25
Sasha
Boris hands me a photograph of a balding man in his fifties wearing an expensive watch.
“Grigory Kuznetsov,” he explains. “One of Ivan’s regular contacts outside the organization. Meets him for lunch every Thursday at the café Kuznetsov owns.”
“You think Kuznetsov’s involved?” I ask.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But if Ivan’s leaking information, he needs a middleman. Someone who can pass intelligence to Adrian without direct contact.”
Tony inspects the photograph over my shoulder. “What do you want us to do?”
“Surveil the café. See if Kuznetsov shows. See who he talks to. Don’t approach unless absolutely necessary.” Boris pulls out a second photo showing the café exterior. “Outdoor seating. Good visibility. You’ll pose as a couple on a date.”
“When?” I ask.
“Today. Kuznetsov usually arrives around two.”
I glance at Tony. He nods.
“We’ll be there,” I confirm.
An hour later, we’re sitting at an outdoor table at Café Pushkin with a clear view of the street. Tony ordered coffee. I got tea. We look like any other couple enjoying an afternoon in the city.
Except we’re watching everyone who passes.
“How well does Kuznetsov know Ivan?” Tony asks, keeping his voice low.
“According to Boris, they’ve been meeting regularly for about six months.” I stir sugar into my tea. “Could be friendship. Could be business.”
“Or it could be dead drops disguised as lunch meetings.”
“Exactly.”
A woman in a red coat walks past. Not our target. I track her anyway until she turns the corner.
“How long do we wait?” I ask.
“Boris said Kuznetsov’s usually punctual, so if he doesn’t show by three, we assume something spooked him.”
I sip my tea and scan the street again. A businessman checking his phone. A mother with a stroller. An elderly couple walking arm in arm. Normal afternoon traffic in central Moscow.
Tony leans back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. But I notice how his eyes never stop moving. How he watches every person who enters his peripheral vision.
“What’s your favorite piece you ever authenticated at Christie’s?”
I draw my brows together and ask, “Why?”
“Because I want to know. We’re sitting here pretending to be on a date. Might as well have an actual conversation.”
I consider the question while watching a delivery truck unload crates across the street. “There was a painting. Attributed to Caravaggio. A collector in Milan wanted verification before auction.”
“And?”
“And it was perfect. Every brushstroke matched his technique. The canvas dated to the right period. Even the frame was authentic seventeenth century.” I turn my tea cup in my hands. “But something felt wrong. The composition was too clean. Caravaggio was messy. This painting felt almost staged.”
“So it was a forgery?”
