The Flight Attendant(50)

“And?”

“It was fine. None of us are American women. But it could have been awkward. Another reason why you should have told me right away about the flight attendant.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“How much time do I have?” she asked.

“How much time do we have,” he corrected her. “Don’t feel so alone out there.”

“I am so alone out there.”

“The woman is either a wild card or something far worse.”

“A wild card,” she repeated, mulling that over. She considered pressing him about what he meant by something far worse, but she recalled his remark about the worthless flash drive. If he really didn’t trust her—if he actually doubted her—the last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently force him to say such a thing aloud. Verbalizing it would make it too real, the accusation irrevocable.

“Yes. A wild card. She’s a drunk and, I have come to believe, a little self-destructive.”

“You mean in addition to her drinking?”

He put down his fork and looked at her intensely. “I’m not sure what I mean. I just know that I want her gone. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Probably not,” Elena said, though she didn’t completely agree. It wouldn’t be difficult operationally, but it sure as hell would piss people off and it sure as hell would exact a high price on her soul. Killing Bowden wouldn’t be like killing Sokolov, an opportunistic fuck who’d agreed to mule American data because he knew he was in deep shit for skimming and had now served his purpose. He clearly couldn’t be trusted. Nor would it be like killing that despicable colonel at Incirlik who was playing both sides and getting rich: that prick had just screwed some poor Yazidi girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old when she shot him. He was a pig. But this flight attendant? Not her usual quarry. It would be like drowning a kitten. But Elena was in survival mode herself, and so she added, “It’s mostly the travel that annoys me.”

“You really don’t like to travel?”

“I was looking forward to spending a little time here. Or going home to Sochi for a bit.”

He seemed to relax a little bit. He picked up his fork and gazed down at his breakfast. “You will. All in good time. This is a speed bump, that’s all. No, it’s a detour. A detour to America. You like America,” he said, the last sentence a small, slight dig. “But then you’ll come back. Or go home. Whichever you want.”

“Okay.”

He looked over her shoulder and pointed. She turned and saw a pair of myna birds on an outside railing just behind her, their yellow beaks phosphorescent in the sun. “Even the birds here eavesdrop,” he said, smiling. But then his tone grew serious. “You asked me how much time you have,” he said. “The fact the flash drive was of no value—no use—doesn’t reflect well on you. You should know that no one is happy about that. I am just being honest. So, I think you should move quickly. For your own sake, Elena. For your own good. Soon would be best—for everyone.”





14




Cassie saw that she was on page nine of the New York Post and page eleven of the Daily News. At the same time that she bought the two newspapers at the Rite-Aid a block from her apartment, she bought new sunglasses: big and bulky and a completely different shape from her old ones. The ones in the photograph. On her way back to her building, she threw away the sunglasses she was wearing in Dubai, as well as the scarf with the arabesque patterns. It was pretty and she knew she would miss it. She deposited them into an overflowing trash can on the corner, because the garbage would be collected later that morning.

The article was identical to the version she had read online, and she was rather surprised by how tame it all seemed now that she had read Sokolov’s obituary. Usually the Post wrote the worst or the wildest things that anyone thought or suspected but would never say aloud. But there was no conjecture that Alex was CIA or KGB, no innuendo at all that he was a spy. Alex was portrayed as just another hedge fund guy who happened to go to places like Moscow and Dubai for work.

On the sidewalk near her apartment, she saw three schoolgirls walking toward her in matching plaid uniform skirts and white blouses, and guessed they were close to her nephew’s age: they looked about eleven. Each was using her phone as a compact, flipping the camera lens as if taking a selfie, but she could tell by the anxiety in all of their eyes that they weren’t merely checking their makeup—were they wearing anything more than lipstick?—but were instead examining their faces for uncorrectable imperfections. One of the girls had twin constellations of freckles on her cheeks. Another, who looked closest to tears, had a slight bump along the ridge of her nose. They were pretty girls, and their self-doubt and their fear seemed needless. But Cassie understood. She had no idea where they were going because she doubted even private schools started this early in August. Perhaps it was some sort of summer program or summer day trip. It didn’t matter. She recalled feeling the way they did herself. She knew her niece would soon. All of Jessica’s confidence would disappear like a helium balloon released on a blustery autumn afternoon. Maybe some of it would return, but it would never be as bold and pure as it once was.

When the children were behind her, Cassie looked again at the picture of herself in the tabloid. Utterly disgusted, she shook her head exactly like the girl with the freckles.