“You have been outside for six seconds.”
“And I have learned enough.”
Snow begins to fall as we walk toward the square. Thin flakes drift through the air, catching in her hair and on the shoulders of her coat. She notices one land on her glove and stops to stare at it before it melts.
I have seen Moscow under snow too many times to count. I have seen it from black cars, penthouse windows, cemetery roads, police stations, private clubs, hospital entrances. Snow covers filth and blood with the same white hand. It has never been pure to me.
Until now, for one brief moment, reflected on her face.
Katerina opens her eyes and catches me staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say nothing when it’s not nothing.”
“You always ask questions when you already know I will not answer.”
“Maybe I keep hoping you will surprise me.”
That should not feel like a challenge, but it does.
We move into Red Square slowly. She refuses to rush, and I let her set the pace. Every few steps, something stops her. The cathedral. The towers. The serious faces of guards near the entrance. The patterned stone beneath her boots. The way the wind cuts across the open space and makes her laugh even as she shivers.
She asks questions constantly.
Some I answer. Some I avoid.
Not all of them satisfies her, she gives me a suspicious look and says, “You made that up.”
“That’s called being a better guide.”
“You’re a terrible guide.”
“You have not left.”
“I have no idea where I am.”
“That helps.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s a smile behind it.
The driver follows at a distance with the car, and two of my men keep farther back. Katerina doesn’t notice at first. When she finally does, we’re walking past a shop window filled with lacquer boxes and painted ornaments.
Her gaze shifts over my shoulder, then returns to me. “Are those men with you?”
“Yes.”
She stops walking. “You say that as if it’s normal.”
“For me, it is.”
“Do you always travel with men behind you?”
“When I need to.”
“And today you need to?”
“Yes.”
