Every document. The Renko financial transfers. Mishin’s testimony. The decoded Marchetti communication. The account of the compound in the chamomile.
The connection between Irina Volsk and the Volkov intermediary. The operational plan for Elena’s extraction that Grigori provided to Marchetti four weeks ago. I walk them through it from the first page to the last, my voice even, the room silent except for the occasional sound of a page turning.
Eleven men around the table. Grigori’s chair to my left sits empty, which is the first thing every man in the room looked at when they walked in. I watched them look at it. I watched them look away and settle into their seats with the composure of people who understood three days ago how this meeting was going to end.
When I finish I set the last page down, and I look at the room.
Federov says, “I move for full council sanctioning of the Pakhan’s response to the treason of Grigori Volkov, including all actions taken and all actions pending.”
Bashir seconds before Federov has finished the sentence.
I look at the room. “All in favor.”
Eleven hands go up.
Every hand.
I look at Sorokin, whose hand is raised with the rest, whose dinner with Grigori I have not forgotten, whose noncommittal silence in this room two weeks ago I have also not forgotten. He meets my eyes. He doesn’t look away. Whatever calculation he has been running has produced its result and the result is his hand in the air with everyone else’s.
I note it. I move on.
After the session Sorokin finds me in the corridor. He says he was never committed to Grigori’s position, that his hesitation was procedural caution, nothing personal.
I walk beside him for four steps.
I say, “I know.”
I turn toward the elevator and I do not look back.
Grigori is handled on Friday.
I’m at my desk in the study when Kostya calls. He says two words.
“It’s done.”
I put the phone down. I sit with the specific silence of a thing that has been running for fourteen months, finally stopping.
I think about Mara in a recovery room asking where is Elena before she was fully out of anesthesia. I think about Elena on her knees on the floor of a van. I think about two heartbeats on a screen in a white room. I think about a woman named Irina Volsk adding something to a tin of chamomile in my kitchen for eleven consecutive mornings.
I pick the phone back up.
“Kostya.”
“Yes.”
“Make sure the rest of the city understands what it costs.”
One beat. “Understood,” he says.
I put the phone down.
I close the file on my desk.
I stand up, take my jacket from the back of the chair, and I go home to my wife.
37
ELENA
