Page 69 of Ford
RJ, for one, felt a little safer with York untied.
“Who is your father?” York said. “The head of the FSB?”
Coco ignored him and turned back to RJ. “I always knew he wasn’t dead, but my mother begged me to keep it quiet, and it wasn’t hard for me to remember why we left Russia in the first place.”
RJ frowned. “I thought your mother wanted to start over.”
“Oh, she did. And hide, of course. Because she knew if people knew who I was, they’d try and kidnap me. Maybe murder me.”
“I take it back. He’s head of the Russian mafia,” York snapped.
Coco gave a huff that sounded like a chuckle. “No. That would be way too easy.” She turned back to RJ. “When I came back, I started working for him, but only from a distance. I run his internet security. When you showed up, I contacted him because I think you need to tell him what happened and why you think he’s still in trouble.”
She stood and held out her hand. “Having the FSB cart you out of the building was the safest way to protect you. Most people won’t say anything if they see FSB.”
RJ was starting to get that feeling—the one she had when Roy called, left a message, and asked for a meet in Prague. The one she had when she’d called her boss for the tenth time and got no answer.
The feeling she’d had as she’d stood under the street lamp and saw Stanislov’s body jerk with the impact of a bullet.
The same feeling she’d had when Ford said, so many years ago,Jump in, the water’s fine!
Brace yourself. Because you’re about to get in over your head.
“For the love of Pete, who is your father?” York practically roared. He was standing now, and Coco reached out her hand to pull RJ to her feet.
She looked at York. “Please, behave yourselves. Don’t turn me into a fool.” Then she turned and headed toward the door. “C’mon. My father, General Boris Stanislov, wants to meet you.”
It took a moment—the name simply hovered in the air, leaving RJ frozen, and next to her, York hadn’t moved either.
“What—?” York said. “No—what?” He started to follow Coco, then turned and grabbed RJ’s hand, holding it so tight she should probably wince.
But she just tightened hers around his and held on as they walked out into the cool summer air. The smell of wild roses that twined up the stone pool house, the freshly cut grass, the rush of wind through the towering pines that edged the property all turned the entire ordeal surreal.
This was not what she thought the gulag would be like.
Coco waited for them by the door to the house. “My father was coming to power when the first kidnapping attempt happened. My mother was working at Moscow University as an English professor at the time. I was coming home from school with my driver—a new guy—and he brought me to an ice cream parlor. I had a bad feeling about it and locked myself in the bathroom. My father and his men finally rescued me, but we knew this was the beginning. My father had just been elected to the duma. Shortly after that my mother and I moved to America.”
She opened the door to the house.
“I’m my father’s only daughter, and he figured if no one knew about me or where I was, I’d be safe.”
York turned to RJ as they entered, met her eyes, his mouth a grim line. “Stay close to me,” he subvocalized.
Clearly, he didn’t believe a word Coco was saying.
And, yes, given the circumstances, everything she knew about Coco was blowing apart in bits and pieces.
But it did make sense. Her sudden appearance in Montana so many years ago. Her name change—from Katya to a more American version, Coco.
Her mother’s reluctance to take photographs. The fact they lived in a secluded area of Montana with little cell reception, at least back then.
They walked through an entryway with tall ceilings, more ornate molding, and into a large room with giant windows that overlooked the courtyard. A large green rug covered the wooden parquet floor, a molded fireplace flickered with flame despite the summer air, and giant pictures of stately politicians from a bygone era stared down from the walls. Overstuffed gold sofas faced each other, separated by a glass coffee table.
A man stood with his back to them, dressed in a maroon bathrobe. Balding, with a ring of gray-white hair slicked back from his face, he wore a scarf around his neck, and what looked like suit pants and slippers.
“Papa?” Coco said in Russian. “She’s here.”
The man nodded, without turning. Silence. Then, “I guess I owe you my life.”