“Then we escalate faster. But I’d prefer a surgical approach to a war.”
“You always prefer a surgical approach.”
“Wars are expensive. Surgery is precise.”
Alexei nods, moving on to the next topic. Shipment timelines. A soldier in the outer circle who’s been spending beyond his means: new car, new apartment, a girlfriend with tastes that exceed his salary. Could be skimming. Could be selling information. Either way, it needs attention.
“Watch him,” I say. “Two weeks. If he’s dirty, we’ll know.”
“And if he is?”
“Then we’ll have a conversation.”
For the next two hours, I try to focus on what’s important, but my mind is playing tricks on me, because every thirty minutes, sometimes ten, sometimes five, I open the security feed for a moment. Just to check.
On Thursday afternoon, camera fifteen reveals Elizabeth sitting on the window seat in the sunroom with a cup of tea anda book, which means the lessons must be over. Anya is on the floor nearby, drawing in her sketchbook.
The distance between them is shrinking.
I zoom in on Elizabeth and observe the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she reads, the way her mouth moves slightly when she’s absorbed in a page, the small crease between her eyebrows that appears when she concentrates. The curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder. The hollow of her throat where I almost see her pulse.
I’m running her through the same lens I use for targets. Studying her patterns, her habits, her unguarded moments. Learning her the way I learn the layout of a building before I enter it. Every exit, every blind spot, every vulnerability.
The difference is that I study buildings to take them. I don’t know what I’m studying her for.
I close the feed, only to reopen it nineteen minutes later, telling myself it’s a security check.
It’s not a fucking security check.
Friday.
I need to leave for a meeting with Yuri at the port about Albanian countermeasures. On my way out, I pass the sunroom. The door is partially open. I hear a voice — Elizabeth’s voice — reading aloud.
I stop, lurking in the corridor, out of sight, and listen.
I can’t make out the words, just the melody of her voice, rising and falling, pausing in the places where stories pause. And then a sound so small I almost miss it. A giggle. High-pitched. Caught and released in the space between one sentence and the next.
Anya.
My daughter giggled at a stranger.
For the first time in I don’t know how long.
Walking toward the car, I call Mikhail.
“How are things?” I ask. Which really means: How is she? Is she okay? Is she still retreating? Has she smiled?
“Things are good. The new one is different.”
“Different how?”
“Patient. She doesn’t push it. Anya is not hiding from her.”
“And Elizabeth?”
“Professional. Quiet when she needs to be, which is rare. The woman talks to everyone. She’s been trying to befriend Dmitri.” A pause. “Dmitri is not responding well to this.”
“Dmitri doesn’t respond well to anything.”
