Page 56 of Air Force One
“It’s midnight here. And most of what lies to the west is the Black Sea and the Ukraine War.”
“By dawn then. Thirty hours from now. Figure out something. We’re out of time for the security of this call. All I can promise is that we’ll try. If we aren’t at Nalchik, you can send flowers to our funeral. Dress warmly.”
Inessa managed a laugh. “It is January in Russia, even that far south it is never warm.”
But she was talking to herself.
She cradled the phone to her chest and felt hope. Barely a thread wide, yet a mighty swath of cloth compared to what she’d felt lately. Not just Artemy. Nor since the crash of the American plane, no. Perhaps not in the three years since Murov had truly first favored Artemy.
Inessa’s experience had taught her how easily a thread could break. She would nurse this one for everything she was worth.
First, she went to her rolltop desk and selected a piece of her custom note paper and a fountain pen. She would leave her note for Artemy by the coffeemaker. He would definitely need coffee after today’s overindulgence.
My Dearest,
You were amazing last night. Thank you. You have inspired me. A “change of pace” is exactly what is needed. I have spent too long focused on the fashions I know rather than the ones I don’t. I’m off on a quick tour to scout a few new fashion regions to collect fresh ideas.
I won’t be gone for more than three days. I can’t thank you enough for opening my eyes.
Or was that too direct? No, Artemy wouldn’t see through this. Murov might, if Artemy showed it to him. But even that didn’t matter. By then she’d be either fictionally or truly dead.
I’ll be back in your arms ever so soon. Or at least her, hopefully fictional, ashes would.
She wanted him to feel riddled with guilt but that would show her hand. Instead, she settled for just a little guilt.
Yours for as long as we both shall live, The promise he had broken this afternoon.
Inessa
Creasing it neatly, she tucked it into an envelope and licked just the very tip of the flap before scribing his name across the front.
Next, she researched likely places to stop on her tour. After that, she hired a jet to depart before sunrise. Finally, she packed. Her laptop and handwritten address book were first—the only two things that could incriminate the ladies of her social salon. She would miss them all, but she’d miss them even more if she was dead.
After that, she focused on warm clothes, starting with sheep-fleece-lined knee-high boots. There was no reason that fashion couldn’t be warm—especially if one lived in Russia.
49
“What are we forgetting?”
“Our sanity.” Mike was sure they’d left that behind long ago.
“Okay, I’ll grant you that much.” Holly rested her head on his shoulder for half a second, maybe a whole one.
When had he gotten so pitiful that even such a small gesture brightened up his whole day? Maybe from the first moment he’d seen her six years ago. The Nevada sun catching her golden hair, a blonde beauty with her hip checked like a total babe—and sassing the crap out of a gun-toting and seriously pissed brigadier general in Area 51. Or maybe it was just the influence of the last day, thirteen hours of which had been on this plane.
“Didn’t we wake up this morning at Taz and Jeremy’s?”
“Only if you count days since we last slept. By the old American Pony Express method of timekeeping, that was yesterday. Maybe even two days ago, but I’ve lost track.”
“That sounds like one of Miranda’s weird rules.”
“Pony riders said it was the next day after you slept at night or when the sun rose.”
Mike didn’t know why he’d asked. “I wonder what the sensible world is up to.”
Holly flicked her seatback screen to the news channel. They were tucking Air Force One into a dry dock. Two massive wings rested on the pier beside it. Even as they watched, a helicopter lowered an airplane engine close beside the other three.
“They found Number Four.”
