1
The Spy
Three Years Ago
I wake to my mother’s hand clamped over my mouth.
“There’s someone in the house,” she murmurs in my ear.
I slide out from under the light summer sheet, moving silently and listening for whatever sound might have alerted her. I hear nothing at all—not even the whir of a fan or the mild hum of the appliances down in the kitchen. Glancing at the digital clock on my nightstand, I see only a dark face.
The power’s been cut.
That’s what she heard—not a noise, but the sudden absence of sound as everything in the house shut off.
I’m wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt. It’s been sweltering in Poseidonia, the sea breeze barely managing to cool the villa by midnight. I bend to retrieve my shoes. My mother gives a swift shake of her head.
She’s barefoot beneath her silk pajamas, padding noiselessly toward the window. She checks the garden below, and the deck to the left, without ever bobbing her face into view. Then she motions for me to follow her toward the door, staying against the wall where the boards are less likely to creak. She glides along like a shadow, her dark hair tousled with sleep.
She’s left the door cracked. I join her, waiting for her to scan the hallway in both directions before we move.
She’s about to head toward my sister’s room when I grab her shoulder.
“She’s not in there,” I murmur. “She fell asleep in the study.”
I saw Freya passed out on the chaise with an open book splayed across her chest. I covered her with a blanket before I went to bed myself.
My mother curses silently. The study is at the very top of the villa, accessible only by the staircase on the other side of the house.
Changing direction, she heads toward those stairs.
My father intercepts us, dressed in sweatpants and no shirt. His broad chest is heavily inked with the tattoos I know as well as my own face, crossed by the strap of the AR hung over his shoulder. He passes a second rifle to my mother, who sets the stock against her shoulder and assumes a low, ready position.
They split apart, creeping down the hallway with my father in the lead, my mother covering him. They duck under each window we pass. I’m careful to do the same.
I still haven’t heard anything. I’m hopeful that my father’s soldiers will deal with the threat down on the grounds. We always bring at least six men with us, even when we come to the summer house. As my father’s wealth has increased, so has his caution.
We’ve almost reached the stairs.
I hear the creak of someone coming up. My father motions for us to fall back. He gets low, his rifle pointed at the doorway.
The hulking figure holding a Beretta is instantly recognizable to me—my father’s cousin Efrem, big and bear-like, with an incongruous set of spectacles perched on his nose. His shoulders drop in relief when he sees the three of us.
“Where’s Timo and Maks?” my father demands.
“Unresponsive,” Efrem says, tapping the radio on his belt.
My father’s face darkens. That’s not good.
“We need to—” Efrem starts.
He’s cut off by the sharp crack of shattering glass and a thudding sound. My father grabs me by the shoulder, yanking me to the ground as an explosion blasts through the house. The whole floor heaves beneath me, a wave of pressure and heat roaring out from the direction of our bedrooms.
Now that the silence is broken, the night comes alive with gunfire and shouting. The sharp staccato of automatic weapons bursts up all around us, seemingly from every corner of the grounds. I smell smoke. Not pleasant campfire smoke—the acrid stench of paint and fabric and carpet burning.
“We’ve got to get to the helicopter!” Efrem says, trying to grab my mother’s arm.
She shakes him off impatiently. “That’s where they’ll expect us to go,” she says.
We flew in on the helicopter. It’s parked on our private pad on the west side of the grounds. But my mother is surely right—anyone attacking the house would have blocked that route first.
“The garage, then,” my father says.
Several vehicles are parked in the underground garage, including Efrem’s Land Rover.
“No,” my mother says quietly. “The gardener’s shed.”
I don’t understand at first. Then I remember that the gardener has his own ancient Jeep, and the shed is located directly beneath the study. We still have to retrieve my sister.
My father heads up the staircase, trusting my mother’s judgment.
We follow after him, Efrem guarding the rear.
As we reach the top floor, I see two figures ducking into the study. These are not my father’s men—they’re dressed in tactical gear with balaclavas over their heads and rifles on their shoulders.
My mother gestures for me to follow her. While my father and Efrem circle around behind the men, she and I exit onto the balcony. We creep along the open deck, carefully avoiding the lounge chairs, and the empty glasses and sun-bleached books my sister forgot to bring back inside with her.
I peek through the French doors. Freya is no longer asleep on the chaise. She’s nowhere to be seen at all. The two men are searching the room, using the lights mounted on their scopes.
My mother covers them with her rifle, but she isn’t firing. She knows any noise will draw the whole invading army down on us. She’s giving my father a chance to handle them quietly.
In tandem, my father and Efrem sneak up on the men. Efrem’s knife is already drawn. My father is bare-handed. He seizes the first soldier from behind, ripping the man’s own Bowie knife from his belt and cutting his throat in one slash.
Efrem’s opponent swings his gun around. Efrem is forced to drop his knife so he can yank the man’s hand away from the trigger.
My mother readies her rifle, barrel pointed directly between the soldier’s eyes.
Then an arm darts out from under the chaise, stabbing a letter opener down through the top of the soldier’s boot, pinning his foot to the floor. My sister rolls out from under the chaise, leaping to her feet. My father snatches up Efrem’s knife and finishes disposing of the second soldier.
My mother cracks the French doors, hissing, “Come on!” to the others.
Freya joins us on the balcony, followed close behind by Efrem and my father.
“What the fuck is happening?” she whispers to me.
Unlike my mother, Freya’s hair is pin-straight, barely a strand out of place despite her exertions. It gleams blue-black in the moonlight, a dark veil around her pale face.
My mother motions for us all to stay silent.
I can still hear fighting down on the grounds, on the west side where the helicopter is located, and also at the front of the house where we would have gone to access the garage. My mother was right—she’s always right.
Meanwhile, shouting and thundering feet seem to be coming from every direction inside the house. They’re searching for us, room by room.
My mother vaults the railing, descending the trellis. She’s light and nimble, as is Freya. I’m not sure the spindly wood will hold my weight. I hesitate, wanting to let the women get down first, but my father pushes me forward.
“Go, son,” he murmurs.