Quinn pried his eyes open, and focused. It took effort. There was a woman in the room.
Astrid perched on the edge of an armchair that she had pulled over to the window, which was open a crack. She held her cigarette over the sill, outside in the blistering cold. The rest of her shapely frame was protected from the draught by a knee-length black angora dress. Carefully blowing the smoke out the window, she parked the cigarette on a crystal ashtray balanced there. She turned, and noticed him watching her.
Walking over to Quinn, she picked up a glass of water with a crooked straw hanging over the side. "Thirsty?" she asked. She held the glass so Quinn could sip. He lifted his head just slightly to do so, and drank, swallowing with some difficulty.
"Yeah, for information," he said. He had kept his voice to a near-whisper, but the effort of speaking started a coughing fit. He could still feel the pain of his bruised voice box, even though the vent tube had been carefully removed. Astrid thumped him between the shoulder blades as he hacked convulsively.
"Ja, I can see," Astrid said. She walked back to the window and hurriedly put out the cigarette. "Sorry," she apologized.
"I don't think it matters," Quinn said. "Even clean air hurts."
"That will go away," she said, sounding confident. But her eyes shifted to the floor.
Lying on his side in the bed, he eyed Astrid closely. She was well put together as always, trim and well dressed. She looked rested as well, which made sense, given that he now knew that his life-or-death crisis had been weeks ago. His body had recovered steadily, and 72 hours prior, he'd regained something like normal consciousness.
He'd asked many questions since he'd awakened, but had trouble remembering all the answers. It frustrated him, but he knew he'd have to take it slowly, and he knew that repetition helped him to get the facts straight in his mind. Still, it was tough for him to retain anything. It was like his memory had been punched full of holes.
He stretched in the bed, and found his body weak, his limbs stiff and unyielding. He looked down at his forearms at a faded bruise where an IV needle had been removed. He'd definitely lost some muscle mass. But he'd been very well cared for all along, from the look of things. He was clean-shaven and he smelled of soap, with not a bedsore to be found. Quinn was aware that Carrie was the driving force behind his care, had hired night nurses who helped maintain him in this state. During the days, Carrie had looked after him herself.
Astrid had also told him that he'd been breathing on his own for weeks, but consciousness had evaded him for several more. Still he was in a much better state now, at this flat, than he had been at the beginning.
Months ago, in the hospital, he had been on a respirator, which had been disconnected when Saul and Carrie had tried to interrogate him. That failed attempt resulted in no information, and more agony. Quinn had been re-intubated afterwards, and a subsequent surgical intervention had reduced the pressure on his brain. This had not generated any dramatic improvement, and Quinn had ceased breathing on his own again. He'd remained unresponsive for so long that everyone had expected the worst. But his fight for life was not over, not even when all hope seemed lost. When his medical team turned off the machines and extubated him, he'd taken a deep, gasping breath, and fluttered his eyelids.
"Your pupils responded to light," Astrid had told him. "And you were responsive to… voices."
Quinn didn't ask what she meant. That part he remembered. It was Carrie's words that had caused the response. He recalled chasing her voice to the surface, like a fox chasing a bounding rabbit. He'd lived, but not awakened, and weeks had passed, with events passing him by outside like he was living underwater. A few days before, though, he'd heard her calling again, and awakened to see Astrid and Carrie holding his hand at the bedside. Carrie's face had been streaming with tears.
"What day is it now?" Quinn rasped, turning on his back.
"Sunday," Astrid said briefly.
"I don't remember," Quinn said. "I've been here for weeks, you say, but I don't remember any physical therapy, any feeding tubes. Nothing."
"No, you wouldn't," Astrid said. "It takes time to come out of an induced coma, even for you, Peter." Standing up, she pushed the chair closer, and sat right next to Quinn's bed. Reaching out, she put a hand on his shoulder, over his navy t-shirt.
"So… " Quinn tried to be casual. "Exactly where am I, again?"
"Corporate apartment of the Düring Foundation," she expressed, stroking his arm. "The BND offered our quarters too, I offered mine," she said. "But she wouldn't hear of it. And Herr Düring wanted to thank you."
"For what," Quinn coughed out. Astrid stroked Quinn's arm as the coughing subsided again.
"For what you endured," she said. It had been appalling. How could anyone describe it?
"I remember that. Being locked in that chamber. Trying to breathe," Quinn said. His voice was tight, and it didn't sound like simple muscle strain.
"I know, I know you do," Astrid said soothingly. She stroked his forehead. "But you're safe now."
Quinn nodded his head, shaking off her touch. His hand smoothed over the bedsheet. He turned on his side again, looking at Astrid.
"Like silk," he said, looking down at the silvery-gray fabric.
"800-count Egyptian cotton," Astrid pointed out. "Your girlfriend, she ran all over Berlin, finding things to soothe you."
Quinn closed his eyes and smiled. "You call her that to piss her off," he said. "But I think she likes it."
"Ja," Astrid agreed, smiling back.
She had patiently told and re-told the recent news to Quinn. There had been sarin gas canisters deployed in the Hauptbahnhoff, an attempt on thousands of lives by proponents of the Islamic State. Carrie had been too late to save Quinn from the gas, to her everlasting regret. But she had stopped the train station attack before it started, through her instincts, courage, and quick action. The terrorists themselves had been killed or arrested.
Then, Astrid had told of Saul's revelation that the American and German Intelligence Organization had been infiltrated by the Russians. With disgust, she described the escape and subsequent disappearance of Allison Carr, former Berlin station chief. Through some clumsiness of Dar and Saul, she'd slipped through their fingers – but she hadn't been seen or heard from since.
Finally, Astrid casually recounted the tale of her own victory: a successful appeal to the journalist Laura Sutton to stop the publication of classified documents that would damage the C.I.A. and the BND even further. It had been a harrowing few months.
Somehow, their collective wisdom and bravery had pulled them all through. The terrorist attack and crisis had been averted. And now, to the women's delight, came the final payoff for their patience and care. Quinn had finally taken a turn for the better.
Over those tense, quiet weeks, Astrid had visited daily, sometimes twice daily, and she and Carrie had talked, drunk coffee, smoked, and supervised the nursing staff. They both spent many hours sitting at Quinn's bedside, taking turns holding his hand. Finally, just a few days before, he'd opened his eyes and seen them, recognized them and spoken their names. Astrid remembered the quaver in Carrie's voice when she responded to Quinn that day. And the grip on her hand! Carrie had almost sprained Astrid's fingers.
"How is she?" he asked. She controlled the look on her face very carefully. Of course, she thought, he's still worried about her.
"Carrie is alright now," she said, stroking his arm.
"She's always alright," he said quietly.
Astrid sighed. She didn't wish to give Quinn more distress, but all the same, he ought to know.
"You know," she began carefully. "When they thought you were… gone, Dar Adal brought out a letter. For Carrie. One that you wrote."
Quinn's eyes opened, locked on Astrid, but he said nothing. She felt his breathing quicken, warm on her wrist.
"Ja, and I know she read it. They thought you were kaput, and this was the next-of-kin letter, so…" Astrid trailed off, looking at the thick gray pile of the carpet below. "After all of that tragedy, all that terror. That was the only time I saw her cry." Astrid was disturbed enough by the memory that she stood and walked toward the window, away from Quinn, who lay quietly, thinking.
"Well," he said finally. "It's time she knew."
"I think she already knew," Astrid emphasized.
She turned and went back to Quinn's bedside. "She has gone to the end of the Earth, now, to get you well. She doesn't eat or sleep, unless you do," Astrid said, a manicured eyebrow rising dangerously. He looked at her, an impish grin seizing his features, but a more serious look in his eyes. She wondered if he knew how often he glanced towards the bedroom door, watching for Carrie. She guessed not.
"Well, then," he said, laconic, his sculpted cheekbones shadowing a deep hollow. "I better get well."
"Yes, you better," Astrid said.
In the front hallway of the luxe apartment suite, they heard the front door open and close.
"Hello?" Carrie called from the foyer. "You two awake in there? I brought Indian food."
Astrid and Quinn made eye contact, and Astrid smiled down at him. "I'm going to go home," she said. "Back tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Quinn said, holding her hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. "We'd like that."
She squeezed his hand briefly, and let go, backing away towards the chair where her coat was draped. The door opened, and Carrie entered, a tea tray in her hands, lined with white cardboard take-out containers.
"Aren't you staying for dinner?" Carrie asked. The two women exchanged a meaningful glance. Astrid knew the invitation was genuine, but she also knew when to make an exit.
"No," Astrid said, belting in her overcoat. "You two need to watch each other eat. And get some sleep." She gave Carrie a double-kiss of farewell, and headed towards the apartment entrance.
Carrie and Quinn heard the door close behind Astrid, and smiled at each other in the near-silence of the elegant bedroom. Quinn patted the bed next to himself, inviting her to sit.
He rested with his eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his face, feeling her slight weight displace the duvet as she sat. He felt his lifeblood pounding in his veins, he smelled the tandoori chicken that Carrie brought, along with the scent of Astrid's hastily extinguished Silk Cut. He felt Carrie's hand warm on his cheek, and smelled her perfume. It was lovely.
"What would you like?" Carrie asked. "I got a variety."
"Surprise me," Quinn said, and opened his eyes.