I pulled on a shirt, feeling the tape on my back pull and flex, then followed after her, down the hall.
In the kitchen, Alena handed me a glass of water, then put the kettle on. She avoided looking at me.
“How was Nicholas?” I asked.
“He was fine. It was a short meeting.”
“No trouble?”
“With him? Is there ever?”
“I meant on the trip.”
“I was stopped on the M1, outside of Gori, by the Russians. They wanted to search the car, but it was a shakedown. I had to pay twice, going and coming.”
“Money.”
“Yes.” She looked up from where she'd been watching the kettle. “You think something else?”
“Nothing you would give them,” I told her. “Doesn't mean they didn't want it.”
She shrugged. “The same everywhere.”
I finished my water, watching her. She was right, it was the same everywhere, all around the world, first to third, and certainly here in the former Soviet states. At almost every border crossing, at almost every checkpoint, someone, always male, had his hand out. Most of the time, money would do it, because most of the time, the people manning such checkpoints and crossings were desperately poor, despite their uniforms. But if you were traveling with a woman, or if you were a woman alone, most of the time it wasn't money they wanted.
“You're thinking about Tiasa.”
“Trabzon's maybe two hundred and fifty kilometers,” I said. “We take the car, leave by midmorning, we should be there before evening, even with all the stops.”
“No.”
“The other option I'm thinking is to go back to Batumi, take a boat. It'll take longer, though, and I don't want to lose the time. And we'll need to arrange transportation on the other end.”
She shook her head. The light in the kitchen turned her copper-colored hair orange, turned her complexion sallow. “I'm not talking about the route. I'm saying no, we're not doing this.”
“Tiasa—”
“I know.” She held her look on me for a fraction longer, then reached for the canister of tea, began digging a spoon out of the utensil drawer.
“If this is because you think the information is—”
She cut me off. “I doubt he lied to you.”
“Then Trabzon—”
“No.”
I tried again. “She's fourteen, she's—”
“I know,” Alena said, sharply, spooning too much tea into the pot.
“I can't abandon this,” I said.
The utensil hit the counter with a clatter. “Tiasa is gone. Like her family. We have to forget them.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?” I asked, after a second.
“Yes, both of us, yes.” She straightened, squared her shoulders, fixing her posture, all her little tells that I knew meant she was struggling with her emotions. When she was ready, she looked at me again. “Those men in Batumi, they will havefriends, friends who found Bakhar. They can find you. They can find us.”
“All the more reason for us to go.”
“This is our home. I will not leave it.”
“You know what's happened to her, what's going to happen,” I said. “Someone has to find her.”
“Then let someone else do it. Not us.”
My frustration finally broke. “I don't understand. You liked Tiasa. Forget about the rest of them for now—Bakhar, who he was, what he did, it doesn't matter. This is about Tiasa. You adored her.”
“I love her.”
She said it softly, without hesitation. Considering that “love” was hardly a word she was ever willing to speak aloud to me, it was surprising.
I said, “There's no one else. You know that. We can't just sit here and hope some NGO is going to discover her, free her, and we both sure as hell know some Good Samaritan won't come to her rescue.”
“I know.”
“I can't forget this,” I insisted. “I have to go after her. I can't let this sit.”
She inhaled, and her eyes shifted aside for a moment, pained. Her eyes were hazel, and
In the kitchen, Alena handed me a glass of water, then put the kettle on. She avoided looking at me.
“How was Nicholas?” I asked.
“He was fine. It was a short meeting.”
“No trouble?”
“With him? Is there ever?”
“I meant on the trip.”
“I was stopped on the M1, outside of Gori, by the Russians. They wanted to search the car, but it was a shakedown. I had to pay twice, going and coming.”
“Money.”
“Yes.” She looked up from where she'd been watching the kettle. “You think something else?”
“Nothing you would give them,” I told her. “Doesn't mean they didn't want it.”
She shrugged. “The same everywhere.”
I finished my water, watching her. She was right, it was the same everywhere, all around the world, first to third, and certainly here in the former Soviet states. At almost every border crossing, at almost every checkpoint, someone, always male, had his hand out. Most of the time, money would do it, because most of the time, the people manning such checkpoints and crossings were desperately poor, despite their uniforms. But if you were traveling with a woman, or if you were a woman alone, most of the time it wasn't money they wanted.
“You're thinking about Tiasa.”
“Trabzon's maybe two hundred and fifty kilometers,” I said. “We take the car, leave by midmorning, we should be there before evening, even with all the stops.”
“No.”
“The other option I'm thinking is to go back to Batumi, take a boat. It'll take longer, though, and I don't want to lose the time. And we'll need to arrange transportation on the other end.”
She shook her head. The light in the kitchen turned her copper-colored hair orange, turned her complexion sallow. “I'm not talking about the route. I'm saying no, we're not doing this.”
“Tiasa—”
“I know.” She held her look on me for a fraction longer, then reached for the canister of tea, began digging a spoon out of the utensil drawer.
“If this is because you think the information is—”
She cut me off. “I doubt he lied to you.”
“Then Trabzon—”
“No.”
I tried again. “She's fourteen, she's—”
“I know,” Alena said, sharply, spooning too much tea into the pot.
“I can't abandon this,” I said.
The utensil hit the counter with a clatter. “Tiasa is gone. Like her family. We have to forget them.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?” I asked, after a second.
“Yes, both of us, yes.” She straightened, squared her shoulders, fixing her posture, all her little tells that I knew meant she was struggling with her emotions. When she was ready, she looked at me again. “Those men in Batumi, they will havefriends, friends who found Bakhar. They can find you. They can find us.”
“All the more reason for us to go.”
“This is our home. I will not leave it.”
“You know what's happened to her, what's going to happen,” I said. “Someone has to find her.”
“Then let someone else do it. Not us.”
My frustration finally broke. “I don't understand. You liked Tiasa. Forget about the rest of them for now—Bakhar, who he was, what he did, it doesn't matter. This is about Tiasa. You adored her.”
“I love her.”
She said it softly, without hesitation. Considering that “love” was hardly a word she was ever willing to speak aloud to me, it was surprising.
I said, “There's no one else. You know that. We can't just sit here and hope some NGO is going to discover her, free her, and we both sure as hell know some Good Samaritan won't come to her rescue.”
“I know.”
“I can't forget this,” I insisted. “I have to go after her. I can't let this sit.”
She inhaled, and her eyes shifted aside for a moment, pained. Her eyes were hazel, and
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