Frozen debts

The biting Moscow wind felt like it was trying to peel the skin from my face as I leaned against a concrete pillar, the glow of my phone screen the only warmth in sight. I pulled up my encrypted messaging app and found Sera’s name.

I hesitated. Getting in touch with Sera was like playing with a short fuse. She was loyal, but she was also married to Elena, and Elena’s patience for me had worn dangerously thin when Sera mentioned my name the other day. Contacting her now was a guaranteed way to start a domestic firestorm in their household, but I didn't have the luxury of being polite. I knew that in this city of mirrors, Sera had likely seen everything and heard everything that had transpired at the airfield.

I need a lead on the hangar attendant at Sheremetyevo, Hangar 4, I typed. The old man. He was fired two hours ago because of me. I know that you saw everything and most likely heard everything.

I stared at the "Read" receipt. Five seconds. Ten. Then, the typing bubbles appeared, hesitant and flickering.

Marie, for the love of God, the reply came back. Elena is literally sitting across from me right now. You’re going to get me killed.

Then it’ll be a crowded funeral, I shot back. I need his name and address. Now.

Another long pause followed. I could almost feel the tension radiating from the digital connection. Then: I know the man you’re talking about. His name is Viktor Volkov. He’s been a fixture at that hangar since the Soviet era.

A file landed in the chat—a scanned ID card and a residential address located in a crumbling district on the far northern edge of the city.

Thank you, Sera. I owe you. Tell Elena I’ll buy her a bottle of something expensive to make up for the frustration.

Just stay alive so you can actually deliver it, she replied, and the chat cleared itself into a void of white space.

I pocketed the phone. Bob and Polina were tucked away in the secured suite at the Metropol, likely surrounded by security details and high-end room service. They were safe for now, insulated by gold leaf and bulletproof glass. I, however, had a ghost to chase.

I flagged a taxi, a battered Lada that smelled of diesel, stale tobacco, and old upholstery. The driver, a man with a face like a crumpled road map, didn't even look at me as I climbed in.

"Where to?" he grunted, his voice a low gravelly rumble.

I gave him the address on the outskirts of the city. He paused, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of my coat and the way I carried myself. "That’s a long way from the center of the city, lady. You sure you have the right district? There's nothing out there but salt, concrete and crime."

"I’m sure," I said, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "Just drive. I’ll make it worth the fuel."

He shrugged, shifting the car into gear with a violent lurch. "Your funeral. It’s a bad night to be a stranger in the North."

As we pulled away from the glittering, neon-soaked lights of central Moscow, the scenery shifted into the grey, monolithic apartment blocks of the outer rings—the "sleeping districts" where the architecture was as brutal as the climate.

The trip took nearly forty minutes, the city’s pulse fading into a low, industrial hum. This was the part of Moscow the tourists never saw—the place where the people who kept the city running went to disappear when the world was done with them. Viktor Volkov had lost everything today for a woman he didn't even know, and I wasn't going to let him sleep in the cold.

The Lada screeched to a halt in front of a building that looked more like a tombstone than a home. I stepped out, the frost instantly biting through my leggings. The driver rolled down his window, the cold air rushing into the cab.

"You need a weapon?" he asked, his hand drifting toward the glove box. "Or should I stay?"

"I'm fine," I said, pulling my coat tighter. "You can leave."

He shook his head, his expression darkening as he looked at the shadowed entrance of the apartment block. "I'm uncomfortable leaving you here without a weapon," he said, his voice dropping. "And certainly uncomfortable leaving you by yourself. This isn't a place for someone like you."

I leaned into the open window, my face inches from his, letting the coldness in my eyes match the air outside. "It’s safer for you to leave," I said, my voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to draw blood. "I leave dead bodies in my wake."

The driver didn't say a word. His eyes widened, and before I could even straighten up, he slammed the car into gear and floored it. The sudden jerk of the Lada knocked me off balance, and I stumbled back onto the icy asphalt. He made it about twenty yards before the brake lights flared. Realizing he still had my belongings, he threw the car into a frantic reverse, skidding back toward me.

He leaned across the seat, shoved my bag out through the passenger window onto the snow, and then sped off for real this time, his tires screaming against the frozen road. I stood alone in the silence, watching his taillights vanish into the dark.

I hoisted my bag and crunched through the frozen slush toward the front door of the Voltek residence. The smell of boiled cabbage and damp concrete emanated through the paper thin walls. Once I got to the door, I noticed the number peeling, and then I knocked with a firm, rhythmic persistence.

The door creaked open just a crack, then swung wide. A woman stood there, her face etched with years of hard winters. The moment her eyes landed on my face, the color drained from her skin. She didn't need anything to recognize the woman who had cost her husband forty years of stability.

"You!" she hissed, her voice rising into a sharp scream. "How dare you come here? You destroyed us! He is an old man, and because of you, we have nothing! No pension, no job, nothing!"

She began to yell, her words a chaotic blame and fear, her hands waving wildly as if to ward off a curse. I didn't flinch. I waited for her to draw breath, then gently but firmly placed my hand on the door and pushed past her.

"I’m not here to argue," I said softly, stepping into the dim warmth of the small apartment. "I’m here to fix it."

Ludmilla Voltek stared at me, the fire in her eyes dying down into a flicker of desperate hope and deep suspicion. The apartment was cramped, the walls thin enough to hear the neighbors' muffled television. Viktor was sitting at a small wooden table in the corner, his head in his hands.

"How?" Ludmilla asked, her voice dropping to a quiet, trembling whisper. "How are you going to fix this? The airport doesn’t take people back once they have been fired."

I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on Viktor as he slowly looked up, his face aged a decade in a matter of hours.

"Ask him who I am," I said, my voice steady but quiet. "Ask your husband exactly whose name on the manifest he erased."

Ludmilla turned slowly toward her husband, her brow furrowing as she saw the sheer terror and reverence warring on his face. "Viktor?" she prompted, her voice barely audible. "Whose name did you take off that blasted manifest for this woman?"

Viktor didn't look at his wife. He kept his gaze fixed on me, his voice cracking when he finally spoke. "Her Imperial Highness Marie Alexandrovna Romanov’s name."

Ludmilla froze. She looked back at me, her eyes darting between my modern coat and my weary face. "Marie Alexandrovna? Who is that?"

I stepped forward, closing the space between us until I was standing in the center of their small, cluttered world.

"I am Marie Alexandrovna," I said, the weight of the name hanging heavy in the air. "I have a brother named Artem Alexandrovich. I believe that he and I are the last and most direct descendants of Tsar Alexander II."

Ludmilla paled, stumbling back against the kitchen counter. She looked at me as if I were a ghost risen from the very foundations of the city. She was stunned, her mouth working but no sound coming out.

"I told you I was going to fix your situation, and I meant it," I continued, kneeling to unzip my bag. I pulled out a thick envelope and a pair of folders. "I have passports and paperwork in here—new identities, clean histories, and everything else that will get you across any border you choose. And I have money. More than Viktor would have made in three lifetimes at that hangar."

I set the stack on the wooden table in front of Viktor. "It's time for you to leave Moscow behind. Start over somewhere the wind doesn't bite quite so hard."

Viktor looked briefly at Ludmilla, a silent communication passing between them, before he turned back to me. His hands were still trembling as they hovered over the paperwork. "When?" he asked. "When do we go?"

"We leave in two hours," I said, my voice tightening with the reality of the clock. "Grab all the clothes and other necessities you can carry."

Ludmilla’s eyes darted around the small room, landing on a cluster of framed photographs on the sideboard. "What about our photos or any items from our loved ones?"

"No," I said, cutting her off. "Nothing that can identify you. That includes photos, letters, your old identifications and prescription medication. You are becoming new people tonight."

As the Volteks scrambled to pack their lives into a few worn suitcases, I pulled out my phone and pulled up Santiago’s contact information to text him.

Meet me at the coordinates I’m sending now. You need to do exactly what I did earlier today—get on a flight without a manifest. I have two packages for you to pick up and escort out of the country. Do not fail me. You cannot fail me or the packages. Take them wherever you can. In forty-five minutes, I will have two pilots ready at every major and minor airport ready to take you wherever you decide to take these packages. Tell them before they get on a plane, they can no longer contact me as it won’t be safe for them or I. Let me know when they have landed and went through customs.

The reply from Santiago was almost immediate, and it wasn't what I wanted to see. Marie, I can't do this tonight. I’m at dinner. I was planning on proposing to my girlfriend. Can it be another night?

I didn't hesitate, my thumbs flying across the screen with a cold, clinical detachment. Two lives are at stake here, Santiago. That trumps asking your girlfriend to marry you. You are the only one I can trust with this.

There was a long silence. I could see the typing indicator appear and disappear.

I’ll get to the coordinates as soon as I can, he finally replied.

You have an hour and forty-five minutes to get there, I shot back. Do not be late.