SEVENTEEN
DOCTOR WHO?
“But does he have an actual license?”
It’s the fourth time I ask, and the explanations I get are still as vague as they were ten minutes ago. So far, all I got is that Viktor Bugorski is supposedly a Russian “doctor” who ran into trouble with the East German state police when he worked for them in the eighties and subsequently fled to Thailand, then returned to Russia, then Ukraine, where he made a small fortune selling breast implants and borscht-flavored vitamins, but now he works here in Romania. What he did for those Stasi police guys remains wholly unclear though, just as much as what led them to want him dead at the time . . .
The cigarillo firmly stuck between his lips, our mysterious host watches the drama unfolding before him with an expression of boredom. Around us, a few soldiers wearing dark fatigues step out of the shadows, all carrying assault rifles and wearing weird goggles that make them look like giant insects. They too have taken an interest in the exchange, and from the corner of my eye, I see one of them scratch his head.
“Do you ever check whether your dentist has a license before sitting in the chair? I don’t. What I check is whether I can trust the man,” Dries insists while, next to him, Dominik and the Romanian traitor nod in agreement.
“What are you talking about? Is he a dentist or a neurosurgeon?”
March clears his throat. “He’s a bit of a jack-of-all-trades like, say, Leonardo da Vinci.”
Dries waves to his disciple. “Yes, exactly. Thank you!” He then towers over me with an accusing look. “Would you ask if da Vinci had a license?”
My eyes trained on the veins in the marble floor, I search my recent memory for passages I read in one of Anies’s books, about the first guy who tested one of da Vinci’s flying machines—and subsequently broke his leg. I come to a decision. “Bentsen was bad enough. I’m not getting near another mad scientist again.”
“I can arrange for a reputed, licensed practitioner to see you immediately, Miss Chaptal,” Cigarillo-man offers suavely.
“Out of the question,” March snaps.
I gauge that old fart warily. “I’m good, thanks.”
March moves to shield me. “I believe we’re done. I’ll make sure to contact you as soon as Island is well enough to be questioned, Mr. Erwin.”
Erwin? I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I’m not sure. I tilt my head at him. “Did we know each other before today?”
A thousand wrinkles appear on the guy’s brow. March too sobers abruptly—well, if it’s possible for someone like him to get any more sober, that is. I think he didn’t want that guy to know about my amnesia.
“I like to think we know each other well enough, Miss Chaptal,” Erwin says cuttingly.
Around my shoulder, March’s fingers tighten, and Dries steps closer.
“Who are you?” I ask.
This time Erwin tilts his head like a predator. He’s figured it out. “A vast question. I work for the government of the United States. You could say I solve problems no one else will.”
CIA. The moment the thought crosses my mind, it sounds so evident that I wonder what took me so long . . . In my brain, it’s like the faces of a rusty Rubik’s cube are slowly starting to rotate. “But you couldn’t solve the plane bombing or what happened at the Poseidon, and you can’t solve Anies.”
Erwin’s wry, scary smile returns. “Well, I can’t without your help. But you seem quite . . . diminished.”
“I remember nothing before April,” I admit. “My long-term memory is pretty much shot.”
He takes a deep, slow drag of his cigarillo, his eyes drilling holes through my skull, as if he could look in there and see the empty shelves for himself. “How unfortunate . . . and convenient. Nothing at all? I miss Agents Morgan and Stiles terribly—I’d been hoping you could reassure me they’re—”
Agents? Like . . . CIA agents? The fear I can’t control is rushing back in my veins. Pirate Morgan taping my mouth, Stiles’s betrayal . . . “Y-you know them too? They worked for you?”
Through the curls of smoke, his voice becomes softer, almost enveloping. The gravel doesn’t feel so rough as he says, “I’m not a monster, Island. My favorite weapon is compromise. I can tell there’s a lot you need to know, and I believe we can help—”
March moves too fast for me to see, and on our bodies the shiny red dots reappear instantly. Dries steps in front of me, gun in hand, while the soldiers surrounding us have raised their weapons, ready to shoot. Around Erwin’s nape, March’s gloved fingers curl slowly. The old man remains perfectly calm as March pulls him close enough to whisper something in his ear. I can’t hear anything, but I’m mesmerized by the slow movement of his lips, the faintest snarl as he finishes his sentence.
March lets go of his prey and raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Erwin and I understand each other.”
Indeed. Again, Erwin gestures for his men to lower their weapons and tells March, “I give you twelve hours. Take her to Bugorski if you want, but know we’ll be watching you. Once he’s seen her, I will interrogate her.” His gaze cuts to Dries, and I’m getting the feeling he’s about to issue a challenge. “Mr. Kovius will remain our guest until then . . . as a guarantee.”
My mouth falls open. Obviously he doesn’t know Dries, as if a guy like him would ever . . .
“Acceptable. Dominik will send you a list of my demands. Don’t expect me to sit down and chat if my comfort requirements aren’t met.” Dries adjusts his cuffs with an air of regal disdain, and I’m gonna need to pick up my jaw from the floor. “I hope for you that you know where to find French croissants and a decent bottle of cognac at this hour.”
Dominik glares at the soldiers surrounding us, but Isiporho pulls him back with a shake of his head. March makes no attempt to step in either, and I search his eyes in dismay. This isn’t right; I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, as if I’m getting seasick. How the hell can Dries surrender to that CIA douche without a fight, when he’s basically been killing whoever dared stand in his way until now?
Dries walks away from our little group and allows the soldiers to circle him and take his gun, the haughty expression never leaving his face. When an overzealous goon attempts a body search though, he grabs his wrist lightning fast. “Let us all remain courteous to each other, and no one will get hurt,” he warns with a carnivorous smile that bares his gap tooth.
“He’s right, no need for that,” Erwin confirms, prompting his men to take a step back. “Mr. Kovius will cooperate fully”—he marks a pause to look at me, his expression softening into something I could almost mistake for compassion—“for the well-being of his child.”
The words fly in my face, prickling my skin like a slap. He knows. Dries’s cold mask cracks, letting through a flicker of vulnerability that seems almost foreign on him. He doesn’t say a word, but the wrinkles on his brow deepen, and whatever doubt I might still have entertained about him dissolves, washed away by a feeling I recognize. It’s the same warmth, the same yearning as when I try to remember my mother.
“Don’t go with them,” I plead with him. “Don’t . . .” Don’t leave me.
“Island, it’s going to be all right.” March’s arm snakes around my shoulder, warm and protective, but I don’t want it. I stagger back.
Erwin’s hands clasp together, the sound loud and sharp, rattling down my spine like a shock wave. “I understand there’s a lot your little family needs to work through, Mr. Kovius, but I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave, if you don’t mind.”
I look around in sudden panic, at March’s sorrowful eyes, Dominik’s hate-filled ones, and the men closing in on Dries to escort him away. They can’t take him . . . not now, when I’m barely starting to understand how much I need him . . . “No! Please, I”—my mind races for a solution—“I’ll go with you too. Let me go with him!”
My plea doesn’t fall on deaf ears. A victorious sneer distorts Erwin’s features through the smoke curtain. Of course, that’s what he was trying to achieve.
“Miss Chaptal seems well enough to talk to us after all,” Erwin notes sardonically.
I nod in agreement and elbow March when he tries to stop me, without much success—I’m not even sure he felt it. Erwin’s men are taking Dries outside, toward a pair of black minivans that just parked on the tarmac. I free myself from March’s grip for the second time and tell Erwin, “I’m going with you.”
March is at my side again in a heartbeat, like a goddamn piece of gum. “Island, no! He’s baiting you . . . Dries knows what he’s doing.”
Erwin doesn’t move. He waits, his smile a terrifying invitation. I take another step forward when a powerful roar freezes me to the bone. “March, sorg vir jou damn vrou!” March, take care of your damn woman!
I stare at Dries through the windows, stunned. On the snowy tarmac, he’s stopped and turned to face us, his gaze smoldering with rage. Yet he doesn’t scare me. I instinctively know that his anger isn’t directed at me or even at March. I leap forward; I want to go to him—need to. It’s my legs, my heart doing all the thinking now.
But I go nowhere, caught midair by March’s arms. He hauls me back, and I shriek and kick in vain as Erwin’s men usher Dries into one the vans and the door slides shut, leaving only black windows reflecting the snow and the lampposts’ bleary light.
With the faintest shrug, Erwin turns his back on me and leaves, escorted by a few remaining men wearing ordinary suits rather than military gear. Like a vise slowly tightening around my torso, March’s embrace crushes me, kills the fight in me. I pant, croak as the vans start driving away, but I’m too exhausted; I can’t break free.
It’s only after they’re gone that March releases his hold. I scramble away and glare at him. “They’ll never let him go, and you know it!”
A tired sigh deflates him. “Island, I think he made the right decision.”
I stare down at the floor, at the tips of my boots, muddy. His, spit-shined. “Let me go,” I grind out at last. “I don’t want to see that Viktor guy, and I never asked for your help. I want to go to the US embassy, and I’ll figure out my options there.”
Isiporho runs a hand across his face while in front of me, March has turned to stone. His chest heaves, and his fingers curl, as if he is about to lose his temper, but they unfurl almost as soon. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t do that.”
“Then”—I swallow to steady my voice—“how are you any better than Anies?”