look out the window here,” he says placidly, “you’ll see the lights of Narsaq Kujalleq, the southernmost town in Greenland. Since we’re flying at low altitude with a bright moon, you might see some of the largest icebergs in the North Atlantic. Then it’s five hours of ocean until we reach base.”
He pauses before continuing, “I’ll remind you, this is an old Soviet MN-2. It’s been retrofitted to drop food and aid, but it’s not typically used for cargo like yourselves.” He points to the ceiling of the jet, politely adding, “The Soviet cockpits monitored the cargo to prevent theft using visual and audio recording systems … and those, uh, systems remain.”
He’s been listening to everything we’ve said? I blush, embarrassed. My mother nods a thank-you, and the pilot returns to the cockpit.
“Whoops,” my mother says under her breath once he’s left.
I am distracted, thinking about something she said earlier. I look at her now, trying to piece it together. “We took so many precautions, but Bekami always knew where we were. Where I was. He found me in Hütteldorf, Mom. Yet no one could have predicted I’d jump off that train. Not even me …”
No one knows where we are going before we take off … That’s how we stay safe … We get in the air before they can track us … I only answer to one person …
“Aksel—” I start, but something has caught his attention.
“Her,” he murmurs. I follow his line of vision to a petite figure moving toward us. He tightens his grip protectively around my hand.
“It was her,” he repeats quietly, under his breath.
A woman sits down across from us. “You’ve had some rest, I hope?”
I stiffen beside Aksel. I glance between him and the woman. Her?
“Aksel, you performed exceptionally well—ON-YX excels because of recruits like you. It’s quite the opportunity you had, demonstrating your skills under pressure like that.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Aksel answers, except there is no gratitude in his voice.
“And Sophia,” she says effusively, “you are a brave, resourceful young woman. I drove all the way from London and boarded at Northwood to finally meet you.”
I recognize her—she was with Andrews when my father met him at the souk in Tunis; she was buying the silver ashtray.
The petite woman has short-trimmed gray hair and is wearing a Burberry scarf knotted beneath her throat. My mother doesn’t seem surprised by the woman’s presence. In fact, she seems deferential.
“Forgive me,” says my mother, noticing my confounded expression. “Sophia, this is Bev Andrews.”
I sputter, “Y-You’re Andrews?”
She bows her chin. “I only wish you had introduced yourself in Tunis.”
Tunis? She saw me?
Andrews reaches her hand forward, and I shake it.
I glance down at her manicured fingernails. She is refined and polished. Her jacquard suit is tailored and ironed. She is an older, grayer version of my mother.
On her wrist is a delicate silver watch. Skagen. Silver with a stream of gold circling through the links, same model as mine.
Why couldn’t my parents track Bekami? How did Abramovich find out I was alive? And why is Andrews still smiling at me?
Aksel watches Andrews warily. Her, he said. It was her.
“Please allow me to offer my condolences,” Andrews continues softly. Her eyes are moist. “Your father was an honorable man who served his country with the highest distinction. He saved countless lives, and we all lost so much yesterday.”
“Thank you,” I say appreciatively, but I am barely listening. Synapses fire inside my skull.
I touch my fingers to my collarbone, feeling the hollow where my necklace once lay.
“I’ll need to ask you some questions, Sophia. I’m sorry to do it now, but I think we should do it while these events are fresh. A simple conversation.”
“A debriefing?” I ask.
“No interrogation cube this time.” Andrews smiles, standing. “Let’s go to the front of the plane for some privacy.”
I stay seated. “I’m fine here, Ms. Andrews.”
My mother frowns at me. Apparently, I’m not supposed to disagree with Andrews. “Soph—”
“Here is fine,” Andrews says sympathetically, waving off my mother’s interruption. She sits back down and removes an electronic tablet from her purse. “Let’s start with Abramovich. Are you sure he was dead?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I look at Aksel. His brow is furrowed. His eyes darting from me to Andrews to my mother.
“What did Abramovich tell you?” asks Andrews. “Did he mention anything specific about his past?”
“Not really, ma’am.”
“Did he mention any names before you killed him?”
“I didn’t kill him,” I say.
“You confirmed he was dead; are you suggesting—”
“Sophia didn’t kill Abramovich,” Aksel interrupts.