Ekaterina

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Kat Moore stared ahead at the customs control booth and tightened her grip on the brass key in her jacket pocket. The key’s teeth bit into her palm’s soft flesh, but the pain shot courage into her veins.

She lifted her chin. Her journey, the one she’d waited for her entire life, could come to a smacking halt in about ten steps.

She tore her gaze away from the steely eyes of a Russian passport official and tried to find comfort in the faces of the other passengers. No one smiled or even met her gaze. Their stoic expressions stiffened a muscle in her neck.

The passengers from the KLM plane stretched in a haphazard line down a chipped, gray hallway in Sheremetova 2, Moscow’s International Airport. The smells of cement, dirt, and fatigue hovered like the presence of Big Brother.

A stiff wind, leftover from some iceberg north of St. Petersburg, whistled in through the metal hanging doors and kicked up dust. Kat pulled her jacket around her and mentally flogged the person who’d written “warm and sunny in June,” in her travel guidebook. They would probably describe the Artic as “mildly chilly on overcast days.”

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