Chapter 73 Nikolai
The last file closed with a soft click and Damien slid the folder across the desk toward me without ceremony.
"That's everything," he said, leaning back in his chair in the small office they'd been using as a base for the past six months, "the Kozlov network is dismantled, the weapons shipments are intercepted, and we have enough testimony to put away three dozen people who thought they were untouchable."
I nodded and looked at the folder without opening it because I didn't need to see the details, I'd lived them for half a year, traveling between London and Prague and Moscow and Istanbul gathering evidence and making recordings and testifying in closed hearings where my face was never shown and my name was never spoken.
"Your end of the bargain," I said.
Damien pulled out another folder, thicker than the first, and opened it to show me documents with official seals and signatures. "Nikolai Volkov died in FBI custody six months ago from complications after a gunshot wound, the death certificate is filed in three countries and his assets have been distributed to various creditors and government agencies, as far as the world is concerned you don't exist anymore."
He slid a passport across the desk and I picked it up and looked at the photo, my face but a different name, Thomas Reid, British citizen, born in Manchester, software consultant.
"The identity is completely clean," Damien continued, "bank accounts, tax records, employment history, everything traces back twenty years with no gaps or inconsistencies, you could walk into MI6 headquarters and apply for a job and the background check would clear."
"And Marlena?" I asked.
"Maria Bianchi," he said, pulling out a third folder, "living in Tuscany with her daughter, quiet life, no trouble, we've been keeping an eye on her to make sure she stays safe but from a distance like you requested."
He pushed a single photograph across the desk and I picked it up with hands that weren't quite steady.
Marlena stood in a garden holding a baby with dark hair and even in the grainy surveillance photo I could see the grey eyes looking out at the camera, my eyes in my daughter's face.
"She's beautiful," Damien said, and there was something almost kind in his voice, "looks just like you."
I couldn't speak because my throat had closed up completely and I just stared at the photo of my daughter, six months old and I'd never held her, never heard her cry or laugh or seen her smile.
"We're done," Damien said, standing and offering his hand, "you fulfilled your end and I've fulfilled mine, you're free to go wherever you want and be whoever you want as long as you stay dead."
I shook his hand and he held it for a moment longer than necessary.
"For what it's worth," he said, "you did good work, saved a lot of lives, maybe that counts for something."
I didn't answer because I didn't know if it counted for anything or if six months of helping MI6 could balance out fifteen years of helping weapons move through the world, but it didn't matter now, what mattered was getting to Tuscany before I lost my nerve.
The flight to Florence was short and I spent it staring out the window at clouds that looked solid enough to walk on, thinking about what I'd say to Marlena when I saw her, how I'd explain six months of silence, whether she'd even want to see me after I'd bled on that beach and left her alone with our baby.
I rented a car at the airport and drove into the hills following the address Damien had given me, through small villages where old men sat outside cafes and vineyards stretched endless on both sides of the narrow road.
The house appeared just as the sun was starting to set, white stone with terracotta roof tiles and a porch that wrapped around the front, surrounded by grapevines that were heavy with fruit ready for harvest.
I parked down the road and walked the last quarter mile because I needed time to breathe and think and prepare myself for whatever came next.
The porch came into view and I stopped walking because there she was.
Marlena sat in a wooden chair with the baby in her lap and they were looking at something together, a book maybe or just the sunset, and even from this distance I could see how she'd changed, her hair longer and her face softer and the way she held our daughter careful and confident like she'd been doing it forever.
My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat and my hands were shaking and I took one step forward and then another until I was close enough that she might hear me if I spoke.
But I didn't speak because I couldn't find words that felt big enough.
She looked up like she'd sensed something and her eyes found me standing there in the shadows between the vines and for a second she didn't move, just stared like she was seeing a ghost.
Then her mouth opened and she made a sound that was half gasp and half sob and she stood up so fast the chair rocked backward.
"Nikolai," she said, and my name in her voice after six months of silence broke something open in my chest.
She ran to me with the baby still in her arms and I met her halfway and pulled them both against me so tight I was afraid I might hurt them but I couldn't make myself let go.
Marlena was crying into my shoulder and saying my name over and over while I held her and breathed in the smell of her hair and felt her body shaking against mine.
"You're alive," she said when she could finally speak, pulling back just enough to look at my face with tears streaming down hers, "you're alive, I thought you were dead, they took you away and I never heard anything and I thought you were dead."
"I'm sorry," I said, and my own voice was breaking, "I'm so sorry, Damien made me work for him, I couldn't contact you until it was finished, I wanted to but I couldn't risk them finding you."
She kissed me then hard and desperate and I kissed her back while the baby between us made small sounds of protest at being squished.
We pulled apart and I looked down at my daughter for the first time and she looked back at me with those grey eyes so serious and careful, studying my face like she was trying to decide if I was trustworthy.
"This is Elena," Marlena said softly, adjusting the baby so I could see her better, "your daughter."
I reached out with a shaking hand and touched her tiny face and she grabbed my finger with her whole hand and held on tight.
"Hi Elena," I said, and my voice came out as barely a whisper, "I'm your daddy, I'm sorry it took me so long to meet you."
The baby made a cooing sound and smiled and something in my chest cracked completely open.
Marlena transferred Elena into my arms and I held her carefully like she was made of glass, supporting her head the way I'd seen in videos and books I'd studied secretly during my months with MI6, and she looked up at me with complete trust like she knew somehow that I was hers.
Tears were running down my face and I didn't try to stop them, just let them fall onto Elena's soft hair while I held her close and felt Marlena's arms come around both of us.
"We're together now," Marlena said, and I could hear the hope in her voice mixed with the tears, "we're finally together."
I looked at her over our daughter's head and saw everything I'd ever wanted reflected back in her eyes.
"I love you," I said, "both of you, more than anything."
"We love you too," Marlena said, and she leaned her head against my shoulder while I held our daughter and watched the sun finish setting over the Tuscan hills.
Nikolai meets his daughter for the first time. He cries happy tears on her tiny head.