emphasise how little he feared her.
Pain was creeping into her raw hands. Shakily Amelia pulled her gloves on again and started walking back to the hotel for lack of a better option. She stuck her hands into her coat pockets, hoping warmth would ease the soreness. There: salvation. Her fingers closed around something familiar. Her wallet! How had it ended up there?
It came back to her. When she’d paid and loaded the heavy books into her bag, she’d stuck the wallet into her coat pocket to keep it out of the way and had forgotten to put it back. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Her cards and room key were safe. The thug wouldn’t know where she was staying.
Twenty minutes later Amelia entered her hotel room, still shaking. She threw off her coat and walked across to the wardrobe. She sank down on her knees to be eye level with the room safe and punched in her security code. She knew it was irrational, but she had to be sure. The door swung open.
Nothing had changed. Nothing was gone. Her phone, money and a few other valuables were safe. Why wouldn’t they be? For a moment, happiness erased her pain and shock.
Her notes, her carefully compiled and even more carefully guarded clippings were gone, though. Everything about her return to Russia was encapsulated in that small collection. What would she do without them? Amelia could feel panic rising in her chest at the thought that her reassuring stash of information was gone.
Hold on. Breathe. Get a grip, she told herself. It wouldn’t be too difficult to collect the information again. Besides, didn’t she know just about every word that was written in there anyway? Slowly she started to breathe normally again. It wasn’t the end of the world.
There were always stories doing the rounds in expat circles of people having their purses slashed or stolen in the metro or of being mugged on the street. Had she lost her edge, that crucial constant awareness you needed to survive in a big city, especially a nasty one like Moscow?
And then another thought.
What if the attack hadn’t been random? What if it had been planned, what if someone had come looking for her? If that was true, if it wasn’t random, her closely guarded secret was now in someone else’s hands.
8
W hen Amelia stepped through the door, she immediately surveyed the vast room, wondering for the hundredth time how, and why, she’d let Mara persuade her to agree to a second meeting with Nick Sanford.
Two days after Mara’s party she was still irritated by the whole thing and had very nearly not come. If she was honest, she was mainly annoyed with herself for not staying in control, for letting someone else, however dear, take the initiative away from her. This was no one else’s fight to fight, something she had been so adamant about, but after a long debate, Mara had convinced her that she had nothing to lose by meeting him again. Which may or may not be true, but she had also tired of arguing her point and had ended up giving in. Besides, the weekend was beginning to feel very long, and the chance of filling the hours until the next day’s meeting with the new ambassador with something at least potentially useful was better than sitting in her hotel room.
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Mara’s persistence had caused her to start doubting her conviction that it would be best if she alone chased the few remaining leads, especially after what had happened the previous day during her bookshop outing. Eventually she’d told herself that if she didn’t like or trust the man Mara continued praising to the high heavens, she could simply opt not to involve him. It was the only way she could make her defeat feel palatable, the only thing that made it possible for her to maintain a sense of control.
At a corner table pushed close to the large windows that looked out onto Tverskaya Street she saw Nick Sanford, the man who’d been seated next to her at Mara’s dinner. She wondered how
Pain was creeping into her raw hands. Shakily Amelia pulled her gloves on again and started walking back to the hotel for lack of a better option. She stuck her hands into her coat pockets, hoping warmth would ease the soreness. There: salvation. Her fingers closed around something familiar. Her wallet! How had it ended up there?
It came back to her. When she’d paid and loaded the heavy books into her bag, she’d stuck the wallet into her coat pocket to keep it out of the way and had forgotten to put it back. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Her cards and room key were safe. The thug wouldn’t know where she was staying.
Twenty minutes later Amelia entered her hotel room, still shaking. She threw off her coat and walked across to the wardrobe. She sank down on her knees to be eye level with the room safe and punched in her security code. She knew it was irrational, but she had to be sure. The door swung open.
Nothing had changed. Nothing was gone. Her phone, money and a few other valuables were safe. Why wouldn’t they be? For a moment, happiness erased her pain and shock.
Her notes, her carefully compiled and even more carefully guarded clippings were gone, though. Everything about her return to Russia was encapsulated in that small collection. What would she do without them? Amelia could feel panic rising in her chest at the thought that her reassuring stash of information was gone.
Hold on. Breathe. Get a grip, she told herself. It wouldn’t be too difficult to collect the information again. Besides, didn’t she know just about every word that was written in there anyway? Slowly she started to breathe normally again. It wasn’t the end of the world.
There were always stories doing the rounds in expat circles of people having their purses slashed or stolen in the metro or of being mugged on the street. Had she lost her edge, that crucial constant awareness you needed to survive in a big city, especially a nasty one like Moscow?
And then another thought.
What if the attack hadn’t been random? What if it had been planned, what if someone had come looking for her? If that was true, if it wasn’t random, her closely guarded secret was now in someone else’s hands.
8
W hen Amelia stepped through the door, she immediately surveyed the vast room, wondering for the hundredth time how, and why, she’d let Mara persuade her to agree to a second meeting with Nick Sanford.
Two days after Mara’s party she was still irritated by the whole thing and had very nearly not come. If she was honest, she was mainly annoyed with herself for not staying in control, for letting someone else, however dear, take the initiative away from her. This was no one else’s fight to fight, something she had been so adamant about, but after a long debate, Mara had convinced her that she had nothing to lose by meeting him again. Which may or may not be true, but she had also tired of arguing her point and had ended up giving in. Besides, the weekend was beginning to feel very long, and the chance of filling the hours until the next day’s meeting with the new ambassador with something at least potentially useful was better than sitting in her hotel room.
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Mara’s persistence had caused her to start doubting her conviction that it would be best if she alone chased the few remaining leads, especially after what had happened the previous day during her bookshop outing. Eventually she’d told herself that if she didn’t like or trust the man Mara continued praising to the high heavens, she could simply opt not to involve him. It was the only way she could make her defeat feel palatable, the only thing that made it possible for her to maintain a sense of control.
At a corner table pushed close to the large windows that looked out onto Tverskaya Street she saw Nick Sanford, the man who’d been seated next to her at Mara’s dinner. She wondered how
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