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Page 6.

“Married?”

“Divorced. I have four children, all now in their twenties and in college or working, all in California or Washington State. I go back to visit every few months. My ex and I are on speaking terms, and the kids are now grown up. I am free to do what I want.”

“So you come to visit Anadyr. Of all the places on earth, I cannot imagine why.”

“Because I was born here.”

A chill ran through her. He was about her age. “Did I ever know you as a child?”

“It’s possible.”

“You lived here in town as a child?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind that I ask so many questions?”

He shrugged. “Everything in due time. Water finds its own level, as they say in the United States.”

The conversation trailed off in a stalemate. They trudged along behind the porter, who pushed his cart with her luggage on it to the new hotel area beside the terminal. For a few moments, they endured biting wind and blowing, frozen grit. Moments later, they were in a modern hotel lobby—modest, functional, but clean—that smelled of floor polish and cooked, salty cabbage.

“You are a man who takes care of everything.”

“You have children, Marianne?”

“Three sons, two married, one a career officer in the French navy, all professionals in great careers. The oldest is Tim, the next Louis, the youngest Bernard. I have three grandchildren as well.”

“Lucky you. Wealthy family?”

“That too.”

“And Mr.—?”

“Widowed. He died in a plane crash, racing in Spain. Something rich men do.” That memory of Barcelona was a ruddy blur in her mind. A smouldering hole in the ground, full of twisted scrap and upturned soil, along with a spray of small body parts. Ambulance crew led speechless Marianne away, while fire fighters retrieved what was left for burial, later held in the family mausoleum in Provençe. Nicolas had been the only male heir, and with his death both family fortunes flowed to Marianne for her sons. Months of depression and despair. A turning point. From there, the play scene was never the same again. In a way, Marianne could thank Nicolas for pointing the way to a new life. She’d gotten wilder than ever for a while, until she’d had to stay with a middle-aged friend whose 18 year old daughter had just died of a heroin overdose in a Brussels flop house. That had been the other shoe to drop.

“I am sorry to hear about it.”

“It was long ago.”

“And you never remarried?”

“I was an international playgirl. My husband and I were both tabloid stars without ever meaning to be. We just played and played.”

She began to suspect that he knew a lot more about her than he was telling her. Like a fox, she decided to keep still, be clever, and watch him. Words and questions were cheap. Curiosity killed the cat. She would catch him, maybe, if he lied or something. She’d play it by ear.

The porter led them across the hotel lobby on a durable, merlot-colored carpet. Nayden tipped the man, who left her luggage for a bellman to next pick up, on the next Western-style tipping leg to her room upstairs.

Nayden Marinov showed no sign of getting pushy about her privacy, her bed, sex, or anything of that sort. He remained formal, aloof, and yet somehow uncomfortably, mysteriously familiar. He said: “Wait here—I’ll talk to the concierge and get you all set up.”

Amused, Marianne waited by her luggage. She could have checked in herself, and carried her own bags up in the elevator. But protocol was protocol. She’d been in Moscow only recently, to visit with the retired, former KGB colonel, Uncle Viktor. She knew how bad things could be—although these Arctic wastelands had a unique talent for redefining ‘awful’ in new ways. Life was harsh in these places. She shivered to think how lucky she had been that, after Mama’s death, the rich Parisian couple had adopted her.

Nayden returned, surreptitiously putting his wallet in a pocket under his coat. He must have tipped someone again.

“I will reimburse you for all expenses,” she said.

“Don’t worry—I’m running a tab. You’ll need to sign for me at the end. Can I buy you coffee and a sandwich? The food isn’t bad here in the cafeteria.”

“Sure. Travel builds up an appetite.”

They sat at coral-red, functional tables and chairs in a lounge overlooking the main runway. Between them on the table sat two coffee services and two plates of fish delicacies with good bread and butter. Coffee, tea, and beer beckoned from glass windows set in stainless steel serving trays.

“You didn’t need this,” Marianne said, meaning the job.

He squirmed pleasantly. “No, I didn’t. It’s just…something that came along. I was curious. I couldn’t resist.”

“Are you satisfied?”

“They call you the American,” he said, “but you speak with a slight French accent. You are educated, and you studied American English.”

“I am French. You’re right. You are a detective. Are you sure you are not a spy?”

He grinned. “Sometimes we are all spies. Especially we former Soviets.”

“But you must feel more American after thirty years in Seattle.”

“I do.” He spoke reassuringly. “I’m a stranger here, as much as you are.” Seeing her look, he added: “Something made you come back here also. I don’t have to explain myself too much.”