Alex and Olivia got out of the car, followed by Emilie, juggling files and phones and bottled water.
Kids swarmed around them, curious, and Olivia's heart hurt. Some of them were badly scarred or beaten up, and all of them were too thin. But they were still kids - still hopeful that these three smartly-dressed, well-fed women were about to take off their photographer jackets and play stickball. They shouted out in Swahili, and although Olivia didn't have a single word of the language, it was not hard to guess what they were asking for; attention, affection, food. There must have been sixty children just on the lawn, and more crowded the porch. Others were visible in the windows. Olivia did some quick math in her head, and figured that even if each of the four floors of this colonial monster of a house had six bedrooms, the children would be five to a room, if not more. Alex drew herself up to her considerable height, closed off her heart, and pushed through the crowds, up the porch steps, and into the cool interior. Olivia had reached for her hand, ostensibly not to become separated, but in reality to give herself a fighting chance of getting through the next half hour; she had never been more grateful for her presence.
Inside, there were fewer children and more adults. Emilie, who was clearly some sort of translator as well as an assistant, was having a conversation in what Olivia assumed was lightspeed Swahili. Alex, who seemed to have some grasp of the language, had turned away to face Olivia, and each read the expression on the other's face. They were identical mixtures of shock, pity and sadness. Olivia squeezed Alex's hand, and Alex nodded in silent thanks.
"Miss Alissandra Cabot?"
"Alexandra, but yes."
A man of about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark blue eyes, shook her hand. He had a slight accent, but he otherwise reminded both Alex and Olivia very strongly of Jack McCoy.
"James Farkas. Please, come into my office."
They followed him away from the lobby and into a study which looked as if it hadn't been redecorated since the British left East Africa, all dark wood and animal heads.
"How are they doing?" Alex asked, her voice cool.
"All but two are healthy. One boy has severe head trauma, and has been sent to the International Hospital."
"How bad is it?"
"He could die. I suggest he stays."
"I agree. What about the other?"
Such starkness. Olivia was, as always, stunned by Alex's ability to deal calmly with chaos and heartbreak.
"A girl, six. She has had an infection, but she's getting over it."
Alex nodded. "Good. Talk to me about the American."
"She's seven months old-"
Despite herself, Olivia had to bite her tongue to stop from crying out. Seven months?
"- and mixed race. Your people found her birth certificate in amongst that rat's nest of a building. She was born in DC, to Camille and David Cohen. They moved out here not long after her birth, but she's one of yours, Miss Cabot."
"Can we see her? She's the lynchpin to this case."
Farkas nodded and barked orders to an assistant, who scurried away.
"How much longer are you intending to keep them here? Because we need the beds."
Alex's already icy gaze cooled a further few degrees. Under the table, Olivia reached for her hand, only to find Alex's own hand stretching towards hers.
"No more than a few days," she said. "I have enlisted the assistance of my associate to make for a smooth transition."
"You have the relevant paperwork, I assume?"
"Of course. I've marked up the forms. All I need is your signature."
There was a silent pause, in which Farkas signed a ridiculous number of papers. Olivia felt somewhat useless, although she knew that she was fulfilling both of her duties at this moment; to protect Alex from bodily harm, and to provide moral support. Is anyone tried to hurt Alex, they would have to go through her. Their hands were still held.
Just as Olivia's feet were falling to sleep, an assistant returned, an infant in her arms. She paused at the doorway, but Farkas lifted a lazy hand and beckoned her in.
"Your lynchpin," he said. The assistant handed the baby to Olivia, and once again, she felt her heart breaking. She was tiny, far smaller than any normal American seven-month-old, with black curls and brown eyes.
"She has a name, presumably?" Alex said, handing Farkas yet another form to sign.
"Sophie. There. Is that all?"
Alex checked, twice, but she was done.
"We will return within three days to remove the children. Please have them ready to leave when we arrive."
Olivia reluctantly handed Sophie back to Farkas, who held her with surprising delicacy, and they left. Emilie remained behind to organise further arrangements, so Olivia and Alex travelled back to the house alone. Alex did not wish to give her driver a source of gossip, but she needed some reassurance that the world had some good in it. Olivia held her hand, rubbing her thumb across her fingers. They both sat slightly twisted in their seats, so that they could look each other in the eyes.
Although it was only noon, Olivia was exhausted. Every child in that house had lost their parents - some were so young that they would have no memories of them. Even her remarkably shitty childhood was better than that. Her mother, while an unpredictable drunk, was, at least some of the time, a good mom. She had a few fond memories to hold between her hands. Coming downstairs on a Saturday morning to see that a sandwich, her favourite, with pastrami and pickle and mustard, was waiting on the counter (even though the woman herself would not be up for another four hours) because she knew that Olivia had to eat. Painting their fingernails together, even though Olivia could not have cared less about her appearance at aged twelve, but laughing and dancing around the room to help the paint dry. Reading together in December with their socked feet on the portable heaters and quilts wrapped around them, because the central heating had broken. There were many, many bad memories, but there were good ones in there as well, and, although Olivia knew that she had been a constant reminder of the worst thing that had ever happened to her mother, she also knew that Serena had loved her, in the only way a twisted, depressed alcoholic could. Olivia hoped with all her heart that they could do something to help anyone who was in a worse situation than that.
Alex had been watching Olivia's face as the thoughts flashed through her mind, and although she was unusually bad at reading people, she thought she knew what Olivia was thinking. She made a silent promise to herself that she would be a beacon of solidarity for Liv - a pillar of strength, against which even the most stubborn and spirited of people might lean for a little while. Alex loved her. She did not need explanations, or painful reminiscences. She would listen if she wanted to talk, and merely sit close, quiet and tranquil, if she did not. It was the least she could do for the woman who had been so good to her, and whom she had loved, so much, for so very, very long.
