Mama answered the door.
"Mama, may I introduce Vasily Sobieski?"
She did not move, but stood still as if frozen in place and looked at him steadily. "I carried you out." She spoke Russian.
"Yes. I remember."
"You were four years old."
Papa called from another room.
Mama stepped aside and ushered us in. "It's Alex, Feodor," she called. "She has brought...someone."
She looked again at Vasily. "You've grown tall and good-looking." She seemed to debate her next comment before saying it. "You favor your father — in looks."
"Yes," he said. "I favor my father."
"I brought you to an Austrian family. That was your mother's instruction. A well-to-do family. They had a son a year or two older, and a Polish housekeeper. Michael, I think they called him. The boy, I mean. Did you get on well?"
"We grew up like brothers."
"Good. Good. Please, sit down."
"No, thank you. I will stand."
He stood with his back to the fireplace, hands in his pockets. Papa's chair was in the corner on his right, another chair, the one my mother had indicated when inviting him to sit, was on his left, the front door behind it. In front of him was the sofa, where I sat down next to Mama, my jaw still dragging the floor. Behind me was the one hallway that led to all the other rooms in the house. There had once been a separate entrance to the kitchen to the right of Papa's chair, but my father had closed it up. Having too many doors was only appropriate in certain buildings, he said, not in his home.
Papa came in from the hallway, paused, then sat in his chair.
"Please," he said to Vasily, "sit down."
Vasily stayed where he was.
"Papa," I said. "this is..."
"Yes, I know, Alex."
"Papa, I'm to tell you Buddy said 'Hi,' and..."
"Buddy?" He looked at Vasily, his jaw clenched. "Still your babysitter?"
"We know him as Frank," said Vasily.
"We? You're still together then? Where are the others?"
"Elsewhere."
"You must be uncomfortable." Papa put his hand to his forehead. "Of course. My apologies. Here, take my seat. I'm well out of it; I'll sit with my back to the door." He got up and sat in the other chair.
Vasily sat in Papa's chair.
Papa turned to me and said, "You know Alex, there are some animals that cannot sleep unless they are touching a secure surface. These guys are like that."
I was still processing my mother’s words and did not know what he was talking about. But he was about to tell me.
"I hear you're major league now," Papa said to Vasily. "Is that true?"
"I am not acquainted with American jargon," Vasily answered.
Frank's words seemed to fit here, so I interrupted. "Frank said to tell you he's on the all star team."
My father's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Charlemagne is number one now, is it?" he said. "Where's the team captain, the one with the knife?"
Vasily did not answer.
"And the wiz kid, the Frenchman? Listening in, I imagine." Papa stretched his neck and leaned over each side of the chair, as if looking for something.
"I thought you said you were well out of it?" said Vasily.
"I keep up with the news. I assigned Frank to you guys, you know. Long ago, when you were trigger happy brats and Frank showed some potential. I understand you're quite a weapons man. It fits, given your history. Next question is, what are you doing with my daughter?"
"We are not sure about her."
"Frank told you she's clear, surely."
"His information is not always accurate."
"It's as accurate as it gets."
"People are more informative than files."
Papa scratched his chin. "Whatever this is, it must be big, and it's going wrong."
"Yes."
"And my daughter?"
"She turns up every time it goes wrong."
"Well, I assure you, she's not in the game. Where is Frank, by the way? With the other two? What's he think he's doing?"
"He thinks he is doing his best."
"His best to stay alive, I imagine. Is my daughter the only reason you're here?"
"No."
"I thought not. Your father?"
There was a pause before Vasily answered, in a low, flat voice, staring at the carpet in front of him. "I was told he was shot with his own gun."
I looked at his face, wondering what was going on, what on earth these people, people I had thought I knew, were talking about. Vasily looked up. His gray eyes held no expression, no emotion at all. They were one way mirrors. He could look out, but I could see nothing inside. My parents had suddenly arrived from another planet.
"Don't look at me!" said Papa. "I was just his babysitter. I never touched his gun."
"What's a babysitter, Papa?" I was tired of ignorance.
"A babysitter controls a specialist, Alex. He provides the logistics support he needs: cars, safe houses, papers, that sort of thing, helps locate and isolate the target, and," he looked pointedly at Vasily, "keeps him from contaminating the local populace. Something Frank's not managing too well."
Vasily shrugged. "There has been some question as to whether your daughter qualifies as a member of the local populace."
"That's all we have ever wanted her to be," said Mama. She leaned forward when she said this, treating Vasily to one of her more malevolent gazes.
"She has picked up some traits then, in spite of your efforts."
"Yes. In spite of our best efforts."
"I have a right to know what's going on now, Papa," I interrupted again quickly. "Tell me what a specialist is."
"You have no such right, young lady," said Papa. "But I suppose sometimes the lack of information can be as dangerous as the possession of it. Maybe you need to know."
He looked at Vasily briefly. Vasily was looking at the floor again, but he raised his clear eyes and watched my face as Papa explained.
"A specialist is someone who does what has to be done when no one else will do it. He hunts terrorists, solves strategic problems. Other words? Hunter. Killer. Assassin. Most of them work roughly along ideological lines, but they belong to no government. They are for hire."
Somehow, I had suspected this, but the spoken word hurt. I could not look at Vasily. I studied my hands in my lap as my father continued.
"Your friend here is the explosives expert for the best specialist team in the world. Their success record is one hundred percent. Never beaten."
I was beginning to cry, but Papa was not finished.
"The reason they are so successful is because they are very smart, very skilled, and totally ruthless. That is why Buddy is their babysitter. He is the best we have and it takes the best to keep such a weapon from exploding in our faces."
My tears were not entirely for Vasily. My father's involvement was an alien idea to me, though I finally understood some of his eccentricities. "We?" I asked. "Do you mean the government? You weren't — Frank isn't — one of them?"
"No. I was not a specialist. I worked for Uncle Sam. But don't take relief from that, Alex. In any world were responsibility is understood and taken seriously, there are no grades of guilt, only levels of skill."
"Uncle Sam? But you were Russian."
"No, I wasn't."
"You were born in Leningrad."
"No. Cincinnati."
Vasily interrupted. "We are wasting time," he said impatiently. "Will you tell me about my father, or not?"
Papa did not answer him. He turned to me instead. I felt rather than saw Vasily's exasperation. I still could not bring myself to look at him.
"Alex," said Papa. "A specialist's greatest nightmare is to die by his own gun. It means treachery, betrayal. Usually, only one other person has access to it. Usually, that is his lover. A team is slightly different, since they all have access, and all their lovers. They take a bigger risk in treachery, but they have greater safety with someon
e to cover their backs, so they can sleep. Do you see?"
I saw, but I did not know why he was telling me this.
He turned to Vasily. "Your father was an ace. Only one person had access."
Mama spoke then, gently, so gentle, in fact, that I had to look at her to make sure it was her speaking. She spoke in Russian. "There was no choice," she said. "You were directly threatened. It was your father or you."
I finally managed a glance at Vasily. He sat like a stone.
"And my mother?"
"They took her before they knew he was dead," said Mama. "They knew who she was, knew she had access. You were on your way to Austria when she died."
She turned to me. "Help me make some coffee, Alex."
I did not want to go, but the signals from both my parents were unmistakable and imperative. In the kitchen, I could hear the murmur of the two men in the other room. I wanted to listen, but Mama planted herself in front of me, took both my shoulders in her hands and said, "Listen. That man in there, is he anything to you?"
I did not know what to say. Indeed, I did not know what to feel.
"If he is or if he isn't, I will tell you anyway. I saw his father dead, Alex. but more important, I saw him before he was dead, and he was already a corpse. Do you understand me, Alex? He was already a corpse. His soul was murdered bit by bit with every killing. He was an animal, there was no human in that body. He was a collection of finely honed reflexes, nothing more. That man in there," she pointed to the living room, "is the same. He is empty. He is a corpse."
"All men can change, Mama. You have said it many times."
"No. Not this man. You don't understand. Even if he did turn, his enemies would kill him immediately. Don't you see? For him to quit, to really quit, he has to stop defending himself. He is hunted. He is always under attack. To stop means death, for him and for anyone close to him. I give him five days, no more. Don't think you can do it, Alex. It is more likely he would turn you, make an animal of you. You are too young."
"But I am strong, Mama."
"You think you are."
"We must face all our choices with courage. You detest cowards, especially moral cowards, as much as I do."
"Yes, but there is a difference between a hero and a fool."
We made coffee and brought a tray to the living room, but Vasily was standing, ready to leave.
"Alex can stay here tonight," said Papa. "I will take her home in the morning."
Vasily looked at me. "I will take you home now," he said.
"It's no trouble," said my father. "I will take her."
Vasily's gaze was steady. I could not read it. "It is your choice, Alex," he said quietly.
I went home with Vasily.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN