“Miss Sung?” a voice says from a speaker.
“Yes,” I say.
One of the officials points at a chair and I sit.
“I’m Marcia Bloom, the Secretary of State,” the projection says, and I blink at it.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say automatically.
“I wish these were better circumstances,” she says. “I’ve known your mother for many years.”
I just nod.
Our meeting only lasts five, maybe ten minutes. I think she just wants to make sure that I’m all right and not under duress, and she seems relieved that I’m acting relatively normal. She asks me to keep her updated on the situation, but also makes a vague comment about working for the state department on an informal basis.
I’m too tired to parse that, but when the call ends, I’m relieved that they made contact and I’m not all alone out here. It makes me feel better to think that someone’s watching me.
As I leave the room, Kostya rises, and then the two other men rise. Kostya waves them down, but then escorts me out and shuts the door behind him. We’re in a hallway that’s not exactly private, but there’s no one immediately around us.
“Thank you,” he says.
I look around. There’s no one. I take one of his hands in both of mine. I squeeze it, but he doesn’t squeeze back.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says. “I don’t know how this is going to go, but we would very much like to have the U.S. on our side.”
There’s no one here, I think. Say something real.
I feel awful immediately. This is probably the worst day of his life, and I’m upset about me?
His hand is still in mine. I just nod. I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, most of those hours have been bad, and I’m trying not to cry.
“Of course,” I say. “Anything I can do to help.”
I squeeze his hand again. He holds on, but he doesn’t squeeze back.
I let his hand go.
He swallows, looking at me for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and then goes back into the meeting room.
Chapter Thirty
Kostya
Four days later, I’m staring at the iPad that Niko just handed me, and Hazel’s face stares back. It’s an old picture, badly lit, a little blurry.
But it’s unmistakably her. And she’s unmistakably wearing a lacy bra, lacy panties, a garter belt, hose, and sky-high heels. She’s got a big red cup in her hand, and she and another girl dressed the same way are leaning on some guy as he reaches around and grabs both girls’ breasts.
I’m furious. I’ve slept maybe eight hours in the last four nights, ever since my father was assassinated, and my temper is on a hair trigger. I want to murder this fucking asshole in the photo for touching Hazel. I want to murder the shithead who published this trash, and I want to murder the small-dicked douchebag who found the photo in the first place.
“If this is what I get for removing censorship from the press put it the fuck back in place,” I growl at Niko. “Fucking behead them all. Drown them in the Black Sea. I don’t care.”
He doesn’t move. He knows better than to actually do any of that.
“Read the article,” he says, arms crossed.
I scan it. Fucking salacious trash, obviously. The Tobov Post isn’t even a newspaper, it’s a rumormongering website that normally limits itself to movie stars and pop singers. Now that there are no consequences for reporting on whatever they want, they’ve instantly latched onto the rumors about the brand-new king and his American girlfriend.
Then I pause. I re-read a sentence.
My heart stops for a moment.
Sources also say that Sung, 25, dropped out of medical school after carrying on a sexual affair with her married professor.
Niko and I stare at each other. We’re alone in a tiny office.
“Is it true?” he asks, his voice low.
I clench my jaw. My stomach plummets, because I want to say no, of course not. I want to say she’s awkward, not despicable, but I can’t. I never did find out why she dropped out of medical school.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I’ve barely seen her in four days, and I haven’t been alone with her for more than two minutes. The last time was yesterday when I was taking a breather in a nook off a staircase, looking out the window, and she charged through the door with an armful of ethernet cables, heading somewhere else.
Neither of us said a word. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, and briefly, I felt like my capsizing world was righting itself again, like maybe there was this one small spark of light.
Then one of the cabinet aides burst through the door, asking her what kind of cables they were looking for, and they were gone again.
All I thought about for hours was the look on her face.
My father’s dead, my country’s falling apart, and I’m thinking about the way a girl looked at me.
That’s why it’s probably better that I don’t see her.
I last three hours. It’s driving me crazy, the incessant, gnawing worry that Hazel isn’t who I thought she was. That she would do that, sleep with a married man. Be a home wrecker.
I don’t even know why it matters right now. I’m deliberately trying to see her as little as possible, and I have no idea what she thinks about that, but everything has gone to shit and I’m doing the best I can. The second I can get the airport re-opened I’m sending her home, and God only knows if she’ll ever want to come back to this hellhole.
I send someone to go find her. When she walks in her hair is in a high, messy bun, her eyes are puffy and purple with lack of sleep, she’s wearing ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt, and she’s still more beautiful than I remembered and I hate it.
Neither of us say anything. The aide leaves and shuts the door behind him. My heart feels like it’s pumping sandpaper through my veins.
“Did the State Department call again?” she asks.
“No,” I say, and hand her the iPad with the article on it.
“Fuck,” she says, looking at the picture. “What is this? What’s it say?”
I’d forgotten the article was in Russian, but there’s a link to an English translation at the bottom. I take it back and click it.
“That picture is from college,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. “It’s six years old, I was dumb and drunk and I went to a lingerie-themed party at this frat house because I was hoping—”
“Read the article,” I say, handing it back.
She scans it. Halfway through she puts one hand to her mouth. When she finishes, she squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, like she’s trying to collect herself.
“You never told me why you dropped out of med school,” I say.
“I didn’t know he was married,” she says, still not looking at me.
I want to believe her. I want desperately to believe her, but how could she not know?
“How?” I ask, my arms folded across my chest.
Hazel pulls out a chair, thumps the iPad onto the desk, puts her head in her hands, and takes a deep breath.