David calls at seven in the morning. His tone, that particular one he uses when what he has found is worse than what he expected to find, which is a tone I have learned to hate hearing in fifteen years.
"The details of the communications between Pavel and Nikola," he says. "I have them."
"Give me the synopsis version," I say.
"Pavel has been offering the Koshkins a partnership. A private arrangement, outside the board, outside the standard structures." He pauses. "Victor, he's offering them Alex, or Yarina. Once they find her. He made a deal. If Pavel can find Alex and Evie, and safely deliver Evie. He gets Alex and Koshkin support when he moves against you."
I go still.
"Is there a timeline on this plan of theirs?" I ask.
"The verbiage in the latest messages would suggest soon. Within weeks. There are references to accelerating the timeline of the plan — whatever was supposed to happen gradually has been moved forward."
Another pause, and I hear the tapping of his fingers on his keyboard. "I think Mikhail's death pushed something into motion faster than they anticipated. Either Pavel moved early because he had to or someone else in this chain made a decision that forced his hand. Either way the timeline has compressed."
"What else did you find out?"
“Pavel—he's been recruiting," David says. "Quietly, selectively, the people on the board who were closest to Mikhail and who have the most reason to resent you. He's framing Mikhail’s death as a question of accountability — that you handled the situation without proper board consultation, that the precedent is dangerous, dictator behavior." He stops. "And unfortunately it seems that some people are listening. Three captains at minimum. Possibly four. I don’t know how far it goes yet, honestly."
I move to the window and stare out at the city below. Chicago is doing its grey November thing below me, indifferent as always to the plights of those who reside in it. I think about Pavel at my kitchen table just weeks ago with his carefully curated evidence and his careful hands and his careful request for a board meeting that he then circumvented entirely, and I think about the specificpatience required to build what he has been building for eight months while maintaining the appearance of loyalty, and I find I am not surprised, which is its own kind of answer about what I have known and chosen not to act on yet.
"The Koshkin men watching the building," I say. "How many?"
"I've identified two on rotation, thus far. There may be a third I haven't placed yet." He pauses. "Victor, they know where she is. They've known since the café. The only reason they haven't moved is they're waiting for Pavel's signal — this is a coordinated handover, not a grab. Pavel wants to be the one to deliver her. It's part of what he's offering them."
I think about Yarina – Alex – in her apartment across the hall with her cameras and her locks and her go-bag under the floorboard that she thinks I don't know about, and I think about Evie in her room with her homework and her cereal and the bandage on her knee that is probably healed by now, and the cold quiet thing in my chest that opened its eyes when David first said the Koshkin name is fully awake and paying attention.
"I want everything on those who are deflecting," I say. "What Pavel has offered them, what they've agreed to, what they stand to gain. And I want the Koshkin men identified completely — all of them, if there's a third." I turn from the window. "And David. The board meeting. I need you to move it up, call it an emergency if you have to, but get it set for next week."
"If you call a board meeting now Pavel will know something is up."
"Good," I say. "Let him know I know. Let him recalculate." I move toward the door. "I need to go, I need to speak with Alex."
"She's on shift at the café," David says. "She leaves at four."
"I know when she leaves," I say. "I'll be here when she gets back."
I am at her door at four-fifteen, which is when she comes down the hall with her jacket and her bag and the particular expression of someone who has been managing a café full of people for eight hours and has used up the portion of her patience allocated for the day. She sees me and stops and looks at me with those green eyes and reads something in my face before I have said a single word.
"What happened," she says. Not a question, a statement.
"Come inside," I say.
She follows me inside, setting her bag on the hook and her jacket beside it, when she turns to look at me. She’s got her arms folded, and her chin up, jaw set. Defiant. Apprehensive. I can’t be sure which. She has already decided she is not going to like what I am about to say and has preemptively organized herself against it.
"Pavel," I say. "He made a deal with your family. With Nikita. He's been offering them your location in exchange for their support when he moves against me."
I hold her gaze. "He's been building toward this for eight months. The men watching the building are Koshkin's, and they're waiting for Pavel's signal before they move. This is coordinated cooperation between them."
She is very still.
I watch her process it — the rapid internal movement of someone running calculations, assessing variables, sorting the information into its implications. She is extraordinarily good at this. She has been doing it for so long, she is fast, precise, and she misses very little.
"How long have you known?" she says.
"I’ve had a suspicion for weeks, but very little evidence. The specific details became apparent this morning."
"This morning." Something moves through her expression. "And you're telling me now?"
