“Bit of a to-do with my husband,” I said breezily, cutting off Yuri’s Where were you? and Krasavchenko’s How dare you? and Pchelintsev’s The First Lady said. “I started feeling unwell at the White House, he offered as delegation doctor to drive me back early, and he ended up picking a quarrel and shoving me out somewhere near Rock Creek Park. The car’s still there on Colorado and Blagden; it’s full of delegation gifts, so I suggest you send someone to retrieve it. We will all assemble in Comrade Krasavchenko’s room in forty-five minutes for a fuller report, but right now I intend to clean up.”
The men parted for me as I made for the elevator, still spilling questions which I ignored. No one was saying anything about President Roosevelt or a hullabaloo at the White House, and that told me he was safe. Eleanor’s husband was sleeping between crisp sheets right now, safe and sound . . . or perhaps he was hard at work at his desk despite the hour, and Eleanor was right there beside him. Making plans, perhaps, for when they could broach the matter of a second front to lend aid to my countrymen.
My glowering minder made to get into the elevator with me, and I put out my hand again. “Yuri,” I said mildly, “no.” And he stepped back and let the doors shut between us.
Tonight I’d survived two duels, countless minor injuries, and a seven-kilometer midnight walk on my shredded feet—yet the thing that nearly felled me was arriving at my hotel room two floors up and realizing I had no idea where the key was. I sagged against the door, shaking with exhaustion, wondering if I could curl up and go to sleep right here on the threshold—and then I nearly collapsed in a heap as the door opened inward and I fell right into Kostia’s arms.
“Mila—” He gripped me, pulled me into the room and against his chest. My teeth were chattering too much to say anything, so I just clutched him. He was warm against me, granite-solid and night-silent in his dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’d clearly let himself in with the key I’d given him days ago; waited for me in the chair by the desk where his borrowed copy of Walt Whitman lay facedown.
“You’re h-here,” I said, still shaking with cold, and the import of that struck me like a blow. He was here, not on his way to New York or to his family. He was here. With me, his face turned toward mine, not turned away to find a new future far from our homeland.
“I’m here,” he said quietly, and that was all.
When I’d returned from my duel with the German sniper in Sevastopol, it had been Lyonya who peeled me out of my ice-stiffened clothes, wrapped me in a blanket, and began rubbing the life back into my cold feet and cramped shoulders. Now it was Kostia who stripped the creek-soaked lynx fur off my back, peeled away the destroyed yellow dress beneath it, and without comment laid aside my pistol and the little pile of diamonds all tangled up with loose .45 slugs and Alexei’s wallet and ID. He didn’t burst out with questions like the men downstairs; he just stripped me down and tucked me under the blankets, then crawled in and pulled me against him to warm me. “They said you hadn’t come back from the White House, Mila. The First Lady told the ambassador you’d taken off running.” His voice was normal, unconcerned, but I felt the tension humming through him like steel hawsers. Because unlike the men downstairs, he could recognize the aftermath of a sniper duel when he saw one.
I told him what happened. I’d go through it again in half an hour, for the benefit of the whole delegation, but this was a chance to get my facts in a row . . . figure out what I’d say, and what I’d leave out. Kostia pulled back when I finished, looked at me. I looked back, my teeth still chattering, reactions finally setting in now that I’d stopped long enough to let my guard down. “I killed Alexei,” I repeated, stark and plain, not having to care if there were ears listening in this room. I couldn’t stop shaking; I couldn’t stop seeing his face. But I felt not one straw’s worth of guilt. He’s gone. He’s finally gone. He wanted me, and if he couldn’t have me, he wanted me dead, and now he was the one dead.
“You left them?” Kostia asked.
“Where they fell.” I’d tell Krasavchenko and the Soviet ambassador where, and they could do what they liked about retrieving the bodies or leaving them to rot unidentified; involving the White House or not. Whichever way they decided to handle it, I knew it would be done with maximum discretion. This was one escapade by the Soviet girl sniper that would not be written up in any American newspapers.