Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7 Irina Spasky was furious at herself. She'd throw herself into a gulag if she could. She deserved icy weather, thin blankets, one rotten turnip for supper. How could she let two amateurs, two children, give her the slip? And if she had to eat another falafel, she'd gag. You couldn't find a plain boiled potato anywhere in this crazy country. Enough with foreign food. Enough with the tourist disguise. Disgustedly, she peeled off the I WANT MY MUMMY T-shirt. Underneath it she wore a plain black T-shirt from the Gap. A little secret known only to her—she did love that American Gap. T-shirts in every color! She sat in a chair in her cheap hotel room and looked down at the crazy traffic. She pressed a finger against her eye,

which had started to twitch. She had to think. She had almost had those kids, twice, and she'd lost them! Was she slipping? She wanted back on her home ground. She had done some operations in Cairo when she was with the KGB. She didn't operate well here. The people were too friendly. If you asked someone for directions, they'd walk with you and take you there. And it was so hot. Soon the snows would be covering the steppes in Russia, and here it was well over ninety degrees. She turned the ceiling fan to the highest setting. She had another pair of brats on her hands— Ian and Natalie Kabra. They were supposed to be working together, and those two know-it-alls kept trying to double-cross her. Now they were in Kyrgyzstan, not answering their cell phones. She'd finally had to resort to calling their parents. And she never liked to talk to the Kabras. They had a history together, and she trusted them even less than their kids. Those two. Geniuses, but stupid. Just like their parents.

Their parents… Irina shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memory. She never thought about things she couldn't change. Things in the past. Except suddenly, here in Cairo, she found herself thinking about Grace Cahill. It had been years ago that the Lucians had called a top-level meeting to discuss the Grace Cahill problem. They knew Grace had collected many Clues. She seemed to have a genius for it. Even the Lucians had to admit that. She had to be stopped. It was Irina who had come up with the idea of the alliance. Just a ruse, of course. But it could be a way to get close to Grace, to learn something. Irina had offered herself to be the go-between. The cheese in the mousetrap. She had met with Grace. Alone, and face-toface. The conversation had been short. It was clear that Grace hadn't believed Irina for a moment. You're trying to play me for a fool, but it is you, Irina, who is the fool, Grace had said. You offer an alliance as a ruse instead of a reality. It is the curse

of the Lucians to think they can do everything alone. Irina had walked away furious. Nobody called her a fool. Nobody. Talks resumed on the Grace Cahill problem. Plans discussed and discarded. Overtures to others. Shaky alliances agreed to in order to attack a shared problem. All to the good. Except… the plan had been agreed on, and everything had gone wrong. Horribly wrong. Grace's daughter and sonin- law had lost their lives in that fire. She would never forget the day of the funeral. Irina knew it was not her place to go, yet she couldn't stay away. It hadn't been to gloat, no matter what Grace thought. Grace's face had been so white and still. The loss of her beloved daughter, her treasured son-in-law, the tragedy of her orphaned grandchildren— she had seemed years older. She moved like an old woman and her eyes held limitless grief. Her hands shook as she tossed roses onto the caskets as they were lowered into the earth. Irina had wanted to say, I too have known such

grief. But she didn't. She wanted to say, I walked the streets of Moscow like a ghost. I lost my soul, I lost my heart. She wanted to say, They think that grief is noisy, Grace. They think you'll cry and wail. But I know that grief is as silent as snow. I too have lost a child. She said none of these things. Her memories were her own. She had sealed them off. The only relic of that time was an eye that twitched when she was under emotional stress. That day she had blamed Grace for forcing her to recall her memories. She had been brusque and chilly. She had said to Grace, "Fate has no scruples. These things happen." These things happen, she had said to a mother who had just lost a child. She'd heard her own words echo and been shocked at their coldness. She'd wanted to turn back. She'd wanted to show compassion, to be a person with blood in her veins. But she hadn't. Instead, she had felt Grace's

contempt run over her, like wave after wave from the cold Bering Strait. Then, in a flash, contempt turned to suspicion. Irina had not been able to meet Grace's eyes. So, to say the least, she had been surprised to be invited to Grace's funeral. It was only when she knew the other Cahills were invited that she decided to go. All of them in one room. All those ancient hatreds. And Grace as the puppet master. Had Grace set a trap that she couldn't see? Who was the cheese? Who was the mouse? What is your plan, Grace? You always had a plan. Those grandchildren—why did Grace include them? They couldn't possibly beat the rest of the Cahills for the Clues. They were years behind in knowledge and training. Too late to catch up. They had been lucky so far. Only that. Two children without anyone to help them, running on fear and loss… Fear. Loss. The things I've known. The things I've seen…