Page 193 of Lethal Obsession

I haven’t seen Ofelia. I can’t. I’m about to become the Swamp Surgeon again, at least for a while. I can’t do that with her face in my mind, her scent on my body. I can’t be the predator the swamp requires if I’m thinking of the woman who lifted me out of it.

I don’t want to carry the life I hoped for into the one I’m doomed to inhabit.

Ofelia and I shared a dream on the Quantum Drift. A sybaritic fantasy that I thought, for a time, could be real.

But the swamp is my reality. More corpses than any man should ever have to account for. Corpses that mean there will always be a Silas Thorne waiting in the shadows, planning revenge.

The Phantom project means I don’t always have to be Alexei Petrovsky. It means I can disappear, wear another name for a while, or as many names as I wish.

But not even a thousand new identities can give back the lives I’ve taken.

They can’t change what those deaths made me.

What I am.

Or the fact that men like Thorne will never stop hunting me.

It’s raining as the plane descends into Paris, dawn hidden behind a dreary early-morning sky which utterly matches my mood. The plane rolls to a halt. A black sedan car is waiting on the tarmac.

“Your car is waiting, sir,” the steward says as the door opens.

I tense. “I’m not expecting a car. Or a visitor. I thought I was here to change planes?”

“Oh.” The steward looks confused and goes to the phone on the wall. As I watch, the chauffeur opens the car door, holding up an umbrella. He leans in to assist the passenger, and I catch a glimpse of a gnarled hand waving him away with an impatient gesture so familiar it makes my breath seize in my chest. A second later my father stands stiffly on the tarmac, immaculately dressed as ever in an elegant gray suit, matching hat, and cashmere scarf. Looking directly at my window, he raises a single hand in salute.

Papa doesn’t gesture for me to join him, and by the steward’s uncertain expression, has given no order.

I can almost hear his voice in my mind: It is your choice, syn moy . . .

But when it comes to my father, there has never been a choice. Not for me.

At different times I have fought him, resented him, and even, sometimes, thought I hated him.

But I have never not loved him.

“It’s fine,” I tell the steward as I stand. “How long have I got in Paris?”

He looks even more confused. “As long as you wish, Mr. Petrovsky. Mr. Tereschenko thought it wouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“Did he, now.” I almost smile. Fucking Mak.

“This is for you.” The steward hands me one of the high-tech phones Mak always uses. “Our number is programmed in. If you need anything while you are out, don’t hesitate to call. The plane remains here until you return, then we hand you on to another flight.”

“And passport control?” I ask dryly, although I already know the answer.

The steward waves me away. “Quite unnecessary.”

Of course it is.

I step out into the rain and cross the tarmac to the tall figure standing with his hands folded by the car.

“Otets.” I put my hand out.

“Syn moy.” Ignoring my hand, my father opens his arms, and I step into his brief embrace. “Come,” he says in Russian, gesturing to the leather interior of the car. “There is somewhere I wish to take you.”

We leave the airport behind and join the early-morning traffic into Paris. Taking a thermos from the side pocket in the car, Papa pours us both small cups of thick black coffee.

Real china, I notice with amusement. My father and Mak are cut from the same cloth, I think, as he adds a decent shot of vodka to both cups and hands me one.