An Assessment of the Situation
Flicka von Hannover
I needed to find out why.
While Raphael went out, Flicka and Alina played peekaboo, though not kitty-ha-boo, around the furniture in the small suite. Flicka wished she had grabbed more than one baby book and a few diapers from their Nevada townhouse, but panic had been screaming through her veins.
For the peekaboogame, the living room couch and chairs were the major obstacles. Flicka ground her knees to bruised mush playing with the giggling toddler until a knock rattled the door.
Two guards were posted at the doors to the hallway outside. They were tall brutes, close-shaved and with faux-military haircuts. They neither frowned nor smiled but had stared at the walls. New guards rotated in on a set schedule,every two hours. They did not speak to Flicka or Alina, even when the baby had tugged on one’s pants leg and asked in English what his name was.
The door rattled with a knock again.
The guards stepped back, and their hands hovered near holsters, whether to draw their guns to defend Flicka and Alina or to shoot them, Flicka wasn’t sure.
She hopped to her feet and smoothed her slacks from theday before, her one halfway-decent outfit she’d worn for the divorce hearing. “Come in!”
Alina echoed her in her itty-bitty baby voice, “Come in!”
Sophie Mirabaud strode in, followed by two housekeepers who wore gray uniforms and white aprons. The housekeepers carried boxes.
Sophie was dressed as if she might go to a business meeting or a cocktail party, even though it was only ten in the morning.Her tidy trousers were powder blue silk, and she had topped them with a white blouse. Her blond hair was twisted into a tight chignon, and her soft make-up was flawless.
Even Sophie’s plastic surgery was perfect: a bit of plumping in her lips and light injectables around her cheekbones and jaw to provide just enough lift to make her look like she was in her mid-forties instead of at least sixty,Flicka calculated.
Flicka smoothed her blond curls back, hoping that galloping around on the staticky rug hadn’t given her too bad a case of the frizzies. The few minutes that they’d been allowed into the Nevada townhouse hadn’t been long enough for her to grab any make-up. She hoped that the mascara she hadn’t been able to scrub off last night looked like smoky eyes instead of like a dementedrock chick.
The housekeepers set the boxes on the coffee table in front of the couch and exited quietly, almost as if the boxes had floated in of their own accord. Sophie didn’t acknowledge the women at all.
Flicka didn’t like that. She and Wulfie had always run warm households where people spoke and laughed with each other.
Sophie said to Flicka in French, “We’ve sent for a few other necessities.If you would draw up a list, we could have any other items delivered this afternoon.”
Flicka poked through the boxes of disposable diapers and tiny dresses, baby products and toiletries, and some folded clothes in adult sizes for both her and Dieter.
Raphael.
For both her andRaphael.
She said, “Thank you for these. They’re lovely, and I appreciate them. I could go shopping this afternoon,though, to pick up a few other things we’ll need.”
“That’s not necessary. We have staff and delivery services,” Sophie said.
“I could call a car if it’s an inconvenience.”
The Russian guards glanced at each other but did not speak.
Sophie’s smile turned grim. “Valerian would prefer that you remain in the house.”
Flicka didn’t allow her panic and the impulse to jump out of the damn windowto show on her face. “But it would just be a short trip.”
“We must insist.”
Her heart fell in her chest. “Oh.”
“You’re certainly welcome to utilize anything in the house, of course. There’s no reason to remain here in the suite.”
The guards on either side of the door fidgeted, then stilled with their hands clasped behind their backs.
