“From what Mick said the people who set up the program were former Department S—the secret section of the KGB—who found new positions with the SVR.”
Russia’s current intelligence agency. “What crime was Mick paying for?”
“He never told me. All I know is that he’d been put inan orphanage because of something his father had done. Like me, he was in America for years before he was ‘recruited.’” Anticipating his question, she added, “He never told me by whom. He never told me any names of the people he reported to. I don’t know what hook they had in him, but Mick was an opportunist. Whatever it was, you can be sure he made the best of it.”
The hatred in her voice when she spoke of Mick hadn’t lessened any with the news of his death. Scott couldn’t blame her. His had only intensified since he learned what Mick had done.
“Kate is looking into it to see what kind of connections she can find. Anything else you can think of could be helpful.”
“I wish I knew something, but I suspect Mick feared I’d spill my guts at some point. He told me just enough to believe him.” She shook her head. “It still sounds crazy. Who would think that there was a Russian spy program involving orphanages operating since the Cold War? It sounds more like a bad TV show.”
“Actually it’s a good one.”
She looked at him, confused.
“The Americans,” he said. “The show was loosely based on a Russian spy sleeper program called the ‘illegals’ that was uncovered in 2010. If you want illogical, you should read about that one. It was embarrassingly bumbling and unsophisticated.”
She turned in his lap to look up at him, obviously surprised. “I had no idea. I thought that show was fiction.”
“It was some crazy shit. This whole thing is crazy.”
“Believe me, I’ve told myself that almost every day for four years. I used to think my life was so boring. But I’d give anything to go back to boring. Boring is good. Boring is normal. Boring doesn’t have hit men trying to kill you.” She sighed heavily. “But that’s never going to happen.”
It wasn’t a question, and she wasn’t looking for anyreassurance, but he tried to give it anyway. “You don’t know that. Once we get all this figured out—”
“Ifwe get this all figured out, it isn’t going to change my role in it. I’m still going to go to prison.”
Every bone in his body rebelled at the idea, even if it was probably—likely—true. He squeezed her a little tighter as if he could infuse her with his certainty. “I’m not going to let that happen, Nat.”
She didn’t argue, but it was clear she didn’t believe him.
“I’m not,” he insisted, although he didn’t want to think about what he might have to do to keep that promise.
“You’ve already done enough, Scott. More than I had a right to expect. I swear I won’t ask anything more of you, except... I need you to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That if I go to prison, you’ll make sure the baby is taken care of. My parents will help, but they are getting older and—”
He cut her off, forcibly taking her by the shoulders to look her in the eyes angrily. “No. That isn’t going to happen.”
Her face fell. “I know that we weren’t able to wait around for the test, but you have to know the baby is yours.”
She’d obviously misinterpreted his anger. “I don’t give a shit about the test. I know it’s mine. But I’m not letting you go to prison, okay. I’ll think of something. You just have to trust me.”
“I do,” she said, and then repeated, “I do. But just promise me, okay?”
“Christ, Nat. Of course, I’ll take care of the baby. You shouldn’t even need to ask.”
“I know, but thank you.” The relief in her voice bothered him. It was almost as if she’d given up. She put her head on his chest, and he swore he wouldn’t let her down.
Nineteen
Natalie was rarely late. But tonight she made an exception. She purposefully took her time in getting ready for dinner, and it was closer to six fifteen when she finally left the room.
Dinner had been her idea. Scott had wanted to take the senator up on his offer to have food sent to their room, but Natalie had dragged herself off Scott’s lap—and him off the chair—insisting that they go down.
“It would be rude,” she’d told him. “The senator has opened up his house to us without asking any questions; the least we can do is join him for dinner.”
