LITMIR.BIZ

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expiry date. The forger had sworn that everything about the passport was legit except the photo, which had been swapped for hers, and that it hadn’t been reported stolen. Its owner had sold it to him and he’d repurposed it for Samira—for a gagging price.

      The woman made a ticking noise. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

      “A wedding, of a university friend.” Samira had been confidently faking an Italian accent all morning but suddenly she felt like a bad actor.

      “Where is this wedding?”

      “In Cornwall.”

      “Where in Cornwall?”

      Samira frowned. “Ah, it’s in...” She riffled through her backpack and pulled out a gilt-edged invitation on heavy matte card, created yesterday at a self-serve print shop on the outskirts of Paris. “Mousehole?” She held out the card, deliberately mispronouncing the town’s name. According to the forger, the passport’s former owner—real owner—had never visited Britain.

      The woman smirked. “Mow-zul. Wait here.” She left her post, with Samira’s documents. Damn. Why?

      Behind Samira, a man groaned. One thing she wished she hadn’t double-checked: using a fake passport at the border could get her ten years in prison or—once they figured out her real identity—deportation, probably to Ethiopia, though she’d spent only a few years of her life there. Either way, assassins would be waiting. And questions would be asked of her parents. The Ivy League–educated daughter of career diplomats busted for identity fraud? She pulled a water bottle from her bag and worked a sip down her throat. Maybe she should have taken the risk with her real passport.

      No. It could have taken weeks to get a visa, raising too many flags in too many systems and giving her enemies ample notice to arrange a welcoming party. And she’d already lost time with the postcard delay. This plan was imperfect but it was the best she had. In risk versus risk, risk had won out.

      The woman approached a man in the same blue uniform, who was surveying the queue with his arms crossed. He bent his head to one side to catch her words, his pale forehead creasing. Both faces turned to Samira. Here we go. She forced her expression to neutral, channeling the psychology journal article she’d read online yesterday. “The Physical Manifestations of Guilt.” She’d converted it into a list of takeaways and memorized them—because she was that much of a geek—then set fire to her list in a Dumpster in a deserted alley, followed by every page of her evidence. Tess had a copy, for what it was (not) worth.

      Look unconcerned but not wide-eyed. Not flustered but not cocky. And, most challenging of all: don’t try too hard.

      The man sauntered toward Samira, unfolding his arms. A master of the neutral face she’d practiced in her car mirror. Her vision swam until he looked like he’d turned to jelly and was dancing. She tightened her hand around the liquor bag, as if that’d keep her upright. Hold it together. She’d made it this far. Now it was either freedom and a chance at reclaiming her life, or prison. Or worse.

      “Good morning, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind coming with me a minute...” He spoke quietly, stepping aside to let her by as if it were the gentlemanly thing to do.

       They can’t see the nerves in your belly, so don’t let them show in your face.

      He led her to a high metal table and leaned an elbow back on it, as if settling in for a leisurely chat-up at a bar. Deliberately keeping this low-key, for now?

      “Dove vive, Signorina...” He peered at the passport, clicking and unclicking a cheap ballpoint. “...Moretti?” he asked. A confident Italian speaker but not a native one.

      “Certaldo,” she replied. “In una piccola città vicino Firenze.” Bravo, Samira. Six weeks in Tuscany had been just long enough to take her Italian from rough back to smooth, though it might not fool a real Italiano.

      “I know it,” he said. “È una bellissima città.” Click. Unclick. Click. Unclick.

      “Si,” she said, forcing a proud smile. “The most beautiful place in Italy.”

      “Big call.” Click. Unclick. “Che lavoro fa?”

      “I have my own web design company.” She reached for her side pocket, where she’d slipped her freshly printed fake business cards—and froze. Not yet. Be accommodating but not too forthcoming. She’d loaded herself with layers of deception, to be revealed gradually and only as necessary.

       Click. Unclick. Click. Unclick.

      She’d even found a genuine wedding she could claim to be attending, harvesting the details from a bride’s blog. Everyday people put too much on the web—people who thought they had nothing to hide, who thought the world had only benign intentions. People who weren’t being hunted by one of the world’s most powerful people.

       Not if I catch you first, Senator.

      The officer pulled out a cell phone, held it where they could both see it and typed into the browser her fake name and “web design.” Her breath stalled.

      “This one?” he asked, pointing to the top hit.

      She nodded, not trusting her voice. The SEO had worked but any second he’d notice the search had netted suspiciously few results—because the site was less than twenty-four hours old.

      He clicked the link and the site loaded. “It’s in English.”

      “Awo.” She bit her lip. She’d used the Ethiopian word for yes. Old habits... “Pardon me,” she said, patting her upper chest, as if she’d hiccuped. “Si, that version is. Most of my clients are in English-speaking countries. I also have an Italian site.” She pointed to the green, white and red flag icon in a corner of the home page. She’d be almost disappointed if he didn’t open it, after the effort it’d taken to translate.

      He studied her as if he could see right through to her Ethiopian DNA sequence. “How much do you charge for a simple e-commerce site?”

      “Scusi, signore?” Damn. She had no idea of the going rates.

      “My wife and I are thinking about setting up an online...” The other officer signaled him and he raised a pointer finger—one minute. The ambient noise crescendoed, as though it’d been silenced for their conversation and someone had just pressed the unmute button. “Never mind.” He handed back Samira’s documents. “When you return to Certaldo I suggest you update your passport. You’d be surprised how much ID fraud we’re seeing these days. Desperate people out there.” He swept a hand toward the thinning queue. “Hence the extra checks.”

      He moved on to his next target, leaving Samira’s “Grazie” hanging—and her way clear to the exit. She zipped the documents into her bag and let her chest fill. It’d gone almost concave. She walked—not too fast—boots clicking on the floor, heartbeat thumping along in her ears in double time.

      There was something to be said for paranoia. But her delay had given the blond man time to clear the checkpoint. Leaning on a white column ahead, bag at his feet, he swiped at his phone. He caught her eye and quickly looked away. Too quickly? Dear God. She skirted behind a tribe of tracksuit-clad teenagers—some lanky, overgrown sports team—and strode toward the border control exit. The border itself, technically. Once she left the station, once she found Tess, her nerves would settle. She took note of the area’s security cameras then angled herself away, bunching her hair around her face. She pulled a beanie from her bag and tugged it down to her eyebrows. Facial recognition software wasn’t as easily fooled as human eyes. She slipped on the Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses she’d picked up in Paris.

      Tension fell from her shoulders as she emerged into a soaring atrium—an arcade, with shimmering glass shopfronts over Victorian brick arches. A massive Christmas tree circled up to the dome, so laden with ornaments she could almost hear

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