An hour before landing in DC, Pia rubbed her tired eyes. Hours of staring at Pozdeeva’s clues made her hazy. Then a noise erupted at the back of the jet.
Agent Tania was in Olivier’s face.
“Sure.” Tania’s shrill voice pierced the cabin. “In sci-fi, the traitor who t-t-turned the good guys over to the evil empire is inexplicably redeemed, b-b-but that’s not how it goes down in my hood.”
Pia took her friend by the shoulders and swapped places in the aisle.
“The way I p-play the game,” Tania continued shouting while leaning around Pia’s back, “the traitor gets tossed out the c-c-cargo door!”
Pia faced her friend. “Back off.”
Tania shook her head and marched to a seat farther forward.
Pia returned her attention to Olivier, who sat at a table facing Alan. Behind them, on the sofa, Olivier’s three teenagers looked scared and cold. She joined the men at the table.
“You really have to get Tania under control,” Dad said.
“TBI increases agitation, Dad.” She looked at Olivier. “While I agree with her in principle, no one’s getting tossed out of the jet.”
Olivier shot his cuffs and looked out the windows. “Where are we going?”
“Wherever you stashed the documents Dad requested.”
He glanced her way. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your ‘personal guarantee of security’, but I’d rather take my chances with the Russians.”
Alan pounded the table. “I trusted you. I need those documents—”
“And I trusted you!” Olivier pulled his jacket tight around him and twisted away.
Neither of the Sabels could respond. They looked at each other with pained expressions. The decision to withdraw protection for the Jallet family made sense at the time. Olivier had not pleaded for more and had hired his own. The death of his wife was not a Sabel problem. But pointing that out was a fruitless argument.
“You can’t beat them.” Olivier turned back to them, his face red, eyes bulging. “You think you’re safe, sitting in your American towers. It’s true you’re safe from terrorists and gangs and criminals. Have you ever taken on a government? There are layers upon layers. You can’t get to Popov until you’ve disposed of Strangelove and the GRU.”
Pia tried to inject a calm voice. “I took on the Chinese government—”
“Please.” Olivier’s shredded voice strained with contempt. “The pandas of international intrigue. You know nothing. You surround yourself with veterans because you can afford them. What was I to do? Do I have the same resources? Was the company you built with your hands ripped from your fingers? Did the woman you love bleed to death before you signed everything over to Santalum?”
The three of them sat in silence, each lost in their own contemplation.
Pia wondered what the scene was like for Olivier. His children would have been next if he didn’t agree. She knew the horror and powerlessness of an attack like that—and the seed of hatred it left behind. For Pia, it had been a driving force in her life. But she never had to worry about children. Certainly, Popov and Strangelove would have sent repeated reminders that his family was still vulnerable.
“I know who we’re up against.” Pia met Olivier’s gaze. “We believe Strangelove orchestrated #HuntersFail for political gain. I’m not going to let him get away with it.”
“Easy to say.”
Pia tapped her finger on the table. “I’m going to take Popov down.”
“He will ruin you.” Olivier sneered. “He’s been wrecking lives for forty years.”
“Where do I find him?”
“You don’t. He lives behind a façade of embassies.”
“He must have a home somewhere.”
“If I knew, I would never tell you,” Olivier said.
She leaned back in her seat. Maybe Tania had the right idea; the ungrateful bastard should be tossed out the cargo door. She tried to hide her anger but could feel Dad watching her. He knew her too well.
He nosed up the aisle. Pia took his hint and met him three rows forward.
“Let him think about it for a while.” Alan sounded as frustrated as she felt. “I’ll work on him.”
“Popov and Strangelove tried to kill us, Dad. We don’t have the luxury of time. They could strike again any second.”
“You’re right.” Dad gave her an appreciative nod. “We’ll focus on Strangelove. No one’s going to vote for Chuck Roche. He just announced he’s going to give everyone the best healthcare. He’s making promises he can’t possibly deliver. The voters will never fall for his bullshit.”
He turned to leave, then stopped and stared at his phone. He tapped her shoulder. “Remember this?”
He held his phone between them. Displayed was an old picture taken in middle school. Her team carried young Pia on their shoulders. She looked a little uncertain about the stability of her ride. In the background, Dad held a massive trophy. She felt a strong fondness for those days in the warmth of a loving home and community. Alan Sabel—Dad—had been a critical supporter of her success. He spared no expense to find the best coaches in the world. Most important, he’d always been there. Every game. He’d done more than anyone could expect of a father.
She smiled at him. “Those were good times, Dad.”
She took the seat facing Tania. Her friend had taken to meditating. With her eyes closed, her earbuds in, she noticed nothing around her.
Emily and Sylvia chatted across the aisle. Sylvia had eagerly accepted Pia’s invitation to Washington after Pia donated ten times what Sylvia hoped to raise for her charity. Pia wanted to hear more about the foster kids in Monaco, sure. But she wanted to see Jacob happy as well, and Sylvia seemed genuinely interested in him. Which made Sylvia a rare woman.
Emily paused their conversation and turned to Pia. “Is there anything that will confirm Jacob’s claim that the Russians in Barcelona are working with Watson? Or anything that links Watson and Roche?”
Pia shook her head.
“Then I don’t have a story. Roche’s campaign manager denies any connection. They claim the Russians were probably scammers trying to shake down your dad for money.” She paused. “I’ll assume you don’t want Jacob’s adventures in Barcelona going to print?”
“I appreciate keeping that confidential. Thank you. But we’re meeting Roche when we get back. You can join us.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Thanks! That would be a scoop.”
Emily and Sylvia resumed their conversation.
Pia took out her phone and looked up another trauma-injured family: Stefan and his adopted children Emma and Ethan.
The children’s biological father had smuggled a band of terrorists into the country before losing his life in a gun battle with Jacob. Stefan, choking down guilt for his father’s part in the plot, adopted the children as his way of paying for the sins of his father. An act much like Alan Sabel’s adoption of Pia after he unwittingly aided the killers of her parents. But where Alan built an international conglomerate for Pia, Stefan had given away nearly all of his family fortune to charity.
She opened Instagram and found Stefan’s profile. Hundreds of pictures rolled by. She started with the oldest snapshots. Stefan forced a smile at his camera with an arm wrapped tightly around two children in front of the Eiffel Tower. In the next, blank-faced kids slurped ice cream with the Rock of Gibraltar in the background. Several more pictures showed pained expressions of a family in front of iconic tourist destinations. Then something changed. One selfie was the dividing line between three awkward tourists and a family.
In the pivotal pic, Stefan, wrapped in a robe, cuddled two small, wet children in towels while reading a book. It looked familiar. She zoomed in and realized it was Falling Up by Shel Silverstein. In the next picture, the three of them stood in the rain looking at something. Pia zoomed in and discovered it was a graveyard. Emma held a small bouquet in her hand. Yet another showed them outside Stefan’s former family mansion, shuttered. They appeared to be throwing rocks.
They were saying goodbye to their past. Letting go of their tragedies and moving on.
The next series of snapshots showed Stefan, his lanky frame dwarfing the little ones, reading and singing and dancing and playing. In the most recent series of photos, they were laughing. Interspersed with the fun pictures were more pictures of quiet reflections: in the woods, at a monastery, in a meadow. You never let go of the worst moments, but you can give them air once in a while and continue living.
She missed him.
She missed having a family. She missed those days so long ago when she would wake up in the middle of the night screaming. The great Alan Sabel, a self-made billionaire, would lie in bed with her, holding her firmly against his soft nightshirt. She could feel his heartbeat, soothing and calm. Back then, Dad could make the scary world feel safe.
She clicked hearts on all Stefan’s pictures and sent him a text. “I love you. I miss you.”
In a couple weeks, he would return from his journey of self-discovery, and they could reignite their romance.
She hoped.
That’s what Dad was fighting for, the right of Pia and Stefan to live and love in a free democracy. It’s what America stood for. Family values as any individual wanted to define them. The right to a free press, religious freedom, freedom from fear and oppression, freedom from want. Dad was right to pursue Strangelove’s intrusions into our free elections. He was right to risk their lives to connect with Olivier Jallet. Strangelove and Popov were a form of evil whose connection to Roche threatened everything Americans cherished.
She glanced up at Olivier and his children. A handful of French citizens represented her future with Stefan in that moment. They had suffered at the hands of these beasts.
Families need someone to keep them safe from the monsters in the world. How many lives had Viktor Popov destroyed? And Strangelove?
Pia rose and walked back to where Alan and Olivier held a tense discussion. They looked up at her.
“I don’t think you understood me.” Her voice loud and strong. “I’m not going to bring Strangelove and Popov to justice. I’m going to kill them.”