“Straight to business. I’ve always loved that about you.” He signals to the waiter. “A bottle of the 2015 Château Margaux, please. And give us a few minutes before we order.”
The waiter disappears, and Bogdan turns his attention back to me. His eyes move over my face, taking in every detail, no doubt looking for weaknesses to exploit.
“How is our daughter?” he asks pleasantly. “I hear she’s doing well in school. Mrs. Antonova seems quite fond of her.”
My blood runs cold. “How do you know her teacher’s name?”
“I know everything about Kira’s life, Daria. Her teachers. Her friends. The little boy who pulls her hair at recess. The route she walks to school every morning with her mother.” He smiles. “Did you really think you could hide her from me?”
“I wasn’t hiding her; I was protecting her.”
“From her father?” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You’ve filled her head with lies. Made her afraid of me. That stops now.”
The wine arrives, and the waiter pours two glasses. Bogdan swirls his before taking a sip. I don’t touch mine.
“I didn’t come here to discuss Kira’s upbringing,” I say.
“No, you came because I told you to come.” He sets down his glass and reaches into the briefcase beside his chair. “Let me show you why.”
He slides a folder across the table.
I open it with fingers that refuse to stop shaking. Inside are photographs. Dmitri leaving a building I don’t recognize. Dmitri getting into a black car. Dmitri shaking hands with a man in a military uniform. Each image is time-stamped and annotated with locations, names, and dates.
“Where did you get these?”
“That’s not your concern. Whatisyour concern is delivering similar intelligence about Dmitri’s upcoming activities. Travel schedules. Meeting locations. Security details. Anything that would be useful to people who wish to know his movements.”
“I’ve told you before that I don’t have access to that kind of information. I’m not involved?—”
“If you can’t get me the information I need, I will file for custody of Kira. I have documentation of your family’s criminal connections. Photographs of the men who visit your apartment. Evidence of the accounts in your name that have been moving money for organizations the government would very much like to shut down.” He pauses to take another sip of wine. “How do you think a family court judge will react when I present all of that?”
“You created those accounts. You moved that money.”
He smiles and shrugs. “You can’t prove that. You have one week, Daria. Bring me something useful about Dmitri’s plans,or I’ll take our daughter and destroy whatever remains of your reputation.”
I want to scream, throw the wine in his face, and watch it stain his perfect suit. I want to grab one of the crystal glasses and drive it into his throat.
Instead, I close the folder and slide it back across the table.
“One week,” I repeat.
“One week.” He picks up his menu and scans it with casual interest. “Now, shall we order? The lamb here is excellent.”
15
Pyotr
She’s been gone for twenty minutes when I reach for my coat.
Every instinct I’ve honed over fifteen years of fieldwork screams at me to stay invisible, wait at the apartment, and let her walk into whatever trap she’s set for herself.
But when I watched her step out into the rain with her shoulders squared like she was marching toward a firing squad, something inside me refused to let her go alone.
The restaurant is twelve blocks from the apartment.
I trail her at a distance, keeping to the shadows and doorways the way I learned in places far more dangerous than St. Petersburg. She never looks back. Either she’s too focused on what’s ahead, or she’s given up caring who might be watching.
Pushkin Restaurant glows like a beacon through the gray evening. I position myself across the street, partially sheltered by an awning that does nothing to keep the rain off me. Through the panoramic windows, I watch her approach a table near the center of the room.
