Claim Me

Chapter 17

17Yulia

“I have a new assignment for you,” Obenko says, walking into the kitchen of the safe house apartment.

Startled, I look up from my plate of cream-of-wheat kasha. “An assignment?”

Over the past week, my boss has been busy erasing all traces of UUR’s existence from the net and reassigning key agents to lower-profile operations whenever possible. He’s also been studiously ignoring me—which is why I’m surprised to see him here this morning.

Obenko takes a seat across from me at the table. “It’s in Istanbul,” he says. “As you know, the situation with Turkey and Russia is beginning to heat up, and we need someone on the ground.”

I consume another spoonful of kasha to give myself time to think. “What do you want me to do in Istanbul?” I ask after I swallow. I have no appetite—I haven’t had one all week—but I force myself to eat to keep up appearances.

I don’t want Obenko to know how listless I feel and speculate about the cause of my malaise.

“Your assignment is to get close to a key Turkish official. To do that, you’ll matriculate at Istanbul University as part of a graduate student exchange program with the United States. We have already prepared your documents.” Obenko slides a thick folder toward me. “Your name is Mary Becker, and you’re from Washington D.C. You’re working on your Master’s in Political Science at the University of Maryland, and though your undergraduate degree is in Economics, you minored in Near Eastern Studies—hence your interest in a study abroad program in Turkey.”

The kasha I’ve eaten turns into a rock in my stomach. “So it’s another long-term play.”

“Yes.” Obenko gives me a hard look. “Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not.” I do my best to sound nonchalant. “But what about my brother? You said you’d get me the pictures.”

Obenko’s mouth thins. “They’re in that folder as well. Take a look and let me know if you have any questions.”

He gets up and walks out of the kitchen to make a call, and I flip open the folder, my hands shaking. I’m trying not to think about what this assignment will entail, but I can’t help it. My throat is cinched tight, and my insides churn with nausea.

Not now, Yulia. Just focus on Misha.

Ignoring the papers in the file, I find the photos clipped to the back of the folder. They’re of my brother—I recognize the color of his hair and the tilt of his head. The pictures were clearly taken in a rush; the photographer captured him mostly from the side and the back, with only one photo showing his face. In that picture, Misha is frowning, his youthful face looking unusually mature. Is he upset because his family had to relocate, or is something else behind his tense expression?

I study the pictures for several minutes, my heart aching, and then I force myself to set them aside so I can look at my assignment.

Ahmet Demir, a member of Turkish Parliament, is forty-seven years old and known to have a weakness for blond American women. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad-looking man—a little balding, a little chubby, but with symmetrical features and a charismatic smile. Looking at his photo shouldn’t make me want to throw up, but that’s precisely how I feel at the prospect of getting close to him.

I can’t imagine sleeping with this man—or any man who’s not Lucas.

Feeling increasingly sick, I push the papers away and take several deep breaths. The last time I felt a dread this strong was before my first assignment, when I feared a man’s touch in the wake of Kirill’s attack. It was a phobia I battled through in order to do my job, and I’m determined to overcome whatever it is I’m feeling now.

For Misha, I tell myself, picking up his pictures again. I’m doing it for Misha. Except this time, the words ring hollow in my mind. My brother is no longer a child, no longer a helpless toddler abused in an orphanage. The face in the photo is that of a young man, not a boy. Because of my mistake, his life has already been disrupted. I don’t know what reason his adoptive parents gave him for changing their identities, but I have no doubt he’s stressed and upset. The carefree, stable life I wanted for him is no longer a possibility, and despite the black guilt gnawing at my chest, I’m aware of a sense of relief.

What I feared has come to pass, and I can’t undo it.

For the first time, I consider what would happen if I left UUR—if I simply walked away. Would they let me go, or would they kill me? If I disappeared, would Obenko’s sister and her husband continue treating my brother well? I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t; he’s been their adopted son for eleven years. Only monsters would throw him out at this point, and by all indications, Misha’s adoptive parents are decent people.

They love Misha, and they wouldn’t harm him.

I pick up the documents in the folder and study them. They look authentic—a passport, a driver’s license, a birth certificate, and a social security card. If I accept this assignment, I’ll start over as Mary Becker, an American grad student. I’ll live in Istanbul, attend classes, and eventually become Ahmet Demir’s girlfriend. My interlude with Lucas Kent will fade into the past, and I’ll move on.

I’ll survive, like I always have.

“Do you have any questions for me?” Obenko asks, and I look up to see him walk back into the kitchen. “Did you have a chance to look through the file?”

“Yes.” My voice sounds hoarse, and I have to clear my throat before continuing. “I’ll need to brush up on a number of subjects before I go to Istanbul.”

“Of course,” Obenko says. “You have a week before the start of the summer semester. I suggest you get busy.”

He leaves the kitchen, and I pick up my half-full plate with unsteady hands. Carrying it over to the garbage, I dump the remnants of my breakfast, wash the plate, and walk to my room, a ghost of a plan forming in my mind.

For the first time in my life, I may have a choice about my future, and I intend to seize the opportunity with both hands.

Over the next week, I learn the basics of Turkish language and culture. I don’t need to know a lot, just enough to pass for an American graduate student interested in the subject. I also memorize Mary Becker’s background and brush up on American college life. I prepare stories about my roommates and frat parties, read Economics textbooks, and come up with Mary’s interests and hobbies. Obenko and Mateyenko quiz me daily, and when they’re satisfied that I make a convincing Mary Becker, they buy me a plane ticket to Berlin.

“You’ll travel as Elena Depeshkova to Berlin,” Obenko explains. “And as Claudia Schreider from Berlin to New York. Once you’re in the United States, your identity as Mary Becker will go into effect, and you’ll fly from there to Istanbul. This way, nobody will be able to connect you to Ukraine. Yulia Tzakova will disappear for good.”

“Got it,” I say, slicking on a bright red lipstick in front of a mirror. I’ll be wearing a dark wig for Elena’s role, so I’ll need bolder makeup for that. “Elena, Claudia, then Mary.”

Obenko nods and makes me repeat the names of all of Mary’s relatives, beginning with distant cousins and ending with parents. I don’t make a single mistake, and when he leaves that day, I know my hard work has paid off.

My boss believes I’ll make an excellent Mary Becker.

The next morning, Obenko drives me to the airport, dropping me off at the Departures area. I’m Elena now, so I’m wearing the wig and high-heeled boots that go well with my dark jeans and stylish jacket. Obenko helps me load my suitcases onto a cart before driving away, and I wave him goodbye as he disappears into the airport traffic.

The minute his car is out of sight, I spring into action. Leaving my suitcases on the cart, I run to the Arrivals area and grab a cab.

“Head toward the city,” I tell the driver. “I need to pull up the exact address.”

He starts driving, and I take out my phone. Opening the tracking app I installed a couple of days ago, I locate a small red dot heading toward the city a kilometer or two ahead of us. It’s the tiny GPS chip I surreptitiously placed in Obenko’s phone back at the safe house.

I may have no intention of carrying out the Istanbul mission, but I certainly found use for the surveillance equipment UUR gave me.

“Take a left here,” I instruct the driver when I see the red dot turning left off the highway. “Then keep going straight.”

I give him directions like this until I see Obenko’s dot come to a stop in the center of Kiev. Telling the driver to stop a block away, I take out my wallet and pay him; then I jump out and walk the rest of the way, keeping a close eye on my app to make sure Obenko doesn’t go anywhere.

I find Obenko’s car in front of a tall building. It looks like some kind of office space, with an international corporation’s logo blazing at the top and the first floor occupied by businesses ranging from a trendy coffee shop to a high-end clothing boutique.

Slowly, I approach the building, scanning my surrounding every few seconds to make sure I’m not being watched.

What I’m doing is a long shot: there’s zero guarantee Obenko will visit his sister any time soon. However, this is the only way I can think of to find Misha. Given their recent relocation, my brother’s adoptive parents are still getting settled into their new lives, and there’s a chance they might need something from Obenko, something that will necessitate him to visit them personally.

If I follow my boss long enough, he might lead me to my brother.

I know my plan is both desperate and borderline insane. Since I’m walking away from UUR, my best bet is to disappear somewhere in Berlin, or better yet, go all the way to New York. And I’m planning to do exactly that—after I see my brother with my own eyes.

I can’t leave Ukraine without making sure Misha is okay.

Two days, I tell myself. I will do this for a maximum of two days. If I still haven’t found my brother by then, I’ll leave. They won’t realize I didn’t board the plane until I don’t meet my handler in Istanbul in three days—which gives me a little over forty-eight hours to tail Obenko before getting out of the country.

The dot on my phone indicates that Obenko is on the second floor of the building. I’m curious what he’s doing there, but I don’t want to expose myself by following him in. I doubt my brother’s family is here; Obenko would’ve relocated them out of the city—assuming they’d lived in the city before. My boss never disclosed their location to me for security reasons, but from the backgrounds in my brother’s pictures, I gathered that they’d lived in an urban environment, like Kiev.

Entering the coffee shop, I order a pastry and a cup of Earl Grey and wait for Obenko’s dot to start moving again. When it does, I grab another cab and follow him to his next destination: our safe house.

He stays at the apartment for several hours before the dot starts moving again. By then, I’ve had lunch at a nearby restaurant and swapped my dark wig for a red one I brought with me for this purpose. I’ve also changed my jeans for a long-sleeved gray dress, and the high-heeled boots for flat booties—the most comfortable option “Elena” had in her carry-on bag.

Obenko’s next destination appears to be another office building downtown. He stays there for a couple of hours before heading back to the safe house. I follow him again, feeling increasingly discouraged.

This is clearly not the way to find my brother.

My phone is beginning to run low on batteries, so I go to another coffee shop to charge it while Obenko is at the safe house. I also get online and buy a plane ticket to Berlin for the next morning to replace the one that has gone unused today.

It’s time to admit defeat and disappear for good.

Sighing, I order myself another tea and drink it as I read the news on my phone. Obenko seems to be settled in for the night, his dot sitting firmly in the safe house every time I check the app. Finishing my tea, I get up, deciding to go to a hotel and get some rest before the long journey tomorrow. Just as I step outside, however, my phone beeps in my bag, signifying movement on the app.

My heart leaps. Fishing out the phone, I glance at the screen and see that Obenko’s dot is going north—possibly out of the city.

This could be it.

Instantly energized, I jump into a cab and follow Obenko. I know there’s a 99.9 percent chance this has nothing to do with my brother, but I can’t help the irrational hope that grips me as I watch Obenko’s dot heading farther north.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going, young lady?” the cab driver says when we’re out of the city. “You said you were going to get directions from your boyfriend.”

“Yes, he’s texting me as we speak,” I assure him. “It’s not much farther.”

I’m lying through my teeth—I have no idea how far we’re going—but I’m hoping it’s not far. With all my cab rides, I’m running low on cash, and I’ll need whatever I still have to get to the airport tomorrow morning.

“Fine,” the driver mutters. “But you better tell me soon, else I’m dropping you off at the nearest bus stop.”

“Just another fifteen minutes,” I say, seeing the dot turn left and stop a half-kilometer later. “Turn left at the next intersection.”

The driver shoots me a dirty look in the rearview mirror but does as I ask. The road we end up on is dark and full of potholes, and I hear him curse as he swerves to avoid a hole wide enough to swallow our whole car.

“Stop here,” I tell him when the tracker app says we’re two hundred meters away. Exiting the car, I approach the driver’s window and hand him a stack of bills, saying, “Here’s half of what I owe you. Please wait for me, and I’ll give you the rest when you bring me back to the city.”

“What?” He glares at me. “f**k, no. Give me the full amount, bitch.”

I ignore him, turning to walk away, but he leaps out of the car and grabs my arm. Instinctively, I whirl around, my fist catching the underside of his chin as my knee hits him in the balls. He collapses to the ground, wheezing and clutching at his groin, and I bring my foot down on his temple, knocking him out.

I feel awful hurting this civilian, but I can’t let him drive off in this cab. If he leaves, I’ll have no way of getting back to the city and I’ll miss my flight tomorrow morning.

Pushing aside my guilt, I check the driver’s pulse to verify that he’s alive, grab the keys from the car in case he wakes up, and then head toward the blinking red dot on my phone map.

A couple of minutes later, I come across what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Disappointed, I stare at it, debating whether I should even approach. Whatever Obenko is doing here is unlikely to involve my brother’s adoptive parents; my boss wouldn’t ask his sister to meet him in the middle of nowhere just to give her some documents. It’s far more probable that he’s in the middle of an operation, and the last thing I want is to stand in his way.

Despite that, I take a step closer. Then another and another. My legs seem to be carrying me of their own accord. I’ve come this far, I reason to justify my compulsion. What’s another few minutes to confirm that I’ve wasted my time?

There is a faint glow of light visible on one side of the warehouse, so I make my way there and crouch in front of a small, dirty window. Inside, I hear voices, and I hold my breath, trying to understand what they’re saying.

“—getting good,” a man says in Russian. There’s something familiar about his voice, but I can’t place it. The wall is muffling the sound. “Really good. I think another couple of years, and they’ll be ready.”

“Good,” another man replies, and this time, I recognize the speaker as Obenko. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Would you like a demonstration?” the original speaker says. “They’ll be happy to show you what they’ve learned thus far.”

“Of course,” Obenko says, and then I hear a grunt, followed by the thump of something falling. The noises repeat again and again, and I realize I’m listening to a fight. Two or more people are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, which, combined with the bits I overheard, means only one thing.

I’ve stumbled upon a UUR training facility.

That’s it. I need to leave before I’m caught.

I turn around, about to head back, when the original speaker laughs loudly and exclaims, “Good job!”

I freeze in place, a sick feeling spreading through me. That voice. I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares over and over again.

Cold sweat breaks over my skin as I turn, drawn to the window despite myself.

It can’t be.

It just can’t be.

My pulse is a violent drumbeat, and my hands tremble as I place them on the wall next to the window.

I’m imagining this.

I’m hallucinating.

I have to be.

Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I edge to the left until I can see through the window. I know I’m taking a terrible risk, but I have to know the truth.

I have to know if they lied to me.

The scene that greets my eyes is straight out of my own training sessions. There are several teenagers of both genders standing in a semi-circle. Their backs are to me, and in front of them is a wide mat on which two men—or, rather, a man and a boy—are wrestling. Obenko is standing to the side, watching them with an approving smile.

I notice all of this only briefly because my eyes are glued to the wrestling pair. With the two of them twisting and rolling on the mat, I can’t get a good look at either of them—at least until they stop, with the man pinning his younger opponent to the mat.

“Good job,” the man says, rising to his feet. Laughing, he extends his hand to help his defeated opponent. “You were excellent today, Zhenya.”

The boy gets up as well, brushing the dirt off his clothes, but I’m not looking at him.

All I see is the man standing next to him.

He hasn’t changed much. His brown hair is thinner and has more gray in it, but his body is as strong and broad as I remember. His shoulders strain the seams of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and his arms are as thick as drain pipes.

Nobody could best Kirill in hand-to-hand combat seven years ago, and it seems he’s still undefeated.

Alive and undefeated.

Obenko lied to me. They all lied to me.

My rapist wasn’t killed for what he did to me.

He wasn’t even removed from his role as a trainer.

A metallic taste fills my mouth, and I realize I bit through my lip.

“It’s your fault, b***h. It’s all your fault.” Kirill’s massive body presses me into the floor, his hands cruelly tearing at my clothes. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”

Acid rises in my throat, mixing with the bitterness of bile. I feel like I’m going to choke on my terror and hatred, but before the memories can suffocate me, someone else enters my field of vision.

“It’s my turn,” a blond-haired boy says, approaching the mat. “Uncle Vasya, I want you to watch this.” He assumes a fighter’s stance opposite Kirill, and the fluorescent lights illuminate his face.

It’s a face I know as well as my own—because I’ve spent hours staring at it in photos.

Because every feature on that face is a masculine version of what I see in the mirror.

My brother is standing in front of me, ready to spar with Kirill.