Inside the fence, I wait for something to change. A light to flip on. A siren to sound. For a moment, I stand silently in the dark, heart pounding in my chest, but nothing changes. No one comes. I am alone as I cross the final stretch of private beach toward the high stone wall that surrounds the entire city and, with it, the back of the mansion.
An iron gate hangs between the wall and the base of the cliffs. There is an arching doorway that actually leads through the massive wall that rings the city. This old passageway is why the Iranians are the only embassy on the row with private beach access. The passageway was probably well hidden five hundred years ago, but the Iranians were no doubt more concerned with reaching the beach than keeping out invaders, so they left it there, exposed for all the world to see. Whatever guards were once posted there are now long gone.
Once I break that barrier, I know there will be no going back, no good excuses. It should bother me, I’m certain. If I had good sense. If I had the proper amount of fear and respect for authority. But I’m not thinking about Ms. Chancellor and her warnings; I’m too busy thinking about Lila and her smirk.
I step into the courtyard.
There are a few chairs and tables. Trees line the wall, but mostly the space has been taken over by grass and weeds and bushes that have grown, unchecked, for decades.
I hear a flapping noise, the gentle metallic sound of a chain banging against metal. Even in the dark, it’s easy to see the blue-and-white scarf that has wrapped itself around a flagpole on the very top of the building.
I search the back of the four-story structure, but there is no fire escape, no ladder that I can see. There’s not even a drainpipe or tree that I can scamper up. But there is a broken window. A few stray shards of glass cling to the inside of the frame, so I’m careful as I reach to unlock it, slide the broken section up, and ease my way inside.
The floorboards are rotten, at least in the place where I’m standing. I have no way of knowing when the window broke, but it’s probably been years. Decades even. Rain and sand have collected here, and when I start to move, I feel the floorboards shift. I smell mold and dust and abandonment. I almost feel sorry for the building.
When I ease away from the window, the floor starts to feel more solid. There are once-marvelous chandeliers above me, dusty and dim. Part of me wants to reach out and try a switch but I know better. At best, there is no electricity to the building. At worst, there will be and the sight of a light burning will bring about all the things I’m here to stop. So I creep on carefully, silently, through the dark.
I pass through a long room with a dining table that seats thirty. In the parlor, there are dusty paintings and furniture covered with dingy white sheets. Room after room I see, all of them furnished and lived in, empty and abandoned. It feels as if a very large family simply picked up and left for the season, as if they were going to come back just as soon as some mysterious drama were over. But, I guess, some dramas never do end.
When I reach the broad, sweeping staircase I move faster. It feels like the US embassy, so my feet grow more certain as they run, taking the stairs two at a time.
The full moon slices through the windows, the only light in the dark, dusty space. I break through cobwebs as I reach the second story and then the third. That’s where I find a smaller, more utilitarian staircase, so I take it to the highest floor.
Here the ceiling is lower, the rooms smaller. If I’m right, then the flagpole is directly above me. There has to be a way to reach it, so I glance out a window and find a small metal landing. I ease carefully outside and see a ladder rising from the landing to the roof.
I’m careful as I climb. The ladder is old and hasn’t been used in ages, but it holds my weight. The worst part is that I’m now on the side of the building. Someone could see me from the Italian embassy next door; I could be spotted from the street. So I move as quickly as I dare up the side of the building, then climb out onto the flat section of roof where the flagpole stands.
From here, the sea is gorgeous. I turn to my left and take a second I don’t have to scan down the long line of embassies. I can make out thirteen flagpoles all in a row, waving in the glow of their spotlights, ringing the wall like soldiers.
A security car is driving down the street, a searchlight washing over the exteriors of the embassies, their fences and gates. When it flashes onto the roof of Iran, I fall, crashing hard onto my stomach, lying perfectly still upon the roof. I move my head slightly, just enough to see the top of the beam of light catch the bottom of the scarf’s fluttering edge. And then the light is gone.
I wait a second, then bolt to my feet and start untangling the scarf from the pole. But it’s so twisted and snagged that I have to pull the tiny knife that my father got me for my birthday from my pocket and saw away at the silk.
Soon it’s in my hands and I’m wrapping it around my wrist over and over before I climb down the ladder so quickly I almost lose my grip.
I throw my leg over the windowsill and scurry back into the embassy’s fourth-story hallway, slam the window closed behind me, and start to run down the stairs.
I’m going too quickly. I’m going to fall. Someone is going to hear me, I think, before I remember I’m alone. And yet I cannot shake the feeling that I’m wrong.
I listen for my mother’s voice, but it doesn’t come. I have no memory of her here, in this building where I have never been. But I swear that I hear footsteps, that someone’s on my tail.
When I reach the main landing, I turn and rush down a hallway, toward a narrow alley I saw from the roof. I have to get out of here. I have to give Lila back her scarf and return to my own embassy, my mother’s bed. There are ghosts inside these shadows, I’m certain. I can feel them. So I run faster.
I hurl myself around a corner, then skid to a stop, breathing hard, staring down at a massive, gaping hole in the floor. The boards are rotten and broken. What was probably once an incredibly expensive Persian rug hangs over the edge, like a piece of asphalt not quite taken by a sinkhole. Down below, I see water glistening, hear the drop, drop, drop of more water falling into a huge, ornate swimming pool that lies in the basement.
I stand on the precipice, listening to the water drip — my heart pounding.
When a voice says, “We shouldn’t be meeting here,” I can’t be sure that I’m not dreaming. The man speaks in Adrian, but it’s the language my mother spoke to me just like her mother spoke it to her. Without trying, I understand every word.
“In Adria, the walls always have ears,” someone else answers. “What better reason to meet in Iran?”
The man’s laugh is low and dark. Perhaps it is the decaying building, but it sounds sinister and menacing. I expect there to be sharks circling in the swimming pool, a cable with acid dripping onto it, ready to plunge me to my death.
I step back, but I move too fast and the floorboards creak beneath my feet. For a moment, I think I’m going to crash right through the rotten wood, onto the men below me. But I don’t fall. Instead I stand perfectly still, waiting.
“What was that?” one of the men asks.
“Your nerves are not what they used to be, my friend,” the other man says.
And then one of the men walks to the pool. He looks down into the almost-still water. Silently, I gasp but force myself to stand motionless, knowing that if he looks up, he’ll see me. And if he sees me …
I refuse to think about what happened the last time someone saw me.
For a long moment, the man keeps his gaze locked on the pool, almost like he’s lost in thought.
“Are we going to have a problem?” the unseen man asks.
“I have no reason to think so,” the man by the pool says.
“But if a problem develops …”
“Then I will deal with it.” The man places his hands in his pockets and turns to his companion. “I always do.”
The basement is dim — the hallway only lit by moonlight. The whole building is a kaleidoscope of dark and lig
ht blending into swirling shadows. But for a second I see him clearly — I really do. Dark hair speckled with gray. A nice suit. A strong jaw.
A scar.
I am absolutely certain that I see a scar.
And that is why my hands shake. My lips tremble and I squeeze them together, swallowing the cry that is rising in my throat, fighting against the tears that fill my eyes.
And then I do hear my mother’s voice. A haunting cry. “Grace, no!” she tells me.
It is the last thing she will ever tell me.
As soon as the Scarred Man steps out of sight I stumble backward. Somehow, I make myself inch slowly, quietly, down the hall. When I reach the broken window I hurl myself through it, and then my feet begin to move faster and faster, running back the way I came, through the overgrown courtyard and the broken gate, back across the soft, sandy beach.
I hate my footsteps, how easy it will be for someone to see where I’ve been. But I don’t dare stop to smooth the sand behind me.
I’m on my stomach, belly-crawling back beneath the wooden fence, onto public land, when my shoulders leave the ground completely. Suddenly, I’m slammed into the rotting fence. I can feel the raised letters of the Keep Out sign through my wet shirt as I look up at the big, blue eyes that stare at me.
I tremble as Alexei says, “Grace, what have you done?”
I can’t feel the pavement anymore. Alexi is gripping my arm so tightly that my fingers have started to tingle. He doesn’t speak again, though. He just half drags, half carries me down Embassy Row. My mind is still back at that swimming pool. When I start to shake, I blame my wet clothes, the cold wind. I don’t dare say a word of protest. I let Alexei drag me along.
“Grace!” someone yells.
I stop, but Alexei tugs me harder. “I am taking you home,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Grace!” Noah’s footsteps are heavy and loud on the street behind us. When he finally catches up, he cuts us off and then leans over at the waist, panting. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“She won’t be when I’m finished with her,” Alexei snarls.
I see Lila then, and Megan. They ease out of the shadows in front of the German embassy. Rosie must already be inside.
Lila isn’t looking at me, though. “Hi, Alexei,” she purrs as she eases closer.
“Hi.” Alexei’s voice is gruff. He never loosens his hold on my arm. “I’m taking Grace back to her embassy. I’d suggest you all go home as well.”
“How did you find me?” My voice cracks and I can’t stop shaking even with the heat of Alexei’s hand on my arm.
“Megan called me. She was worried.”
And now I know the answer to my question: Megan is definitely not my friend.
“It was that or call my mom,” she says, defiant.
But Noah just keeps looking at me.
“I can’t believe you’re okay,” he says. A nervous laugh escapes his lips, but it’s too loud on the quiet street, so he pulls his hands down to cover his mouth. It doesn’t hide the look in his eyes, though. Relief. “You’re okay,” he says again. “When you jumped I thought —”
“Say good night, Grace,” Alexei tells me with a tug on my arm.
It takes all my strength to hold my ground and push the now torn and ragged piece of silk in Lila’s direction.
“Here’s your scarf,” I force out.
“Thanks,” Lila says, but she keeps looking at me as if whatever’s wrong with me might be contagious.
Then I tug myself free of Alexei’s grasp and push ahead of him. Overhead, the streetlights flicker and fade. I’m shrouded in shadow as the street curves and I pause, press myself against the fence that surrounds the US embassy. I’m almost home. Or, the building that will pass for home for the foreseeable future. I’m almost safe.
And maybe that’s why I stop. I lean against the stone and the cold comes. My clothes are still wet. My hair has started to dry, and it clings to my face and to my neck. I want a hot shower, to feel the ocean and the sand washing off of me, pouring down my back.
“What were you thinking?” Alexei asks when he comes around the corner and finds me. But before I can answer, my brother’s best friend studies me anew. Alexei places a hand on my arm and I know that I am rocking slightly, back and forth. The others round the corner, and I see the looks on the faces that stare back at me, and I know what they are thinking.
I know because I’ve seen them before. The worried looks and cryptic glances. I can almost hear the whispers that will follow in my wake.
When Alexei speaks, he sounds like Jamie. “What is wrong with you?”
But this time I know better. This time, I lie.
“I’m fine. Just cold. Tired.”
“Grace —”
“Leave me alone, Alexei.” I try to push past him. Adrenaline is coming back in a heady, overwhelming rush. My voice is ice. “I am not your problem.”
“You’re Jamie’s problem. And since Jamie isn’t here …” He lets the words draw out, smiles at me — a look that is part dare, part charm, and I hate him for it. For how easy life must be for him. I wish I were bigger, stronger. Male. I wish I could make people stop worrying about me and my so-called frailness. And if they can’t forget to worry about me, then I wish they would just forget about me completely.
“You don’t get to boss me around just because I’m a girl, you know.”
“No.” He eases closer. Part of me is happy for the warmth, but the rest of me wants to cut that part out, toss it in the sea. “I get to be the boss of you because you’re Jamie’s kid sister and Jamie isn’t here.”
“Well, that’s his problem.”
“No. It’s my problem.” Alexei leans closer. I shake harder. “Do you have any idea where you were? What would have happened if someone — anyone — had seen you in there?”
I do know. I know exactly, but I can’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me say the words. Besides, the lecture is coming no matter what I say. If there’s one thing my life has taught me it’s that the lecture is always coming. That’s why I don’t tell him about the men; I don’t dare mention the scar. It will be like it never happened.
With any luck, even I will eventually forget that it happened. Even if I know it did.
“I paid the neighbors a visit. Sue me.”
“I’m going to do far worse than that,” Alexei snaps. Then he softens. “You are the daughter of a major in the United States Army. You are the granddaughter of the United States’ foremost ambassador to Europe. You cannot break into embassies of hostile governments, Grace. I didn’t realize someone had to spell that out to you, but I’m spelling it out now.”
“Leave me alone, Alexei,” I say, my voice cracking. I hate how badly I’m shaking. I want to pull my treacherous tongue right out of my throat.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Alexei says. He could always do that — see through me. I used to think it was Jamie, letting him in on all of my tells. But Alexei has grown up on this curvy street. He knows all the languages. Even mine.
“What is it, Grace? What is it you aren’t telling me?”
I think about the men in the basement, the voices, the ominous drip, drip, dripping of the water. And, again, I shiver. I do not say the things that I have sworn to never say again.
Instead I say good night.
Alexei doesn’t stop me when I pull away and start toward the gate, but I can hear his footsteps behind me, echoing my own.
“You’re following me,” I say.
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s really annoying.”
“I’m sure it probably feels that way, yes.”
I stop. “I can take care of myself.” Overhead, the gas in the streetlamp surges. It grows brighter, harsher. There are no shadows anywhere as he looks at me.
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
He doesn’t say another word as I step toward the gate and the marine who sta
nds there, keeping guard.
No one questions my appearance or the hour — they’re tasked with keeping threats out, not teenage girls in.
I don’t pass a soul as I race up the stairs and into my mother’s room, closing the door firmly behind me.
The window is open. The cold wind blows inside and I rush toward it. I don’t ever want to feel that wind again. But as my hand lands on the frame, I see Rosie standing on the wall, looking at me. Slowly, she raises one hand in something that’s not quite a salute, not quite a wave.
I wave back and close the window, then silently draw the shades.
When I wake, it takes a long time to remember where I am. Then I move my arms, trying to assure myself of where I’m not. The bed is soft and warm, so I know that last night I didn’t have an incident. But I also know that what happened wasn’t a dream. Oh how I wish it were a dream …
The Scarred Man was there.
I lie perfectly still, trying to control my breathing, desperate to convince myself that I could have been seeing things. I could have been hearing things. After all, I was jet-lagged and exhausted, compromised by adrenaline and subpar lighting. I try to tell myself there was no Scarred Man last night — that I have absolutely nothing to fear. But that’s before I roll over and kick the woman sitting on the end of my bed.
“Good morning, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor says. She’s wearing a purple suit today, but it’s almost a carbon copy of the same one she wore yesterday. “It’s time to get up, dear.”
“And what time is that?”
“Almost seven.”
I huff and roll over. I was sneaking into a hostile country just five hours ago. But I can’t tell Ms. Chancellor that.