Part 18 (1/2)

Katia leaned forward. Her voice was low and hard. ”I don't know who in h.e.l.l you are or what you want. I do know you've just made up a story so far-fetched that the only solution is for you to see a therapist. See one often.”

She started to push back her chair, but he reached across the table with both hands and grabbed her forearms. A little thrill started up her spine, but she stopped it cold.

He spoke in a rush. ”I a.s.sume you're a sleeper, but I'm not here to activate you. I've told you things about myself I haven't told anyone in decades. See what you brought out of me? Please, give me a chance. I mean it. I want to retire. I'm not activating you.”

She shook free and stood. ”You're a lunatic. Stay away from me.”

Francesca-Katia-needed to walk, to think, to clear her head. She strode past the marketplace's stalls, hardly hearing the blare of Arabic music, ignoring the whirling dancers. There was a tourist, a woman, with gray fluffy hair, a softly lined face, and a digital camera who seemed always behind her, sometimes close, sometimes distant. It was a coincidence, she told herself. But because of Pyotr, she was feeling paranoid.

A veiled woman held out a flat basket, her bracelets jingling. ”Moroccan dates,” she crooned in French-accented English. ”Moroccan dates. The finest you will find anywhere-”

Katia rushed past and into the souk. She was moving so fast she broke into a sweat.

The older woman with the digital camera b.u.mped into her. ”Pardonnez-moi!”

”C'est pas grave.” Katia hurried on. There were some two miles of convoluted pa.s.sageways. She was getting confused.

Then Pyotr was at her side, walking with her and leaning over to speak in her ear. ”Stop. Please, Katia. I'm sorry. I'm really not here to pull you back into the business. Will you give a fellow Russian, an old compatriot, a chance? I know this must be very hard on you-”

A dark wave of loneliness swept through her. She turned. Somehow Pyotr's arms were around her.

He held her tight, and she sank into him and wept into his white s.h.i.+rt. She could smell his aftershave, feel the p.r.i.c.kles of his vacation beard on her forehead. She could hear her mother's voice calling long-distance from Marrakech. ”I love you, Francesca. I'll see you soon. Be a good girl.” Always in English. Never in Russian.

”It's all right,” Pyotr murmured in Russian. ”There, there.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. ”There, there.”

When she finally pushed away, Pyotr handed her a big white handkerchief. She glanced around, realized people were staring. There was that gray-haired woman again, the one with the camera who had b.u.mped into her. Had she been photographing them? She was shooting a tall clay pot now.

Katia wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Pyotr took her arm and led her back. As they walked through the souk, he slid his arm around her waist. There was something more protective about the gesture than s.e.xual.

She had been thinking. ”You didn't just recognize me, did you, Pyotr? You must've known I'd be here in Marrakech. It's no coincidence we're staying in the same hotel.”

Guilt flashed across his face. ”You're right. I was standing on the corner, trying to figure out how to introduce myself to you, when the donkey bolted, and you stumbled and I caught you. I wanted to meet you-Roza's daughter. I always admired Roza, and I wanted to touch base with my past. I had a small hope you'd remember me.”

”I'm not a sleeper,” she told him, ”I was too young to be trained to be one.” But then in Russian: ”Kharashh, Pyotr. Shto vam nzhna?” All right, Pyotr. What do you really need from me?

”Your friends.h.i.+p,” he said solemnly. ”Will you be my friend? With you, I thought I could talk about the old times.” His black eyes were tender. ”I could use a friend, and I thought maybe you could, too.”

She was falling in love with Pyotr. This was crazy, she told herself. Crazy. He had pretended they were meeting accidentally. In other words, he had lied to her. But now that he had explained, it made sense. Or maybe she just wanted to believe him. She was excited and giddy and ... crazy. Falling in love was making her nuts.

He was telling her again he was out of the spy business and not in Marrakech to activate her. ”Vi panimyitye miny?” he asked finally.

”Da. Da. Yes, Pyotr. Of course I understand what you're saying.” And then she heard herself say, ”I believe you. Really I do. And I'm relieved.” She meant it.

Back in the hotel, he accompanied her up to her room on the third floor. His room was below, on the second floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and turned to face him. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid he could hear it.

”You'll be okay?” His black Cossack eyes devoured her.

It was hard for her to speak, so she nodded. Her chin lifted, she studied him. She wanted to stroke the bristles of his beard, move her fingers down his throat, slide them under his s.h.i.+rt. She wondered what his skin tasted like.

As he leaned toward her, she reached into her room, fumbled across the wall until she found the switch, and turned on the light. She grabbed the door jamb for support. ”I've got to go in. I need to ... go to bed.”

His lips were so close she could almost feel them on her mouth.

”May I see you tomorrow?” he said. ”Will you spend the day with me again? I have to leave early the next morning. I would really like more time with you.”

She felt her cheeks flush. ”Yes. Breakfast in the cafe again. Nine o'clock.” And then before she could change her mind, she stepped back into her room. ”Good night.”

Closing the door, she could see the smile on his face fade. He was disappointed she had not invited him in. She could not believe he was leaving Marrakech so soon.

45.

The next morning, Katia and Pyotr met again at the little cafe for lattes and hot croissants. Sitting beside newspaper racks, she saw headlines about the terrible bombings, kidnappings, and murders in Baghdad. She closed her eyes, willing away memories. When she opened them, she saw Pyotr's happy smile.

The traffic roared, and the sun climbed the sky. They caught a taxi to a grand old Berber palace, now the Museum of Moroccan Arts. She found herself glancing around, wondering whether she would see the older woman with the camera who might have been following her last night.

The air was cool inside the museum. The art, furnis.h.i.+ngs, and architecture were a stunning mix of Spanish and Moorish.

”How long have you lived in the States?” Pyotr asked curiously.

”Since I was fifteen. I wanted to move to Marrakech with Mother, but she insisted I finish my education in the States. A widow who'd been like a grandmother to me had left Was.h.i.+ngton and gone to Maine, so Mother sent me to live with her. That's where I grew up. I love teaching kindergartners. And I love the woman I came to call Mom. But now that I look back, I realize I've been terrified someone would find out who I really was. It was better to never let anyone get close.”

He stopped her beneath a tiled archway. Turning her to face him, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked gravely down at her. ”I know exactly who you are, Katia Levinchev. It's an honor to have met you again after all these years.”

At twilight they caught another taxi. Riding through the streets, they pa.s.sed old Moroccan architecture standing side by side with modern buildings. For Katia, it was like an omen-the old and the new interwoven seamlessly.

There was a closed gla.s.s window between the driver and them, so they had privacy. ”What about you?” she asked. ”Tell me about your family.”

”The ones in Bedford were trainers. My true family was back in the Ukraine. I envied you because your Bedford parents were real.” He shook his head, then brightened: ”Perhaps you can clear up a mystery. What about your father? As I recall, his name was Grigori. I'd been in Bedford a year when he vanished.”

Her lungs tightened. ”He left during the night. I kept asking Mother where he was, when I'd see him again. She said she didn't know.” Her father, Grigori Levinchev, had been a great undercover agent.

”Didn't he get in touch with you when your mother died?” Pyotr asked.

”I never heard from him again.” It was a lie. She turned her face away.

The taxi stopped, Pyotr paid, and they left the chaotic traffic for the serenity of Cafe France, where Pyotr had made a reservation. White linen covered the tables. The silver and crystal sparkled. They ordered roasted salmon caught that morning in the North Atlantic. The sommelier poured a Pinot Gris from Alsace.

”What did you do after you left the training village?” she asked.

”I can't tell you. You know that. It was a long time ago. Who cares? Ancient history. You don't mind, do you?”

She did mind. ”You know about my life. I know almost nothing about yours.”