Amused by my continued interest, Julian lets me listen in on more conversations. Once I even get to watch a video conference from the back of the room, where I can’t be seen by the camera. To my shock, I recognize one of the men on the video feed. It’s a prominent US general—someone I’ve seen a couple of times on popular talk shows. He wants Julian to move his manufacturing operations from Thailand out of fear that political instability in the region could derail the next shipment of the new explosive—the shipment that’s supposed to go to the US government.
My former captor hadn’t been lying when he said he has connections; if anything, he’d understated the extent of his reach.
Of course, politicians, military leaders, and others of their ilk are but a small fraction of the people Julian deals with on a daily basis. The majority of his interactions are with clients, suppliers, and various intermediaries—shady and usually frightening individuals from all over the world. His acquaintances range from Russian mafia and Libyan rebels to dictators in obscure African countries. When it comes to selling weapons, my husband is very egalitarian. Terrorists, drug lords, legitimate governments—he does business with them all.
It turns my stomach, but I can’t bring myself to stay out of Julian’s office. Every day I follow him there, driven by morbid curiosity. It’s like watching some kind of undercover exposé; the things I learn are both fascinating and disturbing.
It takes Julian three days, but he manages to break the last Al-Quadar prisoner. How, he doesn’t tell me and I don’t ask. I know it’s through torture, but I don’t know the particulars. I just know that the information he extracts results in Julian locating two more Al-Quadar cells—and the CIA owing him another favor.
Now that Julian has decided to let me into that portion of his life, we spend even more time together. He likes having me in his office. Not only is it convenient for when he wants sex—which is at least once during the day—but he also seems to enjoy the speed with which I’m learning. I’m sharp, he says. Intuitive. I see things as they are instead of as I want them to be—a rare gift, according to Julian.
“Most people wear blinders,” he tells me over lunch one day, “but not you, my pet. You face reality head-on . . . and that’s what lets you see beneath the surface.”
I thank him for the compliment, but inwardly I wonder if it’s necessarily a good thing, seeing beneath the surface like that. If I could pretend to myself that at the core, Julian is a good man—that he is simply misunderstood and can ultimately be reformed—it would be so much easier for me. If I were blind to my husband’s nature, I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about my feelings for him.
I wouldn’t worry that I’m in love with the devil.
But I do see him for what he is—a demon in a handsome man’s disguise, a monster wearing a beautiful mask. And I wonder if that means that I’m a monster too . . . that I’m evil for loving him.
I wish I had Beth to talk to about this. I know she wasn’t exactly an expert on normal, but I still miss her unorthodox views on things, the way she could turn everything on its head and have it make some kind of twisted sense. I’m pretty sure I know what she would say in regard to my situation. She would tell me I’m lucky to have someone like Julian—that we are meant to be together and everything else is bullshit.
And she would probably be right. When I think back to those lonely, empty months before Julian’s return—when I had my freedom and normal life, but didn’t have him—all my doubts fade away. No matter what he is or what he does, I would sooner die than go through that soul-crushing misery again.
For better or worse, I’m no longer complete without Julian, and no amount of self-flagellation can alter that fact.
* * *
A week after Julian’s conversation with Frank, I knock on the heavy metal door and wait for him to let me in. I had spent the morning walking with Rosa and preparing for my upcoming classes, while Julian went in without me to do some paperwork for his offshore accounts. Apparently, even crime lords have to deal with taxes and legal matters; it appears to be a universal evil that no one can avoid.
When the door swings open, I’m surprised to see a tall, dark-haired man sitting across the large oval table from Julian. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, just a few years older than my husband. I have seen him walking around the estate before, but I’ve never had an occasion to interact with him in person. From a distance, he’d reminded me of a sleek, dark predator—an impression that’s only strengthened by the way he’s looking at me now, his gray eyes tracking my every move with a peculiar mix of watchfulness and indifference.
“Come in, Nora,” Julian says, gesturing for me to join them. “This is Peter Sokolov, our security consultant.”
“Oh, hi. It’s very nice to meet you.” Walking over to the table, I give Peter a cautious smile as I sit down next to Julian. Peter is a good-looking man, with a strong jaw and high, exotically slanted cheekbones, but for some reason, he makes the fine hair at the back of my neck stand up. It’s not what he says or does—he nods at me politely while sitting there, his pose deceptively calm and relaxed—it’s what I see in his steel-colored eyes.
Rage. Pure, undiluted rage. I sense it within Peter, feel it emanating from his pores. It’s not anger or a momentary flare-up of temper. No, this emotion goes deeper than that. It’s a part of him, like his hard-muscled body or the white scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
My former captor hadn’t been lying when he said he has connections; if anything, he’d understated the extent of his reach.
Of course, politicians, military leaders, and others of their ilk are but a small fraction of the people Julian deals with on a daily basis. The majority of his interactions are with clients, suppliers, and various intermediaries—shady and usually frightening individuals from all over the world. His acquaintances range from Russian mafia and Libyan rebels to dictators in obscure African countries. When it comes to selling weapons, my husband is very egalitarian. Terrorists, drug lords, legitimate governments—he does business with them all.
It turns my stomach, but I can’t bring myself to stay out of Julian’s office. Every day I follow him there, driven by morbid curiosity. It’s like watching some kind of undercover exposé; the things I learn are both fascinating and disturbing.
It takes Julian three days, but he manages to break the last Al-Quadar prisoner. How, he doesn’t tell me and I don’t ask. I know it’s through torture, but I don’t know the particulars. I just know that the information he extracts results in Julian locating two more Al-Quadar cells—and the CIA owing him another favor.
Now that Julian has decided to let me into that portion of his life, we spend even more time together. He likes having me in his office. Not only is it convenient for when he wants sex—which is at least once during the day—but he also seems to enjoy the speed with which I’m learning. I’m sharp, he says. Intuitive. I see things as they are instead of as I want them to be—a rare gift, according to Julian.
“Most people wear blinders,” he tells me over lunch one day, “but not you, my pet. You face reality head-on . . . and that’s what lets you see beneath the surface.”
I thank him for the compliment, but inwardly I wonder if it’s necessarily a good thing, seeing beneath the surface like that. If I could pretend to myself that at the core, Julian is a good man—that he is simply misunderstood and can ultimately be reformed—it would be so much easier for me. If I were blind to my husband’s nature, I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about my feelings for him.
I wouldn’t worry that I’m in love with the devil.
But I do see him for what he is—a demon in a handsome man’s disguise, a monster wearing a beautiful mask. And I wonder if that means that I’m a monster too . . . that I’m evil for loving him.
I wish I had Beth to talk to about this. I know she wasn’t exactly an expert on normal, but I still miss her unorthodox views on things, the way she could turn everything on its head and have it make some kind of twisted sense. I’m pretty sure I know what she would say in regard to my situation. She would tell me I’m lucky to have someone like Julian—that we are meant to be together and everything else is bullshit.
And she would probably be right. When I think back to those lonely, empty months before Julian’s return—when I had my freedom and normal life, but didn’t have him—all my doubts fade away. No matter what he is or what he does, I would sooner die than go through that soul-crushing misery again.
For better or worse, I’m no longer complete without Julian, and no amount of self-flagellation can alter that fact.
* * *
A week after Julian’s conversation with Frank, I knock on the heavy metal door and wait for him to let me in. I had spent the morning walking with Rosa and preparing for my upcoming classes, while Julian went in without me to do some paperwork for his offshore accounts. Apparently, even crime lords have to deal with taxes and legal matters; it appears to be a universal evil that no one can avoid.
When the door swings open, I’m surprised to see a tall, dark-haired man sitting across the large oval table from Julian. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, just a few years older than my husband. I have seen him walking around the estate before, but I’ve never had an occasion to interact with him in person. From a distance, he’d reminded me of a sleek, dark predator—an impression that’s only strengthened by the way he’s looking at me now, his gray eyes tracking my every move with a peculiar mix of watchfulness and indifference.
“Come in, Nora,” Julian says, gesturing for me to join them. “This is Peter Sokolov, our security consultant.”
“Oh, hi. It’s very nice to meet you.” Walking over to the table, I give Peter a cautious smile as I sit down next to Julian. Peter is a good-looking man, with a strong jaw and high, exotically slanted cheekbones, but for some reason, he makes the fine hair at the back of my neck stand up. It’s not what he says or does—he nods at me politely while sitting there, his pose deceptively calm and relaxed—it’s what I see in his steel-colored eyes.
Rage. Pure, undiluted rage. I sense it within Peter, feel it emanating from his pores. It’s not anger or a momentary flare-up of temper. No, this emotion goes deeper than that. It’s a part of him, like his hard-muscled body or the white scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
