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Bryce: Confirm status.
“I’ve got to go, Maeve. Your nephew is a nag.”
She chuckles. “A loving nag, I hope?”
“Always.”
“We love you, Ana. And as soon as you let us, we’re all crashing at your place. I need to see you in real life to assure myself you’re well.”
“Absolutely. Visit any time!”
“Say hi to the nag.”
“Will do. Say bye to your nag for me.”
“Will do,” she says.
Me: Message received, sir, my captain, sir.
Bryce: Kina would not have made me wait that long. I figured you had the satellite phone.
Me: Is Father with you?
Dots come and go. More dots and I’m about to call him when he texts: Yes, he’s with me. Prepare yourself, my love. He doesn’t look well.
To report that Nikolay Petrov does not look well is a gross understatement.
He’s lost at least fifty pounds since I saw him last. His face is sallow and eyes dulled. A long intercontinental flight will take its toll. This is something else.
If his appearance isn’t evidence enough, the doctor traveling with him speaks volumes. Not literally. She only converses with him and in Russian, so there’s barely any words exchanged between us aside from the initial introduction. But the concern on her face is a billboard for worry. And the medication she’s pumping into him is no joke.
When I first got onto the jet to help him deplane, she was removing an IV attachment. Nikolay claims it’s a vitamin supplement to help with jetlag. Who am I to push him to disclose private health information?
Still, I had to warn my Ana. Something told me she would want to prepare herself.
She hadn’t seen him in more than a year, having only had one chance to return to Moscow since she relocated. I don’t think she would have left if he was in this state.
When we arrive at the safehouse, he’s shaky getting out of the Suburban.
“Ana Petrov can meet us in the main room,” I say to the agent closest to the door when we enter. There’s no way her father is going to make it up the stairs.
Ana launches herself down the last three steps and is in front of us in a blink. Her eyes are wet, and her hand is over her mouth as if the gesture can hold back the onslaught of emotions on her face.
She’s probably eager to throw herself at Nikolay, but one look at him deters any robust physical greeting. Instead, she walks over and stands before her father who appears to choke down tears with each wheezing breath.
Nikolay reaches out and cradles her face. Tenderly, they lean their foreheads together.
“Privet, dochyonka. Moya rados,” Nikolay whispers fervently. My Russian isn’t perfect, but I think he called his daughter his greatest joy.
“Privet, papochka moy.” She greets him with equal fondness.
“Everyone else out,” I say to the rest of the room. “Good time for a periphery check.”
Wordlessly, my agents follow instructions. There’s a full minute of boots scuffling, and then silence.
“Kina, guard the back door from inside. I’ll take the front.”
We stand as sentinels while Ana and her father sit at the long table taking up most of the room. The doctor is alert though keeps her distance, standing by a far wall.
