I leave her where she stands and take the long corridor to Markov’s library. I don’t sit when I enter. I send for Karpov and wait by the desk. He’s handled surveillance and entry logs since my time, and he still does.
Karpov shows up when summoned.
As soon as the door closes, I step in close. Close enough that my breath touches his face when I speak. My fingers catch his shirt, not hard, just enough to remind him I could.
“There’s a problem inside the house,” I say.
His face doesn’t move. He eases my hand away like it’s nothing new.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“I think you do.” I breathe harder on the last word. “Someone used Markov’s people to get close to Ana yesterday, and they did it without an order.” I let it sit.
His face goes red. He steps back.
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Markova since Mr. Markov’s funeral,” he says. “I haven’t heard from her.”
He isn't lying. I still need information.
Karpov turns toward the door. I move around the desk and block his path.
“I’m not finished. No one leaves until I am.”
He holds the silence. I watch the rise and fall of his chest.
“If not you,” I say, “then it was someone. Walk me through the names.”
He gives me staff, shifts, assignments. He gives me who handles which wing, who drives which car, who was hired after the cremation, and who the old ones are, cleaners, drivers, contractors. Every person with a key. Every uniform. Anyone with access.
“If I find one unauthorized tail, I don’t call a meeting. I start cutting people out of the chain,” he says.
“Who stayed from the old regime?” I ask.
He gives me more names. None of them catch.
“And her,” I say. “Who had access to her?”
“Two maids. One attendant. Tailors when needed. Doctors approved through the council.”
“Who did she see most?”
“Mostly women. Visits to fill the hours.”
“Anyone else?”
His voice drops. “Her driver would know.”
“Call him.”
The driver is old, careful with memory. He talks about Ana like someone you respect, not someone you confess over. He says she went places that required patience. Florists, shoemakers, seamstresses, and houses where men spoke softly and watched her longer than they should. He adds, almost casually, that sheoften asked to be dropped early. Said she was walking the rest to the phone store or library. Small errands that didn’t need company.
Karpov’s brow creases. “Phone store,” he says. “You mean Andrei’s shop.”
The driver nods. That’s enough.
I leave without a word. Irina stands near the door, white as paper. I don’t look at her.
Andrei’s shop sits on a clean street, glass front, neat displays, an assistant smiling like this is a normal day. I push past him and go through the back. Andrei turns, eyes pale and startled. He tries to bolt. I catch him, hit him once, not hard. He slips, falls, ends up on a stool shaking. One more slap silences him.
