of information, or if the Sokolovs decided to resurface. So Aparo and I headed back to Federal Plaza. I had a few loose ends to follow through on a couple of other files I was working on, then I was looking forward to going home to catch some quality time with Tess, Kim, and Alex, then mull over the plan that I was finding harder and harder to resist.
8
Little Italy, Manhattan
W ithout bothering to remove his shoes, Sokolov swung his legs up onto the creaky bed, sat back, and closed his eyes. He tried to master his breathing and slow his still-racing heartbeat, but all he could think was that his life, his second life, the one he’d built up over decades and had grown to love, was now over.
Out in the open, he had very deliberately kept his mind away from the circumstances of his flight and from that debilitating conclusion. Now that he was alone and—he hoped—safe, at least for the time being, his attention slipped back to earlier that day, back at his apartment, back when he merely thought his wife was late, rather than in the hands of those monsters.
They have Daphne.
They have my
laposhka.
The thought forced Sokolov to sit up again, bolt upright. His lips were quivering, as were his hands. He looked around his crummy hotel room in abject panic. The sight was as grim and desperate as he felt. The walls were cracked, and two columns of dirty yellow light were leaking into the room through moth-eaten drapes from a streetlamp outside. He could almost hear the mites and roaches scratching and scurrying around beneath him. He shut his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was back at home in Astoria, listening to his beloved music with his even-more-beloved Daphne curled up next to him on the couch, but his mind wouldn’t play along and forced him to confront the reality of his situation: that he was hiding in a thirty-dollar-a-night roach-fest in Little Italy, his wife was being held captive, and he had killed a man.
***
T HE APARTMENT’S ENTRY BUZZER sounded in the hallway, and Sokolov checked his watch. It could only be Daphne, of course—who else would it be that early in the morning? No doubt she was running late and her keys were buried at the bottom of her bag. Not the first time that had happened, nor would it be the last.
“Here you go,
laposhka
,” he said as he buzzed her in. “I’ll get the tea ready.”
Leaving the front door open, he hummed along to the Rachmaninoff coming from the living room as he padded back to the kitchen, thinking he didn’t have that much time before he’d have to set off to work. He turned the kettle on and slipped a couple of slices of rye bread into the toaster, but as he waited to hear her walk into the apartment, something deep within clawed at him—and the unfamiliar, sharp footfalls he heard coming his way only confirmed his unease.
His body taut with apprehension, he stepped out of the kitchen and into the foyer, only to come face-to-face with a complete stranger. Sokolov immediately knew he was Russian. Not just Russian. An agent of the Russian state. He emitted that unmistakable combination of arrogance, resentment, and thinly suppressed violence, traits Sokolov knew well.
Traits he’d happily left behind many years ago.
They’d found him.
And given the ominous timing, it meant they also had Daphne.
Sokolov’s heart imploded. He’d finally made the mistake of sticking his head above the parapet, just once, after all this time, and almost immediately, his wife had paid the price. Nothing was more Russian than that. Not even the unblinking eyes staring at him.
“
Dobroe utro
, Comrade Shislenko,” the man greeted him with a sneer of blunt irony as he pulled a handgun from his black leather coat and leveled it at Sokolov’s chest.
Sokolov stared at the gun and backed away from his uninvited guest, as instructed by the sideways flicks of the gun in the man’s hand, until he was standing in his living room.
“Thank you for alerting us to your
8
Little Italy, Manhattan
W ithout bothering to remove his shoes, Sokolov swung his legs up onto the creaky bed, sat back, and closed his eyes. He tried to master his breathing and slow his still-racing heartbeat, but all he could think was that his life, his second life, the one he’d built up over decades and had grown to love, was now over.
Out in the open, he had very deliberately kept his mind away from the circumstances of his flight and from that debilitating conclusion. Now that he was alone and—he hoped—safe, at least for the time being, his attention slipped back to earlier that day, back at his apartment, back when he merely thought his wife was late, rather than in the hands of those monsters.
They have Daphne.
They have my
laposhka.
The thought forced Sokolov to sit up again, bolt upright. His lips were quivering, as were his hands. He looked around his crummy hotel room in abject panic. The sight was as grim and desperate as he felt. The walls were cracked, and two columns of dirty yellow light were leaking into the room through moth-eaten drapes from a streetlamp outside. He could almost hear the mites and roaches scratching and scurrying around beneath him. He shut his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was back at home in Astoria, listening to his beloved music with his even-more-beloved Daphne curled up next to him on the couch, but his mind wouldn’t play along and forced him to confront the reality of his situation: that he was hiding in a thirty-dollar-a-night roach-fest in Little Italy, his wife was being held captive, and he had killed a man.
***
T HE APARTMENT’S ENTRY BUZZER sounded in the hallway, and Sokolov checked his watch. It could only be Daphne, of course—who else would it be that early in the morning? No doubt she was running late and her keys were buried at the bottom of her bag. Not the first time that had happened, nor would it be the last.
“Here you go,
laposhka
,” he said as he buzzed her in. “I’ll get the tea ready.”
Leaving the front door open, he hummed along to the Rachmaninoff coming from the living room as he padded back to the kitchen, thinking he didn’t have that much time before he’d have to set off to work. He turned the kettle on and slipped a couple of slices of rye bread into the toaster, but as he waited to hear her walk into the apartment, something deep within clawed at him—and the unfamiliar, sharp footfalls he heard coming his way only confirmed his unease.
His body taut with apprehension, he stepped out of the kitchen and into the foyer, only to come face-to-face with a complete stranger. Sokolov immediately knew he was Russian. Not just Russian. An agent of the Russian state. He emitted that unmistakable combination of arrogance, resentment, and thinly suppressed violence, traits Sokolov knew well.
Traits he’d happily left behind many years ago.
They’d found him.
And given the ominous timing, it meant they also had Daphne.
Sokolov’s heart imploded. He’d finally made the mistake of sticking his head above the parapet, just once, after all this time, and almost immediately, his wife had paid the price. Nothing was more Russian than that. Not even the unblinking eyes staring at him.
“
Dobroe utro
, Comrade Shislenko,” the man greeted him with a sneer of blunt irony as he pulled a handgun from his black leather coat and leveled it at Sokolov’s chest.
Sokolov stared at the gun and backed away from his uninvited guest, as instructed by the sideways flicks of the gun in the man’s hand, until he was standing in his living room.
“Thank you for alerting us to your
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