The safehouse return

The cold Moscow air bit at my face, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat of the night K and I had just shared. I knew I wouldn't see him again, but the memory was worth the price. To pull off a rendezvous like this, he’d had to lie through his teeth to the school where we’d once taught as colleagues—spinning some elaborate fiction about a family emergency out of state forty-eight hours before flying halfway across the world. Now, he was facing the brutal reality of a flight home and the kind of jetlag that makes the world feel like it’s underwater.

In the few minutes it took to walk back to the safehouse, I opened the secure messaging app to update Sera. Her response was a rapid-fire sequence of texts that vibrated against my palm.

Vic is in the air. Good riddance.

Bob is anxiously waiting for you. He’ve been pacing like a caged animal. Listen, Marie, I can’t be in contact for a while. I told my wife I saw you yesterday. She didn’t appreciate the secrecy, even knowing it was a need-to-know situation. I have to smooth things over at home.

Before I could process the sudden radio silence from my handler, the third text arrived, dripping with her characteristic possessiveness.

Don’t think you’re off the hook. I’m still tracking you. I’ll have eyes on you every second you’re in Russia, every mile of the flight home, and for about two years after you land. I didn’t bother replying. The idea of Sera’s "eyes" was both a comfort and a curse—a digital leash that reminded me I was never truly alone, for better or worse.

The smell of stale coffee and concentrated tension hit me the moment I stepped back into the safehouse. Bob was a dark silhouette against the grey Moscow light filtering through the window.

"You're late," he said, his voice gravelly. He didn't turn around. "Or early. I've lost track of time watching you move through this city."

"I'm here, Bob. That's the only metric that matters," I replied, shedding my coat and locking the door.

He turned then, a dry, humorless smile twisting his features. "I'm glad you're safe, Marie. Truly. But your social circle is a goddamn nightmare. I’ve had three different 'anonymous' calls in the last hour confirming your location within a six-block radius. They claim they aren't tracking you, and yet here we are. It’s a fucking circus."

I ignored the jab, sitting on the edge of the worn sofa. "We need to talk about the exit strategy, Bob. When I pull the plug on this life, I’m not doing it alone. I’m bringing Boris out with us."

Bob stopped his pacing, his eyes narrowing. "Boris? You want to drag a ghost into a defection?"

"He's been my shadow for fifteen years. He’s kept me breathing through every suicidal assignment the Kremlin threw my way. I’m not leaving him behind to be liquidated the second I'm gone."

Bob’s expression softened, just a fraction. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling a long, weary breath. "I know what he means to you, Marie. And I know it’s more than just his usefulness—though God knows he’s been your shield. If we’re burning this bridge, we do it right. No one who matters gets left in the fire."

"He matters," I said, the words final.

"Then he’s coming," Bob promised. "But we have to survive the Kremlin first."

I groaned, the weight of the city pressing down on my shoulders. "While you were out... occupied..." Bob started.

"I was fucking K, Bob. Let’s not use euphemisms. Get to the point."

My brother didn't even blink. "The Kremlin wants to redo the DNA test. They’re ignoring the results from Doc’s mechanic. They want their own samples, and they want you in the room when they take them."

"I'm not stepping foot in that building without security."

"You have me," Bob countered.

"No, Bob. In that house? You're a target, not a shield. I need Boris."

Bob nodded, accepting the tactical reality. "Then get him here. ASAP." He looked around the cramped, dingy room. "Am I going to have to listen to you two through these paper-thin walls?"

I laughed, the sound sharp and cynical. "Relax. If we’re going to fuck, we’ll find somewhere that doesn't smell like your anxiety. I’m not that much of a prick."

"Fine. When is he getting here?"

"Three to five days," I said.

Bob’s mask slid back into place. "Make the calls. Get him here."

I pulled out my phone and dialed Santiago, Xavier’s attorney. He picked up on the second ring, with surprise in his voice.

“Santi, it’s Deppgrl,” I said to my old friend. “I need help but you’re the only one from home that I trust to help me out.”

"Deppgrl. I wasn't expecting a call from you anytime soon."

“I know,” I said. I didn't bother with niceties when I explained everything. "You know the true work I do and I need help. The situation is hot and I need a permanent exit for myself and a colleague to get out of this work. Now."

"Understood," he said, shifting into professional mode. "Where are you?"

"Moscow, Russia."

"I'm in Riga, Latvia. I can have a private transport fueled and be there in two hours."

"Meet me in Chelobityevo. It’s quieter. I’ll spot a tail easier on those roads."

"Two hours. Stay dark, Deppgrl."

I hung up and went to the back room to change into something nondescript—a jacket that hid my frame and colors that blended into the Russian sprawl. I checked my reflection one last time before heading out.

"I'm off to see a friend, then Chelobityevo," I told Bob. "Do not follow me. I mean it."

Bob nodded, his jaw tight, but he stayed put.

I didn't head for the outskirts immediately. I doubled back to the salon and found Polina. The family resemblance was a flare in the dark; I’d known she was Boris’s sister the moment I saw her yesterday. I pulled her aside, away from the other stylists.

"I need Boris here, Polina. Tell him it’s time."

She searched my face, seeing the gravity of the request. "It will take a few days," she whispered, "but I'll send him."

“He will disappear for a bit but when he can, he or I will reach out,” I said.

“I understand, Marie Alexdrovna,” she said.

I thanked her and drove to Chelobityevo. I was late, having stopped to eat; my body needed the fuel for whatever was coming next. When I arrived, Santiago was already waiting. In my drab clothes and with the exhaustion etched into my face, he looked right through me at first.

"Deppgrl?" he asked tentatively as I approached. When I apologized for the delay, he let out a breath of relief. "I'm just glad you're breathing. You look like you've been through a war."

"The war's just starting," I said, standing across from him. I didn't waste time on small talk. "Santiago, look at me. I’ve known since I was a child that Bob and I didn't fit in with our family and especially with our sister. Certainly, not with the life we were given. Now I know why." I leaned forward. "I’m not just a client in need of help. I’m Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. And Bob’s real identity is Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He’s my biological brother from the very beginning. As far as I know, we are the last of a direct line they thought they ended in a basement in 1918."

Santiago’s eyes went wide, the name "Deppgrl" clearly vanishing from his mind as the weight of the revelation hit him. "You're saying that you have proof of this? Real proof?"

"Doc’s mechanic ran a DNA profile against the markers of Czar Nicholas II’s father. It was a perfect match. The Kremlin has caught the scent, and they’re coming for their own pound of flesh."

Santiago leaned back, his mind clearly mapping out the legal and lethal ramifications. "A mechanic ran the DNA test? If those markers are real," he whispered, "this isn't just an exit strategy anymore. It's a geopolitical earthquake."

“The mechanic was a former nurse in a previous lifetime,” I said. “I knew that I could trust him as he had been my nurse a few times here over the years. Calling it a geopolitical earthquake is a nice way to put it.”