It was an unusually cold January day, with thoughts of the holidays long gone and little warmth in the climate or the ambience. Valens had taken a redeye from Chicago, where he’d been on a work vacation studying some cold cases he had been consulted for. One of the higher-ups had heard about his work on similar cases, and thought he might had a lead. Just as he was about to begin an investigation back in the states, he’d gotten a phone call–hundreds, actually–and now he was here, drinking the most godawful cup of coffee he’d ever had in his life, waiting for one of their cars to show. He was getting an escort straight to the scene in order to cut down on any kind of inefficiency. Colorless snowflakes fell against a deep gray sky, landing in his dark brown hair, on the bridge of his nose, and just about everywhere else. He couldn’t contain his annoyance at the climate, which wasn’t much different than what he’d just come from. Below-freezing temps, some kind of miserable precipitation that made living unbearable, gray skies: he missed warmer weather, especially that of home. He hadn’t been back in Italy in almost three years.

After an inefficient commute that left him more on edge than the caffeine ever could, Valens reached the headquarters and immediately fell into a swarm of people seeking to debrief him. There was a translator, a security escort, and a gruff, older man he assumed was someone he should know the name of. Not that it mattered all that much, considering his primary job was to get this Jane Doe on American soil after learning all of the Russian intel. He had been cleared to complete this mission by any means necessary, and he knew he would need to.

The taupe sweater hanging over his built frame irritated him too, but he tried to keep it out of his mind. It was old and rugged, the first turtleneck in a long line of purchases. A gift from his ex-wife, who had stitched it by hand. He’d never been one for homemade gifts. Still, it was too warm to be put to waste. “How much of this has been communicated to our Jane Doe?” He was referring to the long strands of information given to him by the translator. For all the choppily delivered syllables he’d spoken, he’d really said little: we found a woman, we believe she is a woman presumed dead halfway across the world decades ago, and we have no idea how she survived, why she has absolutely no recollection of anything, and why she doesn’t appear to have aged in decades.

“None,” came the reply, first from the man, then from the translator. “She’s been in custody for less than a day, and we thought you would have a lead.”

He stopped in his tracks, studying the man’s face. Without looking away, he spoke to the translator, wondering if he knew what Valens thought he did. “Ask him to clarify that statement.”

The man waved his hand, indicating no translation was necessary. He looked Valens in the eye and replied with a single word. “Carlotta.”

—

Valens approached the cell, opening the door casually. As soon as he entered the room, his demeanor softened, movements slow. His expression lost its harshness, giving him a younger, kinder look. Or, so he’d been told by his team, a million times. They frequently joked that if he walked into a room full of women the way he walked into an interrogation room, he would have remarried years ago. Or, at least, had the option. Everyone knew Valens Caiazzo had no interest in women. Or men. Or anything outside of his job and his home country. Most people had simply stopped trying to change him. It seemed impossible.

He sat down calmly on one side of the room. He’d chosen the floor because the Russians, in all their intelligence, had put her in a room with nothing but an old couch that looked like it smelled bad. It reminded him of the kind of furniture you would see on the side of the highway in America, and it was all they had given her since she’d been here. He wasn’t even sure they’d fed her. Based on the quality of this experience for her so far, he was beginning to think that gaining her trust and convincing her to follow him back to Richmond with him was going to be easier than he thought.

Carefully, he pulled a bag out of his overcoat, which had been folded and hung over his right arm. He slid it across the cramped cell to her. It didn’t even attempt to appear homey in any way. “There’s some food in there. I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten, and the more you’re exposed to, the more you may remember.” He folded his coat back up and glanced away, allowing her time to look through the bag if she pleased without feeling self-conscious. After a few moments, he glanced back to her. “My name is Valens, I traveled a long way to meet you.” He wasn’t looking for gratitude, he was simply stating a fact. So please make it worth my while, was unsaid, only spoken through his tone and demeanor. “He didn’t even try to relay any secret messages to her, knowing the sheer mass of people staring at them from the other side. Some were watching on cameras placed inside the cell, others simply staring from the outside. The walls were made of glass, and the cell was placed in the middle of the room. The idea of being stared at made him deeply unsettled, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what she might be thinking. At the moment, there were two categories: her, and the Russians. If she separated him from the Russians in her mind, he’d already have a headstart on his work here in Moscow. If she placed him in the same category as the Russians, he was done for. It was his job to make sure that didn’t happen.

Adjusting his position on the cold floor, his gaze glossed over her again. He hadn’t really looked at her when he’d first entered, he didn’t really care. He had been told she looked like a woman who had gone missing decades ago, and he trusted the thousands of people who’d told him that. She could have had blue skin or orange eyes, for all he cared, and he might never have noticed. Still, he forced himself to try. He didn’t see much. Ivory skin, dark, innocent eyes, reddish brown hair, average height. If they put her in a lineup, he wouldn’t be able to differentiate her from anyone else. If he passed her on the street, he wouldn’t know she’d been missing for decades, or that one day she walked out of the Russian wilderness with no recollection of anything.

“I know you’ve been asked a lot of questions and you’re probably at your breaking point. So, I brought you a book. No underlying significance. Just thought you might want something to do.”

He slid her a book. “Anna Karenina. Seemed appropriate, all things considered.” He bunched his coat up like a pillow, and slid his back against the wall. “I’m going to catch up on sleep, and if you remember anything, or you have anything to say to me, you’re welcome to wake me up. I’m a light sleeper.”

He heard the intercom buzz, but no one spoke. It seems whoever had wanted to question his antics had been told to remain silent. If anyone had any doubts, they were the intelligent ones. The book, which had been snuck in without any level of questioning, contained all of the words Valens couldn’t say with his tongue or his eyes in front of such a crowd of trained officials.

“Valens, was it? Can you tell me what exactly you want? Obviously, you want answers, about what happened, and who was involved, but I’m afraid I can’t answer any of them. I’m sorry, I’m aware you travelled a distance.”

“No matter the distance,” he replied in a neutral tone. His body language was rigid, that was normal. For him, anyway. He spent the majority of his life in situations that begged for danger, that required him to constantly remain on his guard for fear of his life. “I’m not here to ask you any questions that are different than the rest, I’m only here because my boss sent me, and to be honest, I’m a bit jet lagged and you seem a bit tired of being asked the same questions over and over again. So, I’m not going to do that. You see, Miss, I don’t play by the rules.” He looked directly into one of the security cameras as he said it. “But, if you value the vast autonomy you’re getting by sitting alone in a cage with blinding white lights and ear-piercing sirens on the floor below, I’ll leave you to it. You’re welcome to call me if you find out you remember something crucial.” His gaze lingered on her for a suspended second or two, as if he were trying to deliver a message to her that he could not outwardly say. He was, but the majority of it was written in the pages. Surely, in the next three hours, she’d get bored enough to leaf through it before the plan was to go into action.

As far as plans went, it was rather simple. Perhaps the most simple Valens Caizzo had ever manufactured. Underlying messages in the text of the book instructed her to enter the bathroom on the floor below at a roundabout time. Within ten or so minutes of 10:27 that morning. The bathroom was the only one they had, and, given the fact that the building she was being held in didn’t seem built for prisoners, he knew they’d allow it. They wouldn’t expect much from her in the way of sneaking out, it seemed highly unlikely that someone who seemed barely aware of her existence in this world would try to make it in the middle of the Russian January wilderness, especially after those rugged conditions had held her captive for the last several decades. Or so they thought, at this point. Nothing was certain. Nothing at all.

From there, Valens would be waiting to assist her escape. The bathroom had a large central window that would open with any hope. He’d already removed the outer screen hours prior, and nothing had been noticed. The building was entirely too old for the operations it was heading, and lacked any kind of security cameras on the perimeter. That would make their job easy, granted that the woman wasn’t afraid of heights. It wasn’t the most dangerous operation he’d ever headed, the window was only on the second floor. The building beside it had a flat roof with a ladder on one side for a fire escape, and it’d be no trouble to make it down and back onto solid ground. From there, a car would be waiting, driven by one of Valens’ most trusted teammates who’d flown in just behind him. Their intention was to avoid the major airport and the major roads, for the Russian government’s first move would certainly be to shut those down. Instead, they’d be taking backroads all the way out to a remote rendez-vous point where a private plane would take them to the outskirts of Ukraine, and from the airport in Kviv they’d make it all the way back to their soil.

What Valens feared was that she wouldn’t agree, that the perceived safety of the place she was in would cause her to falter. Even more than that, he knew that out of everyone watching her, someone would detect foul play at the slightest sign of suspicious activity. She had to sell it for the hours ahead, or the plan wouldn’t work. And he didn’t have that much faith in a woman he didn’t know, that had been far removed from the ways of the world for the past few decades. He didn’t have that much faith in anyone.

Still, there was nothing he could do but sit and wait. So, he exited the building, much to the relief of the security members there who undoubtedly had days of torture planned out for the woman in the interests of learning information. From there, he walked across the street, getting his own meal from the nearby cafe. He knew he was being watched, so he remained as calm and unsuspecting as possible, counting down the minutes until his plan either succeeded, or went horribly, horribly wrong before it could even begin. All he could do now was hope she would play her part well, and leave it up to chance, something he had rarely done in his life, and especially in his career.