“Tony and Sasha visited her. She denied everything. She claims she’s a victim, not a participant.”
Tony Volkov handles counterintelligence for the family, and Sasha is Dmitri's younger sister. They got married a few months ago.
“Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe; that’s why I’m sending you.” Dmitri exhales. “There’s a ticking clock, Pyotr. A federal warrant will freeze the flagged accounts in seventy-two hours. Oncethat happens, investigators will dig into every transaction with Daria’s name attached. If she’s guilty, they’ll find enough to bring charges. If she’s innocent, they’ll destroy her life anyway. Just by asking questions.”
I study the photograph of Daria on my screen. She has chocolate-brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, and the shadows under her matching brown eyes speak to sleepless nights.
The photograph was taken without her knowledge; that much is obvious from the angle and the way she’s mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. Surveillance, not a portrait. She doesn’t look like a criminal. But then again, neither did half the people I’ve put in the ground over the years.
“What’s my assignment?”
“I need you to move into her apartment. Monitor her movements and confirm whether she’s the leak. If she is, she won’t be able to operate with you in her home. If she’s being used, you’ll see who’s pulling the strings.”
“You have three weeks to either gather enough evidence to clear her name or justify permanent consequences.”
Permanent consequences. A polite way of saying execution.
“She has a daughter,” I point out.
“I know. Kira. Five years old.” Dmitri sounds tired. “If Daria is guilty, arrangements will be made for the child. If she’s innocent, you’ll have proven that, and we can all move forward.”
“And if the situation is more complicated than guilty or innocent?”
“Use your judgment. That’s why I chose you for this, Pyotr. You’re thorough. You’re incorruptible. And you don’t let personal feelings interfere with your work.”
I think about the accountant I left bleeding on that warehouse floor. No personal feelings were involved. It was just a job that needed doing.
“I’ll have my first report within the week,” I tell him.
“I’ll be waiting.”
The call ends, and I spend the rest of the train ride memorizing every detail in Daria’s file. The suspicious visitors. The blocked calls. The financial transactions that paint a picture of systematic betrayal.
By the time the train pulls into Moscow, I’ve made up my mind. The evidence is damning. Daria Kozlov is almost certainly guilty.
I have twenty-one days to prove it.
St.Petersburg greets me with freezing rain and a gray sky that promises more of the same. I take a cab from the train station to Daria’s address, which is a modest apartment building in a working-class neighborhood far removed from the luxury most Kozlov family members enjoy.
The building itself is old but well-maintained. Five stories, a brick facade, and narrow windows that probably don’t let in much natural light. I check the address against the file one more time before I climb the stairs to the third floor.
Apartment 3B. I knock and wait.
Footsteps approach the door. There’s a pause followed by a woman’s voice, thin and anxious. “Who is it?”
“Pyotr Fedorov. Dmitri sent me.”
Another, longer pause. I hear a child asking something in the background, followed by a quiet reply I can’t make out.
The door opens.
The woman standing in front of me is smaller than I expected, maybe five-foot-five in shoes. The photograph didn’t capture the way she holds herself, with her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to disappear.
I shut the rest down and refocus. I’m here to determine if she’s a traitor, not to take stock of all the places I could put my mouth.
“You’re the one Dmitri said would be coming.” The contempt in her voice is clear.
