“And you told him what?”
“Nothing. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, but you are attracted to him. Your pupils get larger any time you say his name.”
Heat floods my face, and my jaw drops. “That’s not relevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant if he’s using that attraction to gather intelligence.” Dmitri opens a folder on his desk and pulls out several printed pages.
“Boris ran a background check after the wedding. Tony Haugh, thirty-eight, American citizen. Freelance journalist currently working with the local paper on occasion. That’s how he got into the wedding. Seems he requested the assignment. Former military, special operations. Honorable discharge eight years ago. No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. Clean financial history.”
“Too clean,” I muse as I look over the reports.
“Exactly.” Dmitri sets the papers down.“Men that clean always have something to hide.”
I move closer to the desk and dig deeper into the background check. Tony’s cover story holds up on the surface. There are published articles under his byline, references from editors, and even a social media presence that looks legitimate. But something about the timing bothers me.
“He arrived in Moscow four weeks ago,” I note, reading from the report. “And he had only worked on two stories before Alexei’s wedding.”
“I noticed that, too.”
“So, either he’s here investigating us, or someone sent him to investigate us.”
“Or he’s what he claims to be, and we’re being paranoid.” Dmitri doesn’t sound like he believes this option. Neither do I.
The door to the office opens, and Boris walks in without knocking. As head of security and Dmitri’s most trusted man, he’s one of the few people who can get away with that. He nods at me before addressing my brother.
“The gallery owner is cooperating with police,” Boris reports. “He’s telling them it was just a robbery attempt. No mention of the Kozlov name.”
“Good.” Dmitri gestures to the chair beside me. “Sit. We’re discussing Tony Haugh.”
Boris sits, but his face makes it clear he has opinions about this discussion. “The American journalist.”
“The American former special operations soldier pretending to be a journalist,” I correct.
“You’re sure about that?”
“I watched him take down three armed men like he was swatting flies. Yes, I’m sure.”
Boris looks at Dmitri. “And you want to bring him in.”
It’s not a question. Boris has worked for my brother long enough to read his intentions. Still, my brother takes his time answering. He steeples his fingers and studies the background check.
“We’re under more scrutiny than ever,” Dmitri says. “You know that better than anyone, Boris. The FSB is watching us. Local police have doubled surveillance on our properties. And now, someone is bold enough to hit a gallery where my sister is consulting.”
“All the more reason to be cautious about who we trust,” Boris argues.
“I agree. Which is why I want Tony Haugh where I can see him.”
I scoff and ask, “Are you serious, right now? You want to bring him into the organization?”
“Not into the organization. Into our circle. A Western journalist with real credentials can move in spaces the Kozlov name can’t touch. He can ask questions without raising suspicion. He can go to events and talk to people who would never agree to meet with us.”
“Or he can gather intelligence and report it to whoever really employs him,” Boris counters.
“Then he’ll slip up at some point, and we’ll know he’s a spy.”
The logic is sound but dangerous. Keep your enemies closer, as the saying goes. But close enough to stab you in the back is not an ideal distance.
