“Anything else? More books? Magazines?"
"No. The books you got me are good. I’m only on the second one. It’ll take me a while to finish it before I read the next.”
“You’re not bored?”
She raises a brow as she fills the kettle with water. “Will you let me outside if I say I’m dying of boredom?”
“No chance.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and reaches for a cup from the cabinet. “Then it doesn’t matter.”
I’m almost out the door when she calls my name. “Roman.”
She’s standing by the table, watching me like she’s trying to figure something out. "My bedroom door was open this morning. Did you forget to lock it?”
"No."
Her features soften. "Why not?"
"Do you want me to lock it?" I ask in a rough voice, hoping to get that look off her face as if I did something nice for her.
"No. I wondered why you didn’t do it last night."
"It’s a waste of time. You're not going anywhere. And weboth know it. Let’s say you managed to get out of this apartment. You wouldn’t last a night in Moscow. You don’t know the first thing about staying safe. You’ll end up on your back earning money for food. That’sifmy father doesn’t find you first. When he does, you’re back in a basement and I’m dead.”
"I know all that,” she whispers.
Good.
“I’ll be back tonight.”
I leave before she can say anything else. My first stop is the port authority office in Podolsk. Mikhail, a customs officer on my payroll, is in the room pacing. “The new supervisor isn’t taking the money.” He eyes the door nervously. “He wants to meet you. Says he’s different and wants things done by the book."
"Stop pacing.”
He drops into his chair, dabbing his forehead with a tissue. “Sounds like this new supervisor doesn’t understand that some things aren’t meant for the books.”
"Ivanov, it’s more complicated than that. I offered him six hundred thousand rubles, then a million. He refused both."
I lift a brow. Usually that kind of money buys compliance and silence.
“Then we're past the point of money.”
Mikhail shifts his weight. "What do you want me to do?"
I shoot him a look, letting him know exactly what I think, as if he’s capable of doing anything apart from sweating through his shirt.
"What I want and what you can do are two different things, that’s the damn problem. Get me his name. Now.”
"Ivanov,” Mikhail blurts. “If something happens to him, there’ll be questions."
“I asked for a name. Since when is that a crime?”
“I—I didn’t mean?—”
“You didn’t think.” I grit out. “I understand. You’re a busyman. Overworked, trying to keep your family safe in that nice new neighborhood you just moved into. We all make mistakes.”
The color drains from his face.
