes lock, and I know what this is costing him. I also know he’s not here for himself or his mother. He’s here for me.

The guard grunts something and holds his hand out again, so I nod at Alexei.

Alexei hands him his passport. It’s a black one, but these guys don’t know the significance of that, that Alexei is important, protected. They just look at each other as if they’re not quite sure what to do.

They stop arguing after a minute and just stare at us.

Alexei rattles something off—I’m pretty sure it’s the Russian equivalent of Well, what are you waiting for? But the guards just snicker. One of them leans down, rests an elbow in the open window, and eyes the two of us. When he speaks again, I don’t have to be fluent in Russian to know what he’s saying.

I know exactly what I’m doing as I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket and shove it in the guard’s direction.

He straightens and counts it, smiles as he hands Alexei back his passport, then waves at his friends to let us in.

“Do I want to know how much that just cost us?” Alexei asks under his breath as we drive through the gates.

He doesn’t know that there is no price I wouldn’t pay for answers.

“Did he believe who you were?” I ask.

“He didn’t care.”

Alexei parks, and we start toward the doors. The steps are cold and hard—just like the building. Just like the sky. I don’t even know that this place needs walls. Anyone who lives here probably gave up the will to fight ages ago.

“Gracie?”

It’s only when Alexei speaks that I realize how long I’ve been standing on the threshold. Alexei’s holding the door open, but I haven’t moved a muscle.

“I can go alone,” he tells me. He knows.

“No.” I shake my head. My hands tremble. Then my hands are caught by Alexei. He holds them tight, sandwiching them between both of his, warming my fingers, then bringing them to his lips.

“I have you,” he says.

He should be the one who is shaking. I should be telling him that he doesn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t make him go. Through these doors waits the mother he hasn’t seen in ages. I can’t quite blame him for not wanting to face her. Some things are better left as secrets. Some people are better off as ghosts.

But I smile up and step inside, wait for the slamming of the door, the ominous click.

“Alexei?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“What did they tell you? When your mother went away.”

Alexei puts his hand at my back, urges me forward. “They told me men don’t cry.”

I stop and spin on him. “You were just a kid.”

Blue eyes find mine. “I am Russian.”

When Alexei starts down the hall, I’m by his side. There is no sense in arguing, in telling him that it’s okay to cry. It’s not okay sometimes—I know that. After all, one time I cried so hard and for so long that I ended up in a place like this.

I’m trying not to think about that when a man appears in the doorway in front of us, a smirk across his face.

He wears a gray suit and has a very thin mustache and looks like the villain in an Agatha Christie novel. I half expect him to swing a greatcoat around his shoulders and try to kill us both with a sword he keeps hidden in an umbrella.

I ease closer to Alexei.

“I was told that we had guests,” the man says. I don’t know how he knows that we speak English, and I don’t ask.