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Two days had passed since Stepanov had pulled Anya out of the interrogation with Ivanov. He hadn't sent for her since then. She was beginning to worry.
It was true Stepanov had enemies who might try to use her as a way to bring him down. She worried that he might have decided she was too much of a risk. Without his patronage, she was vulnerable. Even if Ivanov was out of the picture, his superiors would never let it go.
She was trapped. She had to convince Stepanov he needed her. There had been moments with him when he'd seemed to genuinely like her. He'd begun to trust her, but Ivanov's cameras had destroyed that. She had to find a way to restore that trust and regain his confidence.
She could call Michael and tell him what had happened, but what difference would it make? He couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't run to him for comfort every time she got nervous. She wished there was a way to reach him without calling. A place to leave and receive messages. What did they call it in the spy stories, a drop spot? Something like that.
Anya was home, in the apartment. She'd fixed dinner for her mother not long before. She cleaned up the kitchen, went into the living room, and sat down on the couch. Yulia was watching reruns of Streets of Broken Lights, a long-running crime show.
"It's terrible, these criminals, how they act," Yulia said.
"It's only a television show, mother."
"No, it's real, Anya. Thank goodness we have such brave policemen to protect us."
There was no point in trying to point out the flaws in Yulia's thinking. Suddenly the program was interrupted. The picture on the screen changed to the main newsroom of Channel 3. A moving banner on the bottom of the screen announced Breaking News in flashing white letters against a red background. Cameras zoomed in on the anchor. His face was stern. Anyone watching instantly knew something serious had happened.
"American missiles have struck a defensive installation near Damascus built to protect our Syrian allies from Western aggression. Several Russian citizens volunteering at a humanitarian relief shelter nearby were killed in the explosions. President Tarasov will discuss this reckless crime in an address to the nation tomorrow morning. Stay tuned to Channel 3 for developments as they come in. We now return to our regular programming."
The police drama resumed.
"The Americans would never dare do something like that if the Party was still in charge," Yulia said.
"Times are different now, mother."
Her mother began breathing heavily.
"They may be different, but they're not better. When the Party was in power, we had order. The world respected us. Not like now."
"Don't get upset. It's not worth it."
Yulia's voice became loud.
"Don't tell me not to get upset! Don't tell me it's not worth it! You never knew the pride we felt in the strength of the Party."
Yulia's face was becoming red. Anya looked at her with alarm.
"Please, mother, calm yourself. Remember your blood pressure."
"Quack doctors. My blood pressure is fine. It's...Oh."
Yulia grasped her left arm.
"Oh. It hurts."
"Mother!"
Yulia's face contorted with pain. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a choking sound. She pitched forward onto the floor.
"No." Anya jumped to her feet. "Mother!"
Yulia gave a long, shuddering gasp and stopped breathing. Her eyes stayed open.
Anya was stunned. She'd been annoyed with her mother earlier, when she'd criticized the dinner Anya had made. Yulia was always complaining. She'd wished then that her mother would stop. Now there would be no more complaints.
Feelings of guilt filled her.
Anya knelt down on the floor and brushed hair from Yulia's forehead, then gently closed the eyes.
She remembered what it was like when her mother was young, still full of vitality. Before she became bitter. Before she became lost in memories of a glorious Soviet world that had never existed. Everything Yulia had been or wanted to be was gone, reduced to this lifeless shell lying on the floor in front of her.
First Mikhail had been taken from her, then Grigori. Now her mother was gone.
There was no one left.
Anya held her hands to her face and began to weep.