Mikel waits near the desk, one hand resting against the back of a leather chair. He stands easy but still, his eyes fixed on me.
Polina appears on the wall display a moment later, her image cutting across the dark glass, numbers and maps moving behind her.
“Ivan increased outside coordination over the last forty-eight hours,” Polina says. “Messages are routed through layered third parties. Nothing traces back to him directly.”
I remove my coat and lay it over the back of a chair before stepping closer to the desk.
“Money?” I ask.
“Minimal movement. He’s not paying out of his own accounts.”
Of course, he isn’t. Arkady keeps his hands clean, and Ivan follows the same rule.
I rest both hands against the edge of the desk and lean forward, the light from the wall display reflecting faintly across the polished wood.
“Arkady’s channels?”
Polina nods.
“Three shell accounts tied to port logistics. Two pushed irregular transfers yesterday. One stalled briefly before rerouting through a Baltic freight intermediary.”
The reroute matters.
“Route history?” I question.
The wall display changes, tracing the movement across offshore accounts designed to look routine unless someone follows the trail.
Mikel steps closer, folding his arms as he studies the lines.
“He’s covering his tracks,” he observes.
Arkady doesn’t move money without burying it. If it surfaced long enough for us to see it, he wanted it to pass somewhere harder to reach.
That’s not panic. That’s planning.
“Ivan remains in contact with two external crews,” Polina says from the wall display. “Activity increased near the industrial train yard. Vehicle movement suggests repositioning rather than delivery.”
He isn’t delivering. He’s moving into position.
My shoulders square as I study the train yard overlay. “Keep eyes on him.”
I move to the sideboard and pour vodka into a low glass, the surface flashing briefly before I turn back toward the display. “I want Arkady restricted.”
“How far?” Mikel asks.
“Far enough to be felt.”
Polina’s hands move out of frame. “If we freeze the Baltic intermediaries, he’ll know.”
I lift the glass, roll the vodka once against the bottom without drinking, and watch the shipping routes glow faintly behind her image.
“That’s fine,” I say. “He should.”
Mikel studies the illuminated lines. “He’ll take it as escalation.”
I take a slow sip before setting the glass down again, the burn tracing its way down.
“It is,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “But not loudly.”
