The Oracle Code - By Charles Brokaw Page 0,98

opened.

“I have to go. My mother is home, and I cannot allow her to find me in my father’s office.”

“Go then, and be safe.”

“You, too. Will this number still be good for a while?”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye.” Anna snatched the USB device from her father’s computer, powered it down, and headed for the door. Just as she was about to close it, she noticed the line of new books on her father’s bookshelves where he kept his newest acquisitions. Usually he stored them there until he could get to them, but these had bookmarks and Post-Its all through them.

She scanned the titles, surprised to find that all of them dealt with Alexander the Great and the Hellenistic civilization. She had never seen her father read anything on that subject before. Quickly, she surveyed other titles in the history section of her father’s library. Most of those had to do with military things and histories of Russia.

This was something new.

“Anna?” Her mother was calling from the front of the house. “If you are here, I could use some help with the groceries.”

Anna locked the door before pulling it closed then went to help her mother. “I am coming, Mother.” She just hoped that she could weather dinner with her mother without getting trapped in one lie or another. Her mother always caught her when she tried to lie.

44

General Anton Cherkshan Residence

Patriarshiye Ponds

Moscow, Russian Federation

February 20, 2013

Dinner with her mother reminded Anna of the meals they’d had in her years before going off to university. Her father had usually been home during those years, but sometimes he’d had to stay and work on projects that he couldn’t talk about.

This was like one of those nights. Anna helped her mother in the kitchen, made small talk, and dashed off to make telephone calls that she didn’t want her mother to hear.

The kitchen was smaller than Anna remembered. It seemed like everything had gotten smaller since the last time she had visited. Even her mother seemed smaller.

Katrina Cherkshan was only a couple inches above five feet and always looked tiny next to her husband. Anna’s family on her father’s side talked about Katrina and claimed that she had gypsy blood, like it was some kind of bad thing.

Her mother’s family were smaller and darker than the Cherkshan side, but they didn’t look like the Romani or act like them. They were just small and quiet, like her mother. If there was Romani blood there, it had been generations since the family had wandered and been virtually homeless. Anna’s grandparents on that side had lived in the small house that had been passed down from her great-grandmother.

“Why do you have to make so many phone calls?” Her mother didn’t complain, actually, but she noticed things with true passion.

“Because it’s my job.”

“This is for the newspaper?”

“This is for a story I’m working on.” Anna chopped iceberg lettuce and wished for the tenth time that she’d never agreed to dinner. She should have gone to her apartment. Better yet, she should have stayed at the newspaper office.

Then she wouldn’t have known about her father and the planned revolution in Greece.

“What story could be so important that you cannot simply fix a meal and eat it?” Her mother stood at the stove stirring lapsha, noodle soup with mushrooms.

The smell was delicious, and despite her confusion and terror, Anna’s stomach growled in anticipation. “The Ukraine was invaded, Mother. Perhaps you heard?”

Her mother shot her a hard glance. “Do not take a tone with me, little princess.” That had been her mother’s nickname for her as a child. Little princess. Because her father had treated her like one.

“I apologize. I am tired. It was a long trip.”

Her mother sighed. “No, it is I who must apologize. Make your phone calls. You have work to do. I know this.” She smiled. “I see you here, I just want my little girl back.”

Anna went to her mother and hugged her. “It is good to be home.”

Her mother held her tightly. “These times are troubled, Anna. Your father’s business worries me. I do not know how he is doing.”

“What do you mean?”

Her mother shrugged. “We talk sometimes. Not much. You know he cannot talk much when he is away from home. The military has too many secrets.”

Anna agreed.

“He would rather talk to me about his feelings and what he thinks when he is home. But I know he is troubled by everything that has happened in the Ukraine. The decisions he has made have not been

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