He’s right, of course, but still I do not move.
“They’re going to think …” But I trail off. The truth is I have no idea what anyone is going to think.
“Grace?”
“Yes?” I sway closer.
“I’m going to be okay,” he tells me, and I try to believe it.
“Of course you will,” I say.
“And, Grace …” Alexei brushes a piece of hair out of my face, tucks it behind my ear. “You’ll be okay, too.”
But as I slip through the narrow opening in the cave and out into the coming night, I can’t help but believe that Alexei is no longer perfect — that, for once, Alexei is most certainly wrong.
A man and woman are waiting in the upstairs sitting room when Ms. Chancellor summons me the next morning. Most of the time, we call it the family room, but these people are not family.
“Grace, these police officers would like to ask you some questions,” Ms. Chancellor says as soon as I walk in the room.
Prime Minister Petrovic already asked me some questions, I think but don’t say. Things have changed, after all. Outside, the street still smells like smoke, and even though the crowds have grown, they’re oddly silent. Reverent. But sides are forming. I can tell.
Embassy Row is filled with fire trucks and police cars that stand with swirling lights, and every news channel in the world is broadcasting live, all of them busy speculating on what happened.
None of them know the truth.
Some people think Russia blew up its own car to curry sympathy or let Alexei get away. Others believe it was an act of retaliation by the US — an answering strike that might lead to an all-out war. Some blame terrorists or extremists who want to see the US and Russia come to blows. And some are conspiracy theorists who rant and ramble and just sound crazy.
I’m one of the latter.
I don’t bother saying hello. I just eye the two cops and ask, “Do you know who blew up the car?” What I don’t add is that I’m almost afraid of the answer.
This isn’t about a dead cadet anymore.
This isn’t even about an international embarrassment or situation.
There is no longer any question of whether or not Spence’s death was an accident.
Someone killed him. And now someone has tried to kill Alexei — someone did kill the Russian driver — and, finally, the authorities have noticed. Finally, the authorities might care.
“So?” I ask again. “Do you know who planted the bomb?”
The look that passes between the two strangers is equal parts guilt and confusion.
“We actually have several questions for you, Grace.” The man in the suit speaks to me in English. “Would you prefer we discuss this in Adrian? I was told you are fluent.”
“I am.” I try to nod and smile.
“But perhaps this is a good opportunity for me to practice my English,” he says with a slight British accent. “I attended Eton.”
“And now you’re a cop?”
“A detective, yes.” He glances at one of the uncomfortable chairs in the formal living room.
“Won’t you sit down?” Ms. Chancellor asks.
Her voice is so even, so kind and cool. She doesn’t look like a woman who, just a week ago, shot and seriously wounded the prime minister of Adria. No, she looks like a woman who really wants to get back to her filing.
But Ms. Chancellor isn’t going to leave me. The police probably aren’t supposed to question a minor without a parent or guardian present. I guess on Embassy Row it’s a parent, guardian, or the guardian’s chief of staff.
There’s a female officer, too. She must speak English, but so far she hasn’t said a thing. She just sits there, scowling. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she will remember every word.
Cautiously, I sit down next to Ms. Chancellor. My side aches, but I’m glad the back of my chair is so straight, the seat so hard. I have a feeling it would be a great mistake to get too comfortable around these people.
“I am very sorry about what happened to your friend,” the man tells me.
“Thanks. But they said on the news that he wasn’t in the car, so he’s probably okay.” I think about Alexei, all alone in that cave in the hills. “I hope he’s okay.”
“No.” The officer shakes his head, smiles. “I was talking about John Spencer.”
And then it hits me: They aren’t here about the bomb. Or not directly. This isn’t about the attack on the boy next door.
“John Spencer wasn’t my friend,” I say too quickly. “I mean, he was my brother’s friend. I barely knew him. You should talk to Jamie.”
“We’d love to. Where is he?” the man asks.
I don’t want to tell him I don’t know, that Jamie’s room is right next door to mine, but in so many ways it’s like he’s still on the other side of the world.
“Maybe we’ll just talk to you first, okay?” the man says, and leans back. He keeps smiling at me, though, a look that is supposed to put me at ease. He doesn’t know that I have been questioned by police officers before. Lots of times. I don’t need him to tell me to relax.
“So, Grace,” Officer Smiley says after a moment. “Where is Alexei Volkov?”
“I thought you were here to find out who killed John Spencer?”
“That investigation is ongoing. We’re here because of the manhunt.”