She exhales. “How long would the new identity take?”
“I know someone in Dublin who owes me a favor. He should be able to get it done in a day.”
“Really?”
“When people need new identities, they need them fast. He is used to working quickly.”
“And he’d mail them here?”
I shake my head. “He only accepts payment in cash. We’d fly there.”
“How? I don’t have?—”
“I have a plane.”
Carina mutters something under her breath. “I don’t have any money to?—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. Myfucked-up jobpays very well. I can afford it.”
She scoffs, then looks away. I study her profile, searching for clues about what she’s thinking.
“I need some time to decide.”
I stand. “You have until morning.”
LUCK OF THE IRISH
We land in Ireland just past four p.m. local time.
“It’s sogreen,” I marvel as I descend the plane stairs.
“You thought it would be desert?” Lev mocks.
“I didn’t know it would look like a rainforest,” I shoot back, glancing toward the building ahead instead of continuing to admire the lush grass past the tarmac. “Is that the whole airport?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t Dublin a major city?”
“This is Shannon, not Dublin. That car”—he points at a black SUV parked ahead—“is taking us to Dublin.”
I stopped asking logistical questions when we left Fontainebleau, relying on Lev to know what to do each step of the way. He hasn’t hesitated once.
From the age I understood what my father did for a living—how it had killed my mother and why it was important no one knew who I really was—I considered it horribly impressive. An awful marvel that takes your breath away with its devastating power, like a natural disaster that wrecks entire cities in seconds.
This glimpse of Lev’s expertise has taught me what I never conceptualized before—my father isn’t an all-powerful entity. He’s a man who orders around other men. A king wielding an army.
Lev is part of a different army. A bigger army probably. My father doesn’t have a private jet at his disposal. If I removed the fact that it was Lev who fired that perfect shot in the woods yesterday or who seemed to have limitless resources, I’d be terrified of the man who fearless Lola had considered menacing.
I used to think my father’s work was a small shadow. An ink blot on the pristine paper of our larger world. A blip I could ignore because it was overshadowed by a reality that made so much more sense. One with ethics and decency and safety.
Incredibly naive, in retrospect. Like assuming there’s only one shark in the vast ocean.
“What about Reykjavík?” I ask as we walk toward the waiting car.
