Ciara
I don’t know what to do with everything Misha’s just told me, so I put it aside for the moment in favor of reading the files on his laptop. This is something tangible I can process, and I go through the emails, bank records and spreadsheets methodically, like it’s evidence in a case. Some of the names and corporations he mentioned seem familiar and I use the satellite internet to look them up. To my surprise, I find a number of news pieces about them.
A missing CEO from three months ago, last seen while out jogging. Police have a new lead as of three hours ago.
A chain of restaurants that went into administration two weeks ago. The financial director was arrested for embezzlement earlier today.
A five-star hotel is now under investigation for money laundering.
I turn the laptop around and show Misha the news stories. He’s sitting across from me, drinking coffee and reading his phone. He holds it up so I can see he’s reading the news, too. “I just saw the same things. Results are wonderful things, aren’t they?”
I go back to the files, wanting to be sure that what Misha is claiming is true, that his dossier of information is the reason for the news stories and it’s not just a weird coincidence. It takes some time to get my head around what I’m seeing but I take my time, cross-referencing names, dates and amounts of money with emails on the Ravnikar Enterprises server. They’re Damir’s deals and contacts, not Misha’s. Maybe if there were emails incriminating him he’s deleted them, but then he’d have to delete whole chains and there’d be holes in the dialogue. I check the electronic calendar and I can see invites for meetings and Misha’s not in any of them.
“Why did you never worry that I would bump into you at Ravnikar Enterprises? I went there several times to drop money off.”
“Because I don’t work in that building. I haven’t for many years. I like to keep my distance.”
Misha still turned a blind eye to what was going on. Even if the illegal activities were all connected to Damir, he was an accomplice, just as he was an accomplice to his father’s murder. I watch him covertly over the top of the laptop, remembering the scar on his chest. How many pints of blood does it take to earn someone’s loyalty? How many years does it take to stretch that loyalty to breaking point?
Misha suddenly sits up, still looking at his phone. “Fuck.”
“What?” I ask quickly.
“I don’t want to rush you, but things just became a little more urgent.” He shows me his phone and I read a news alert.
With shaking fingers, determined to cross-check everything for myself, I type a few keywords into the laptop browser to verify what I’m reading. Six news outlets are reporting the same thing. The first headline reads, london billionaire wanted for questioning over murder, money laundering; interpol alert issued.
I read the article. It seems police raided Damir Ravnikar’s home and office at Ravnikar Enterprises and took hard drives, laptops and cell phones, but Damir had already fled. He knows the police are after him, and he’s gone on the run. He could be anywhere. He could be waiting for us in Sharjah, to put a bullet in us for our betrayal. If he didn’t hesitate to kill his father then he certainly won’t hesitate to kill us.
I make myself take a deep breath and read the rest of the article. “They don’t mention that you’ve disappeared, too.”
“I’m not a wanted man.”
True. How close can Damir get to us, how much can he do with the police on his trail and his accounts emptied by Misha? This has gone way beyond revenge on my family. It’s bigger than what’s happened to me. I keep circling back to the same question: what reason does Misha have to lie to me about any of this?
As if he knows where my mind has gone, Misha asks, “Do you believe me, ljubica? Everything I’ve told you?”
He’s started calling me ljubica again, and I haven’t told him not to.
The evidence agrees with what he’s told me. The police want Damir, not Misha. I exhale slowly, hoping with all my heart that I’m making the right decision. It’s all I’ve got left to go on. My heart. “All right. I believe you. Everything you’ve told me.”
The relief in his blue eyes is intense. He starts to get up and comes toward me, but I hold up a hand. “That doesn’t change what you’ve done and the lies you’ve told. I can see now the necessity of us fleeing London, though you still frightened the hell out of me and I’m not over it. I’m coming with you, but I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m not going to kiss you. All that’s over. So you have to make a decision: will you still save me, even if you can’t have me?”
Misha studies me, frowning. “You think I would send you back to die? Under any circumstances? Ciara, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Ever.”
He reaches for my hand but I pull away. “None of this forever business. I’ll let you protect me until Damir is arrested. I’ll do whatever you say. Then, when it’s safe, I’ll return to London and try to start my life again.”
I wonder how long it will take my university to dis-enroll me when I don’t hand in any assignments or attend my exams. Is a madman was out for my blood across international borders because my dad swindled him and then my sugar daddy sold him out an acceptable deferment excuse?
Misha doesn’t say anything but I see the echo of the words in his eyes. Ever. I’m not letting you go, ever. A shiver passes through me. I need Misha right now because he’s going to keep me alive while Damir is at large, but I have the feeling he’s not going to give up on us no matter what I say to him.
I hope he doesn’t make me regret this, but right now I don’t have any other choice.
At Sharjah we disembark and cross the tarmac on foot toward another plane. I notice that Misha carefully buttons his suit jacket, concealing the gun he has holstered beneath his arm, and I ask, “Is this a non-dodgy charter flight, or are you just being particular about your outfit?”
He gives me a tight, humorless smile. “It’s a legitimately hired private plane. I don’t have endless questionable contacts at my disposal, especially not now an Interpol alert has been issued for Damir. They’re his contacts, not mine, and they’ll have dropped him like a ton of bricks.”
“So if I told the flight attendant on this plane that I was being kidnapped, they’d take me seriously?”
“Yes. But I’d rather you didn’t.”
I give him a withering look. Of course I’m not going to do that now.
Outside the plane we’re met by a dark-haired man in a customs uniform. He asks for our passports in brisk tones, and my stomach plummets through my body. I was so focused on the Damir that I forgot there were other things that could derail our plan.
To my amazement, the man produces two British passports from a pocket, checks and stamps them. Then he passes them to Misha and nods. “Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Gaettiti, Miss Stein.”
Misha hands me my passport and I look at the photo that’s meant to be me. It’s a blonde woman about my age who looks passably like me. I suppose these were made in a rush.
“What would you have done if I refused to get on this plane willingly?” I ask, tucking the passport into my jeans pocket. “Did you have a Plan B?”
He links my arm through his elbow, proprietorial and protective at the same time as we walk toward the jet. “There was no Plan B. I banked on you trusting me by now.”
“I only decided to trust you thirty minutes ago. Cutting it fine, weren’t you?”
“Perhaps. But I wasn’t worried. Ravnikars always get what they want.” His eyes flicker over me covetously, so quickly I almost don’t see it. Almost.
Cocky bastard. He still thinks I’m going to fall into his lap and then into his bed.
As I walk up the stairs to the plane Misha’s large hand is splayed on my lower back, warm and possessive. I reach behind me and pull it firmly away.
“Where to now?” I ask him, settling into a leather seat for take-off. This jet is very minimalist and business-like, with a boardroom in the center of the cabin and a lounge beyond.
“The Seychelles are beautiful this time of year.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding.”
“If we’re going to be in exile it might as well be somewhere beautiful.”
The flight attendant approaches us with refreshments and I feel my insides clench with the memory of needing to escape. But I’m not trying to run from Misha now. This is my life, for the foreseeable future.
I take a bottle of sparkling water with a murmur of thanks and notice there’s a self-satisfied expression in Misha’s eyes. He’s got me at last.