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They ate, more or less in silence now, and then they paid, rose, and headed back through the courtyard. Past the Dutch woman with the laptop and the older couple and the hippie kids and the man in the linen suit and the fedora, who now sipped a margarita alone, although a second salt-rimmed margarita sat untouched across from him, as if he were waiting for a lunch companion who was running late.
Back on the street bordering the lake, Zoya took Court’s hand, pulled him to her, and kissed him. “If something is coming for us, like you say, I want you to know that these have been the best days of my life, too.”
Court softened, hugged her. He smiled. “Maybe I’m wrong. But if I’m not, we can only get through it if we work together.”
She nodded, a solemn expression on her face, and then they began walking back to their rented apartment. After less than a block, however, Zoya stopped and looked through her backpack. Retrieving her wallet, she said, “I have to go buy a sundress. Any chance you’ll come along with me?”
“Only at gunpoint.”
She lightened a little. “I won’t subject you to the horrors of shopping. I’ll meet you back at the flat.”
They kissed again and headed off in opposite directions.
•••
The older man in the tropical beige linen suit sat alone in the courtyard of the café, sipping his margarita and pretending to take in the flowing bougainvillea, the heliconia, and the bird of paradise that grew all around the open space. He snatched his napkin from the table, pulled off his fedora, and wiped perspiration from his face and head.
A nervous glance at his watch added to the impression that he was agitated, but he sipped his drink and sat there, shifting a little in his chair.
As he began to look back towards the rear of the courtyard, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone had slipped in behind him and was now sitting down at his little table.
The man turned back, watching the beautiful blonde in the green tank top as she pulled the metal chair forward, and his eyes met hers.
The woman glared back at him. They sat in silence for some time, and then she spoke first.
In Russian.
“How much trouble am I in?”
The older man smiled wistfully now, and he answered back in Russian. “Surely, Zoyusha…you knew you could not hide forever.”
Zoya Zakharova made no reaction to the man using the diminutive of her name. Instead, she gave a little nod, took the margarita that had been sitting there waiting for her, and looked at it.
“Poison?”
“Seriously?”
She held it out for him.
“That hurts my feelings,” he said, and then, without breaking eye contact, he took the drink and downed a long sip.
She took the glass back but did not drink from it. “I knew I’d be found eventually, but I couldn’t have imagined in a million years it would be by you.”
The man gave a genuine smile now. “I didn’t find you, dear. But someone from the embassy in the capital saw you get on a bus to Panajachel. I learned about it through the grapevine, and then I rushed down to talk to you.”
“And now somebody is up in the hills with a rifle optic centered on my forehead?”
The man’s smile gave way slowly, and his face turned grave. “Would that keep you rooted in that seat long enough for me to tell you what I have to tell you?”
“Most likely, yeah.”
“Fine. There’s a rifle aimed at your head.”
Zoya shot the remnants of the margarita in one gulp, maintaining eye contact as she did so. “All right, then, Uncle Slava, what’s this all about?”
•••
Three hundred twenty feet directly above the two Russians sitting at the table by the fountain in the restaurant courtyard within sight of Lake Atitlán, quadcopter RC25 hovered, its lens focused on the man’s face.
