Page 86 of The Atlas Maneuver

She recalled with sharp focus the birth and the actual surrendering, the next day, when she signed the papers. Never once had she seen the child, though she was told it was a girl. Nothing close to relief or resolution had ever arisen. Instead, there’d been feelings of numbness, shock, denial, along with deep painful grief. For an instant she’d considered not doing it, but then she’d succumbed to a selfishness that she’d always regretted. Even worse, nothing marked the loss. When a mother miscarried, or experienced a stillbirth, there were things that could be said in conciliation. Comfort that could be offered. But when someone came home from the hospital without their baby, because they chose to surrender him or her to adoption, no words existed.

Nothing at all.

She’d experienced all of the stages of grief. Denial, at first, served as a buffer to the loss. That had been followed by sorrow, then depression as the sense of regret resonated. Anger and guilt were next, directed at the absent father who, in her mind at the time, bore some responsibility for the surrender. Later she realized that had been ridiculous since the father knew nothing of the child. Finally came acceptance and resolution.

But not really.

Acceptance of the loss and working through the grief did not mean you forgot the child. It simply meant that, in some small way, you’d been able to integrate the loss into your life and move on. She probably should have sought some professional help, but with her accident, paralysis, and disfigurement, other more pressing matters had taken over. No one fantasized about having a baby, then giving him or her up.

She’d constantly wondered what that child might have become as hers. Those thoughts reemerged every June 8, her daughter’sbirthday. She’d learned that it was impossible to forget. She’d tried to adapt. Focusing on work and career, becoming really, really good at what she did for a living, moving up the ranks from the military, to the intelligence services, to finally the Bank of St. George. Ultimately, she’d invented something utterly incredible. Blockchain. Which led to something equally amazing. Bitcoin. She’d used those successes as a way to come to terms with regret, integrating the loss into her life and gaining some feeling of control.

A few years back she read an article on adoption. Its author wrote of entrustment ceremonies. Where birth parents engaged in a ritual, or ceremony, that took place when they entrusted their child to the adoptive parents. For newborns that usually happened at the hospital. A way for the birth parents to say goodbye, while maintaining a sense of purpose over the placement. The article suggested that even if such a ritual did not occur a birth parent should give themselves a ceremony, using it for reflection and healing. The idea seemed to be focusing not on the painful emotions felt at surrender, but on the optimism and encouragement that came with knowing the child would be raised in a good and loving family.

What bullshit.

For her nothing could right the wrong.

Reality was clear.

She’d made a mistake.

It had taken a lot of time and effort for her to realize the depth of that error. But an error it was, and no ceremony, ritual, or self-analysis was going to make her feel better about it. She’d wondered for years what happened to her daughter. Now Katie Gledhill said she knew.

Was that true?

She had to find out.

She stood in the midday sun outside a building that indicated it was for private charters into the Basel airport. Out on the runway she saw a small jet glide down for a landing, painted in a distinctive combination of blue and gold. On its tail fin, atop a royal-bluebackground, was the golden image of St. George atop his horse. She knew the plane. Owned by the bank. One of its latest purchases as the Bombardier came with the smoothest ride, largest cabin, most comfortable seats, cleanest air, and longest range of any private jet. It could literally take her anywhere in the world, most destinations on one tank of fuel.

The woman who brought her stayed close.

“Is your name really Kyra Lhota?” she asked her.

“It is.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll both find out when we get there.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I really don’t know. That’s what I was instructed to tell you.”

“And you’re a good little order-follower?”

“Something like that.”

The plane taxied from its landing and came to a stop about a hundred feet away, engines in neutral. Its forward cabin door opened and landing stairs unfolded. Kyra Lhota motioned for them to head that way. They walked over and both climbed inside, settling into two white leather seats. She wondered if any of this made sense, but it was too late now to turn back. She hated running out on Cotton, but this wasn’t his fight.

It was hers.

And always had been.

One of the pilots appeared and told them, “Our flight time will be about three and a half hours. There is food and drink in the galley. Help yourself.”

“Where are we going?” Kelly asked.

“Ms. Gledhill instructed me to say, if you asked that question, that this is not a prison and no one is forcing you to go anywhere. If you want to leave the plane right now, you are free to do so. It’s your choice whether you stay or not.”

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