The drive takes twenty minutes through morning traffic. Tony watches out the window, but I can tell he’s also monitoring the reflections. Checking for tails. Assessing threats. The habits of someone trained to survive.
The building is sleek glass and steel, indistinguishable from dozens of other corporate towers in this part of Moscow. We park in the underground garage and take a private elevator to the twenty-third floor.
The apartment is what I expected with Dmitri in charge of decorating. Open floor plan with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Modern furniture in blacks and grays. High-end kitchen appliances. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a study that could double as a panic room.
“Nice digs.” Tony drops his duffel on the couch. “Dmitri has good taste.”
“Dmitri has expensive taste.” I walk to the windows and check the locks. They’re reinforced bulletproof glass. “The security system is state-of-the-art. Cameras in all common areas, motion sensors, and reinforced entry points. Boris’ team monitors everything remotely.”
“Cameras in all the common areas,” Tony raises an eyebrow and smirks, “but not the bedrooms?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“Good to know.”
“The kitchen is stocked. There’s a gym in the building. If you need anything else, there’s a phone in the study that connects directly to security.”
“And you? Where will you be?”
“Here.”
Tony goes still. “Here as in this building, or here as in this apartment?”
“This apartment. Dmitri wants someone to keep an eye on you, and since I’m your liaison, that someone is me.”
He chuckles and replies, “Your brother is using you as a babysitter.”
“I’m an intelligence asset. There’s a difference,” I snap. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t contact whoever’s trying to kill us.”
“I told you, I’m not?—”
“I know. I believe you. Mostly.” I move toward the primary bedroom. “I’m taking the master. You get the guest room. Don’t touch my things, don’t go through my belongings, and stay out of my way.”
“That might be difficult in a shared apartment.”
“Try.”
I close the bedroom door before he can respond.
Three hours later, I emerge to find Tony doing a security assessment of the apartment, much like I did when we first arrived.
He’s checking window locks, testing door frames, and examining the panic room setup in the study. Professional. Thorough. The kind of check that takes training.
“Find any weaknesses?” I ask from the kitchen, where I’m making tea.
“A few. The ventilation system is the obvious vulnerability. Someone small and flexible could access the ductwork from the floor below.” He points to a vent near the ceiling. “And the panic room door is reinforced, but the hinges are exposed. Someone with the right tools could remove the pins and bypass the lock.”
“Should I be concerned that you identified those so quickly?”
“You should be concerned that whoever designed this place didn’t.” Tony walks to the kitchen and leans against the counter. “Want me to write up a full report for Dmitri?”
“That’s what he’s paying you for.”
“Is it? Because I’m still not sure what my job is beyond staying close to you and looking suspicious.”
I pour hot water over the tea leaves and don’t respond.
“You know,” Tony continues, “most people who nearly die in a car bombing take a day or two to recover. Yet here you are, moving me into a safehouse and acting like yesterday was just another Tuesday.”
