I Was Anastasia: A Novel

·  PART ONE  ·

The End and the Beginning

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

·  1  ·

Anna

FOLIE À DEUX

1970, 1968

Charlottesville, Virginia

February 17, 1970

Fifty years ago tonight Anna threw herself off a bridge in Berlin. It wasn’t her first brush with death, or even the most violent, but it was the only one that came at her hands. Anna’s husband does not know this, however. She watches him, watching her, and she knows he sees only a fragile old woman who has waited too long for vindication. He sees the carefully cultivated image she presents to the world: a crown of thinning silver hair and tired blue eyes. Age and confusion and a gentle aura of helplessness. This impression could not be further from the truth. She has been many things through the years, but helpless is not one of them. At the moment, however, Anna is simply impatient. She sits in this living room, two thousand miles from her past, waiting for a verdict.

Jack is like a frightened rabbit, all nerves and tension. He springs from his chair and begins to pace through the cluttered den. Why haven’t they called? They should have called by now.

I’m sure they read the verdict hours ago, Anna says, leaning her head against the fold of her wingback chair and closing her eyes.

Whatever news awaits them is not good, but Anna does not have the heart to tell him this. Jack is so hopeful. He has already written a press release and taken a Polaroid so he can bring both to The Daily Progress first thing in the morning. Jack spoke with the editor this afternoon, suggesting they reserve a front-page spot for the story. He’s hoping for something above the fold. He’s hoping for exclamation points.

Even though Jack hasn’t admitted it, Anna knows that he is looking forward to reporters showing up again. They haven’t had any in months, and she suspects he’s gotten lonely with only her and the animals for company. She feels a bit sorry for him, being saddled with her like this. But there was no other way. Gleb insisted on it, and in all the years she knew him, Gleb Botkin remained her truest friend, her staunchest champion. He’s been dead two years now. Another loss in an unending string of losses. Jack is kind to her—just as Gleb promised—and beggars can’t be choosers anyway. Anna reminds herself of this daily.

The phone rings. Three startling metallic alarms and then Jack snatches it from the cradle.

Manahan residence. A pause, and then, Yes, she’s here. Hold on a moment. The cord won’t stretch across the room, so Jack lays the receiver on the sideboard. He grins. It’s from Germany.

Who?

The Prince. He beams, then clarifies—there have been a number of princes in her life. Frederick.

Anna feels a wild stab of anger at the name. She hasn’t forgotten what Frederick did, hasn’t forgotten the burn pile behind her cottage at the edge of the Black Forest. All those charred little bones. If the news had come from anyone else she would take the call. I don’t want to speak with him.

But—

He knows why.

I really think it’s time you—

Anna holds her hand up, palm out, a firm, final sort of motion. Take a message.

Jack pouts but doesn’t protest. He knows that arguing is futile. Anna does not change her mind. Nor does she forgive. He picks up the receiver again. I’m sorry. She doesn’t want to speak right now. Why don’t you give me the news?

And then she watches Jack’s countenance fall by tiny, heartbreaking increments. First his smile. Then his lifted, expectant brows. His right arm drops to his side. He is deflated. I don’t understand, he says, finally, then clears his throat as though he has swallowed a cobweb.

Write it down, Anna instructs. Word for word. She doesn’t want to interpret the verdict through his anger once he hangs up. Anna wants to know exactly what the appeals court has to say. Jack is too emotional and prone to exaggeration. He needs to transcribe the decision in its entirety or vital bits of information will be lost the moment he hangs up. Gleb wouldn’t need this instruction. He would know what to do. He would know what questions to ask. But Gleb is no longer here, and, once again, this reality leaves her feeling adrift.

Let me write this down, Jack says, like it’s his idea. She watches him shuffle through piles of paper on the cluttered sideboard, looking for a notebook with blank pages. Finding none, he grabs an envelope and turns it over. Go ahead. I’m ready.

A decade ago Anna’s lawyer told her this lawsuit was the longest-running case in German history. This appeal has stretched it into something worse, something interminable. And there stands Jack, writing the footnote to her quest on the back of their electric bill in his tidy, ever-legible script. How do you spell that? he asks at one point, holding the phone with one hand and recording the verdict with the other. He doesn’t rush or scribble but pens each word with painstaking precision, occasionally asking Frederick to repeat himself.

Jack and Anna don’t have many friends. They haven’t been married long, only two years, and theirs is a relationship based on convenience and necessity, not romance. They are old and eccentric and not fit for polite society in this quaint college town. But a handful of people—mostly former professors at the University of Virginia, like Jack—are due to arrive shortly. Anna doesn’t want to know how he convinced them to come. Entertaining would have been awkward if the decision had gone in her favor. It will be excruciating now. Anna decides there won’t be a party tonight. She doesn’t have the heart to entertain strangers this evening.

But Jack, in all his eagerness, has cooked for a celebration. Their small den is littered with trays of fruit and sandwiches. Deviled eggs and cheese platters. Tiny brined pickles and cocktail sausages skewered with toothpicks. He even bought three bottles of champagne that sit in a bowl of ice, unopened beneath the string of Christmas lights he stapled to the ceiling. Anna stares at the bottles with suspicion. She hasn’t touched the stuff in almost four decades. The last time Anna drank champagne she ended up naked on a rooftop in New York City.

The entire setting is tacky and festive—just like her husband. Jack bought a rhinestone tiara from the costume shop near the college campus just for the occasion. It sits on a gaudy red velvet pillow next to the champagne. He’s been dying to crown her since they met, and only today, only in the hopes of a positive verdict, has she humored him. But that hope is gone now. Snuffed out in a German courtroom on the other side of the world.

Thank you, he finally says, and then lower, almost a whisper, I will. I’m sorry. You know how she can be. I’m sure she’ll speak with you next time. Good-bye.

When he turns back to Anna, Jack has the envelope pressed to his chest. He doesn’t speak.

We need to call our guests and tell them the party’s canceled, she says.

He looks crushed. I’m so sorry.

This isn’t your fault. You did what you could. A shrug. A deep breath. What did Frederick say?

Your appeal was rejected. They won’t reverse the lower court’s ruling.

"I gathered that. Tell me his words exactly."

Jack looks to the paper. They regard your claim as ‘non liquet.’

Interesting.

What does that mean?

‘Not clear’ or ‘not proven.’

When Jack frowns, he puckers his mouth until his upper lip nearly touches his nose. It’s an odd, childish expression and one he’s used with greater frequency the longer he has known her. Is that German?

Latin.

"You know Latin?"

Very little at this point. Anna swats at him. Go on.

The judges said that even though your death has never been proven, neither has your escape.

Ah. Clever. She smiles at this dilemma. It is the ultimate Catch-22. Her escape can’t be proven without a formal declaration of identity from the court. Read the rest please.

Jack holds the envelope six inches from his nose and slowly recites the verdict. " ‘We have not decided that the plaintiff is not Grand Duchess Anastasia, but only that the Hamburg court made its decision without legal mistakes and without procedural errors.’ He looks up. So they have decided…nothing?"

She shakes her head slowly and then with more determination. Oh, they have decided everything.

"It was that photo, wasn’t it? The court must have seen it. There’s no other reason they would rule against you. Damn that Rasputin. Damn her! Jack begins to pace again. We could make a statement—"

No. It’s over. Anna lifts her chin with all the dignity she can muster and folds her hands in her lap. She is resigned and regal. They will never formally recognize me as Anastasia Romanov.

TWO YEARS EARLIER

Charlottesville, Virginia

December 23, 1968

Anna does not want to marry Jack Manahan. She would rather marry Gleb. Even after all the trouble he has caused through the years. But theirs is a story of false starts and near misses. Bad timing. Distance. And rash decisions. They were not meant to be. So Gleb has urged her to marry Jack instead. This whole fiasco is his idea—the courthouse, the silly pink dress, the bouquet of roses and pinecones, the white rabbit-fur hat that she’s supposed to wear out of the courthouse to greet the photographers (these arranged by Jack because the damnable man cannot help but make a scene everywhere he goes). Gleb insists the hat makes her look the part of a Russian grand duchess. She refuses to wear the thing. Poor rabbit.

When they discussed this ridiculous plan in August, Gleb said his health was to blame. He couldn’t marry her himself because she would end up having to take care of him. Anna believes that this is punishment for a long-held resentment. Tit for tat. Wound for wound. He has loved her for decades, and she has never been able to fully reciprocate. Now he stands as witness to her unwilling nuptials. As best man, in fact.

It is snowing outside the courthouse. Not the angry, hard, blistering shards of snow she is used to in Germany, but fat, lethargic flakes that drift and flutter and take their time getting to the ground. Lazy snow. American snow.

Anna’s had only a single tryst since that limpid summer in Bavaria all those years ago, but Gleb moved on. Got married. Had children. They’ve never talked about the intervening years, and it’s not worth bringing up now. Anna is in her seventies—too old to get married at all, much less for the first time. Jack Manahan is twenty years her junior. A former professor enamored with Russian history, and with her—or, at least, the idea of her. Regardless, he hasn’t put up much of a fight since being presented with the plan. Jack’s only show of hesitation was a long, curious look at Gleb. Assessing his attachment and willingness to let Anna go.

It occurred to her, far too late in the process, that she had not considered the issue of sex. Jack is young. Younger at least. And she is…well…she is not. The idea of consummation almost caused her to back out of this arrangement entirely. All of those hormones have shriveled up, turned to dust, and blown away. Desire is little more than a fond memory these days.

Gleb has taken care of that issue as well, however, assuring her that sex isn’t a necessary part of this bargain. She and Jack will have separate bedrooms. This will be a legal marriage, enough to keep her in the United States once her visa expires in three weeks, but it will be a marriage of convenience only. Gleb swore this, endless times, over their last shared bottle of wine. Jack will not lay a hand on her. Unless she wants him to. Why Gleb added that last part she isn’t sure. He wouldn’t meet her eyes as he said it, and she did not reply. It was a small cruelty. This is how it is with them, apparently. Little wounds. Paper cuts. Just enough to sting but not really harm. Perhaps it’s best that they aren’t marrying each other after all.

Gleb slips into the antechamber beside the courtroom and surveys her tiny, slender form. You look nice.

He seems weary and pale and infirm. He’s lost weight recently, and his once broad shoulders have narrowed with illness and age. Anna wants to ask Gleb if his heart has gotten worse. But she’s afraid of what his answer might be. So she says, I look ridiculous.

All brides look ridiculous. That’s why they’re so charming.

Anna turns back to the window. It’s late afternoon, getting darker by the moment, and the overhead light bounces off the glass, throwing her reflection back at her. She touches a hand to her cheek. Traces one deep wrinkle after another, each of them telling a story she’s long since decided to forget.

I am too old for this, she says.

I know.

You admit it then? She studies his reflection too, hovering over her shoulder. But no apology, I see.

It is this or you return to Germany, he says. We are out of time.

That always seems to be the case with us, doesn’t it?

Ships in the night, he whispers and sets a large, warm hand on her shoulder. Are you ready? Sergeant Pace is waiting. So is Jack.

Sergeant?

Judge Morris called in sick this morning.

Anna turns to him and looks, not at his face, but at the knot in his tie. She stares at the red and blue alternating stripes on the fabric, those thin lines circling back on themselves, all twisted and turned around. Anna is knotted up as well, but now, suddenly, it’s with mirth.

I am to be married, she asks, tilting her chin to meet those twinkling green eyes, "not by a priest, or a judge, but by a police officer?"

It gives an entirely new meaning to being read your rights, doesn’t it?

They laugh, then, long and loud. She turns back to the window and they stand in comfortable silence, watching Charlottesville disappear beneath the snow.

Finally Anna leans her head back against Gleb’s chest. How did I get here? Anna sighs, already knowing the answer. She has gotten here, she has survived, by always doing the thing that needs to be done.

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

Charlottesville, Virginia

August 20, 1968

Virginia in August feels very much to Anna as though she has taken up residence directly in the white-hot center of Satan’s armpit. She has never known such heat. Nor has the word humidity meant anything at all prior to her arrival in the United States. And yet here she sits, on Jack Manahan’s front patio drinking tea—with ice, no less—and melting into her rocking chair as they talk about nothing in particular.

Anna fans her face with an old magazine—something about gardens and guns—wishing the sun would slide down the horizon a little more quickly. How can you live like this?

Jack peers at her over the top of a glass that is beaded with sweat. Like what?

Like a potato put in the oven to roast. It’s intolerable.

This is August, he says as though that explains everything. He’s wearing trousers, long sleeves, and a gaudy checkered tie cinched up tight to his Adam’s apple. He doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. I hardly notice it anymore.

It is a distinctly American thing, Anna thinks, to have an entire conversation about the weather. They have been sitting on this patio for the better part of two hours waiting for Gleb. He’s off running some errand in town and has promised to return by dinner. So far they have discussed variations in climate along the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, rain patterns in the Midwest, and a damaging drought in California that is threatening almond growers. The man is absurdly pleased by the sound of his own voice, needing very little encouragement from her. A simple hum or murmur is enough to launch him into another monologue. Anna wonders how much more she can tolerate before crawling out of her skin when a long, sleek, black car enters University Circle and approaches the house. It’s the kind of vehicle that smacks of importance and a need to be seen.

Who is that? Jack asks as the car pulls into the driveway and parks behind his station wagon.

I’m not sure. Anna tries not to feel guilty about the lie. She has an unwelcome suspicion about who this visitor might be.

They look very determined. Jack leans forward, taking in the women who spring from the car and march up the sidewalk toward them.

Anastasia! shouts the older of the two as she reaches the bottom of the steps. The look on her face is one of alarming enthusiasm.

This woman is Russian. This woman is dangerous.

She mounts the stairs with an energy and aggression that Anna lost years ago. Following two steps behind her and watching cautiously is the woman’s companion. She has coiffed hair, lips painted red, and eyes framed by black designer glasses. In one hand she carries a notepad and in the other a tape recorder. A reporter. Anna stiffens in her seat.

And then the first woman is in front of Anna chatting and bending at the waist—not quite a bow but an allusion to one. Anna shrinks away as she confirms the familiar face and the deep, throaty voice. The dark hair—dyed now, she thinks; there’s not a strand of gray—and sharp eyes. The angular nose. The sly mouth. The large body shaped like a concrete block. The woman grabs her hand and shakes it with vigor. Anna fears being yanked out of her chair and forced into a hug.

The thing Anna has always hated most about being a small woman is the disadvantage she has in situations like this. People assume they can touch you, pat you, shake your hand without permission. They assume that if your size is little more than that of a child, you must be one. That you can be talked down to or coerced. It is hard for a small person to be intimidating or to be taken seriously. This lack of stature has forced Anna to develop other skills through the years: to sharpen her wit, to treat her tongue like a blade and her mind like a whetstone.

I am not a rag doll. You needn’t shake me like one. Or touch me at all for that matter, she says.

I’m sorry, the other woman says, stepping forward. We have failed to introduce ourselves. I am Patricia Barham but please, call me Patte—

I have no interest in speaking with reporters today.

Patte looks at the objects in her hands and then tucks both behind her back, as though she’d forgotten they were there and is suddenly ashamed of them. I’m not a reporter, at least not in the traditional sense. I’m a biographer. She tips her head toward her friend. And of course you remember Maria Rasputin. As she tells it, the two of you have known each other since childhood.

Rasputin? The name has Jack’s full attention and he sits ramrod straight in his chair. As in relation to Grigory? The heretic monk?

Not a monk, Maria says, as is evidenced by my existence. The heretic label is, of course, open to interpretation. She has the pinched look of a woman who is tired of defending the indefensible.

Anna has yet to rise from her seat or offer one to their uninvited guests. She is wary of Maria Rasputin and for good reason.

The melodramatic rise and fall of Maria’s voice makes it sound as though she’s in a stage production. Anna doesn’t like the grand, sweeping gestures she makes with her arms or the aggressive way she smiles. Those small white teeth that snap and flash. But it is her eyes that disturb Anna most. They are a bright—almost unnatural—blue. Piercing, but not in a way that compels someone to come closer. Anna finds herself wanting to turn away and hide from that penetrating gaze. She shouldn’t be surprised. Grigory Rasputin was known to have those same terrifying, hypnotic eyes. Like father, like daughter.

But Maria’s stare is hard to escape, and she moves closer, nearly leaning over Anna’s chair.

Yes, she says, as though finally coming to some long-awaited conclusion. There’s something about her. Again, waving that arm in a grandiose manner. A certain nobility. It’s there in her demeanor. In her voice. Maria nods sharply. I believe this to be Anastasia Romanov.

What do you want? Anna presses her palms against her knees so she won’t strike that self-satisfied grin from Maria’s face.

Only to visit with an old friend—

We thought, perhaps, that we could take you to dinner, Patte interrupts. She has tucked the notepad and recorder into her purse, and her hands now hang free and nonthreatening at her sides.

Jack perks up at the mention of food. Dinner with friends could be fun. There’s a wonderful Italian restaurant not too far from here.

You came all the way here—where did you say you came from…? Anna asks.

I didn’t. But New York, since you’re curious.

All the way from New York just to have dinner?

Dinner, yes. And it’s here that Maria shows her cards because she cannot keep the devilish smile at bay. But I’ve also got a proposition for you.

—

I am not going to Hollywood. Anna sets her fork down.

Jack taped a note to the front door when they left with Maria and Patte Barham, telling Gleb that they’d be at Salvio’s, but he’s yet to join them and Anna looks to the door every few moments. This was a mistake. She and Jack are a captive audience for these women and their ludicrous plan. She regrets consenting to have dinner with them.

Don’t be so hasty, Patte says. There’s a lot of money to be made.

My story is not for sale.

Patte doesn’t say it, but her Cheshire cat smile suggests that she believes everyone’s story is for sale. She shrugs. Spears a piece of mushroom. Swallows it without chewing. People are curious. They want to know what it was like. They want to know how you survived. There’s nothing wrong with supporting yourself in the process. She looks at Anna’s simple cotton dress, frayed at the collar, faded by too many turns through the wash, and lets her gaze linger just long enough to declare that she knows Anna needs the money. And then, to drive the point home, she adjusts the chain of an expensive gold necklace draped around her own neck.

Anna pushes her plate away. I would like to go home.

And where, exactly, is home? Maria Rasputin asks.

I am staying with Jack.

Maria smiles privately and takes a slow, careful bite of her manicotti. The change in tactics comes without warning. How long did you say you would be in the States?

Six months.

And you’ve been here for, what, two? Three?

Anna knows she’s being baited but she can’t see the hook. Two.

What type of visa did you get?

Tourist.

A pity. International travel is so expensive.

Anna does the thing she’s been doing for decades. She tilts her head up and to the side. She gives this woman the ghost of a smile, a condescending smirk that suggests she won’t acknowledge the insinuation or admit that yes, she’s running out of money and has few options left.

Maria is undaunted. She takes another bite. Dips her bread in the thick, nutty olive oil. Sips her wine. And what will you do when your visa runs out? Will you go back to Germany? To your friends in Unterlengenhardt? Your pets?

And there it is. The barb settles deep. It takes everything in her not to gasp in outrage. Maria clearly knows Anna doesn’t have a home to return to, that nothing remains but a mass grave behind the cottage she once called home. Maria’s involvement in those events hangs unspoken and heavy between them.

Rasputin’s daughter grins, victorious. I suppose Prince Frederick would welcome you back. He’s always been so fond of you. She chews a bite. Swallows. Such a loyal man.

Jack is oblivious, the fool. He ate a bowl of chicken Alfredo as big as his head, along with half a loaf of bread, and now he’s pushed back from the table to listen and pat his belly. To him this is simply a conversation between two women discussing old friends. To her it is blackmail.

Anna shrugs, noncommittal. When you’ve lived as long as I have you take each day at a time. I’ve not settled on any firm plan.

Which means you don’t have one, correct?

Jack and Patte look at each other, confused.

What are they saying? Jack asks.

I don’t know, Patte says.

It’s only then that Anna realizes that she and Maria have shifted into German. The transition was so smooth, so subtle that she didn’t even realize it. Had Maria turned the conversation to Russian, Anna would have noticed immediately. She would have refused to participate. Even though Anna speaks fluent English—she has lived in the United States before—German is her preferred language. Her security blanket.

I thought as much. Maria reaches across the table and pats Anna’s hand. It looks like a tender gesture, easily mistaken for something kinder than it actually is. Don’t be ashamed. It’s hard. I know. Why do you think I’ve let Patte trail after me like a puppy for so long? We all have to make a living. There’s no shame in that.

Anna withdraws her hand but doesn’t break eye contact.

"I want to make this perfectly clear. You will not use me as a meal ticket." She selects this descriptor purposefully, saying it slowly, enjoying the look of recognition on Maria’s face. It’s the same phrase Maria used when she showed up unannounced in Unterlengenhardt and conspired to burn Anna’s world to the ground.

Maria laughs as though Anna has said something funny. She settles back into her chair, but now there’s an angry, dangerous glint in her eyes.

I will not go to California with you. Or anywhere else for that matter. I will not sell my story. Anna looks first to Patte and then to Jack as she repeats her earlier request in English. I would like to go home.

Well, I would like dessert, Maria says.

The table is already littered with plates and breadbaskets and empty bottles of wine. Anna doesn’t think there’s room for another dish, but Maria waves the waiter over and orders panettone and coffee. Anna curses herself once again for not insisting that Jack drive. They are at the mercy of these interlopers. So she waits patiently as Maria finishes yet another course. This Rasputin is nothing more than an old woman acting like a petulant child, punishing Anna for refusing to play along.

How did you find me? Anna asks. This is the second time Maria Rasputin has hunted her down. It remains to be seen whether the results will be as catastrophic as the first time.

It wasn’t hard. She tips her head toward Jack. This man you’ve taken up with is fond of the newspapers. You’ve been written up quite a bit since arriving in the United States.

I haven’t taken up with him.

"Yet. I’d wager it’s only a matter of time. You do love your…benefactors."

Jack and Patte have given up trying to follow their conversation and are chatting quietly about writing and research on the other side of the table. It’s almost nine o’clock before the waiter brings the check. Hours have been spent listening to first Patte, then Maria try to convince her to sign over the rights to her life story so they can make a film. They throw words around and name-drop. They suggest a variety of famous actresses who might play the role of Anastasia. She doesn’t bother to remind them that Ingrid Bergman has already done so and that the part won her an Academy Award in 1956. But neither of them is all that interested in Anna’s opinion. They are only concerned with what they see as a hefty payday.

Maria takes the check and Anna stands, relieved to be done with this dinner and on her way home again. But then she slides the bill across the table and sets it right in front of Anna. There is no charm or humor in her smile, only vindictiveness.

"It was wonderful to see you again…Anastasia, she says. Thank you for dinner."

—

What else would you expect from a Rasputin? Gleb’s voice inches toward a scream as he paces through Jack’s living room. Lying, thieving con artists, the lot of them!

Jack flinches, defensive. I didn’t know she stuck us with the bill. I wasn’t paying attention.

"She didn’t stick you with the bill. You can afford it. She stuck Anna. And I’m sure that was her plan all along."

No, Anna says. If I’d agreed to her scheme, she would have paid. She was just trying to punish me.

You’ve been punished enough.

Jack is embarrassed now. Flustered. What was I supposed to do?

You could have started by not speaking with her at all.

It was just dinner.

It wasn’t just dinner; it was public association. A Rasputin gives our case a bad name. Every connection to that family is dangerous. Nothing good will come of it. Gleb stops shifting from foot to foot and looks at Anna. Do not mention to anyone, not a single person, that you spent the evening with that woman. Can you promise me that?

Her silence says everything.

Gleb groans. What?

She asked that biographer of hers to take a picture of us together before dinner.

—

The photo is published several days later. It doesn’t make as many front pages as Maria Rasputin likely hoped for, but it does appear in the society columns of several, and it’s also picked up by the Associated Press. Before the week is out, half of America and much of the world knows that Maria Rasputin has declared Anna to be Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov. Maria is interviewed at length, gushing about her long-lost friend, brought to tears even as she recalls their childhood memories. Anna burns the papers in disgust.

We need those! Jack yells in horror as the last of them goes up in flames.

Anna ignores him. She looks at Gleb. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she would do something like this.

You couldn’t have.

That’s not entirely true, Anna thinks, but she doesn’t admit this to Gleb yet. Instead she asks, How badly will this hurt the appeal?

No telling. The Rasputins are hated abroad. And for good reason. It depends who reads those articles. And how they’re perceived.

Surely the court won’t think that I’m behind this? That I’m fabricating evidence?

We’ll have to wait and see.

Anna takes a deep breath before saying, Maria mentioned one thing we should discuss.

What’s that?

What I’m going to do when my visa runs out.

First sadness and then resignation settle into the fine lines around his eyes. Don’t worry, Gleb says. I have a plan.

Anna knows instantly what he has in mind. No. She cringes. His plans rarely turn out well.

It’s the only way.

I won’t do it. She lowers her voice to a whisper and casts a dismayed look at Jack Manahan. He sits across the room sorting through a pile of old newspapers.