A slight huff. “I was here to do things for you, Molly.”
My brow drops in confusion. “Come again?”
“Why do you think I am here? To take up space?”
“You’re taking up space on my desk right now, so… wait. The guy in the office…” I lean in and drop my voice. “Is he dangerous or something?”
Only then does Igor stop leaning on my desk. He straightens, still wearing that smirk. “Life is dangerous. Be well, Molly.” With that, he leaves me behind and slips into the elevator down the hall.
Great. Another mystery to add to the heap.
2
PAVEL
Surprises are rarely pleasant.They arrive wrapped in blood, betrayal, or paperwork from the federal government, and sometimes all three at once. So when Igor told me there would be a meeting and that the man insisted on waiting in my office rather than one of the conference rooms, I knew immediately the news would not improve my morning.
Now the man sits across from me, explaining why.
He calls himself Guy, which is dubious. I doubt that is his real name. Men who trade in information rarely give away things of value for free, and names are valuable.
The man himself is unimpressive to look at—tall with the kind of face that would vanish in a crowd before you could remember it. That is precisely why Igor uses him. The best informants are forgettable. Loud men with big personalities attract attention. Quiet men disappear into the background and hear everything.
He speaks carefully, like someone measuring every word before it leaves his mouth. I’m listening, but I watch the city throughthe glass wall behind my desk as he speaks. I prefer a view while learning the worst possible news.
Manhattan is only beginning to wake. Sunlight slides between the towers and spills across the streets far below, turning the Hudson into a strip of pale silver.
“…so the paperwork cleared last week,” he says.
I hear him. I simply do not answer right away.
Technically, this man belongs to Igor. My sovetnik has cultivated his own network over the years—informants, smugglers, brokers of quiet favors. Igor is a brilliant man who worries about everything, so I understand why he arranged this meeting.
I wish he hadn’t needed to.
“What you are saying,” I reply after a moment, turning my attention back to him, “is that a man serving two life sentences is leaving prison after seven years.”
Guy shifts in the chair across from my desk. The leather creaks softly beneath him. “There were… arrangements.”
Bribes, he means.
Fedor Vinogradov was sentenced for four murders. A bombing. Four men were reduced to smoke and rubble because he believed one of them had betrayed him to Interpol. The courts called it terrorism. The newspapers called it a gang execution.
I called it predictable. After all, I’m the one who made him believe it was his only course of action.
He should be sitting in a concrete box somewhere in upstate New York for the rest of his life. Yet here we are.
“He paid the right people,” Guy continues quietly. “Judges, administrators… anyone who could move things quietly. Anyone he couldn’t pay, he threatened.”
I absorb the information without reacting outwardly. Seven years. That’s how long Vinogradov has been off the board. Seven years for my organization to expand. Seven years for old enemies to grow comfortable and new alliances to form.
Seven years for him to plan whatever comes next.
“When?” I ask.
Guy hesitates before answering. “Soon.”
My patience thins slightly. “That is not a useful answer.”
