Page 113 of Cruel Demands

I stare at him. The truth has been in front of me since the first night. In the guards. In the obedience. In the way violence sits so naturally beneath his skin. I had been trying to make him into a dishonest politician because dishonesty has rules. Scandals have evidence. Careers end. People go to prison.

This is something older. Something that owns the prison. I look toward the closed door. “Are you going to let me leave?” I ask. Mikhail does not answer. “So no.”

The truth is not that Mikhail works with criminals. The truth is that they work for him. I’ve heard of men like him. Men who use politics like a suit. Mafia.

Pakhan. Crime boss.

27

MIKHAIL

A little after midnight, Taylor is in the guest room asleep. At least, I assume she is sleeping. She should be tired after a long night of chasing and fighting me.

I sit in my study with a glass of vodka I have not touched and consider whether I should have locked her in. I don’t want to confirm for her that she is a prisoner, but I likely should imprison her. Or I should let her go and tell her to tell no one or I will have her killed. Perhaps a threat would be enough to keep her silent. She has known for some time that I am no ordinary politician.

Arkady calls, and I answer before the first ring finishes. “What do they know about her?” I ask.

“Nothing yet. But they will.” I hold the cold glass against my forehead. I know it’s true. They will want to know who the young American was that showed up at the warehouse. It’s only a matter of time before they realize that she works in my office and only a day after that that they realize that she is not dead if I do not kill her.

I will not kill her. And if I do not, and I can make them accept that, they will want her deported. Threatened. Tortured. Something. I should want that too. It is only right. It only makes sense.

“Vladimir searched her before he brought her inside,” Arkady says. “Half the room saw the identification in her wallet. You have maybe a day before everyone who matters knows exactly who she is.”

Fuck. I lick my asphalt lips. “What would you recommend?” I ask.

I never ask for recommendations. Arkady knows this. He knows when a question is not truly a question. “If she were anyone else,” he says carefully, “she would not have left the warehouse.”

“She is not anyone else.”

“No.”

“She’s an American student attached to my office. If she disappears, there will be questions. Her program will notice. Her family will notice. Viktoriya will notice.”

“Yes.”

“She has access to the office, internal records, donor files, schedules. That is useful.”

“Yes.”

“She is observant.”

“Painfully.”

“She speaks English and Russian. She understands Western institutions. The fellowship program. Foreign press.”

“All useful.” His tone tells me he hears the argument collapsing as I construct it.

“She can remain valuable,” I say.

Arkady exhales quietly. “You do not need to convince me. I am your—” He stops. “I will do what you say.”

I end the call, wondering if he was going to say I am your friend and stopped himself from saying something untrue. He is not my friend. He is something else. It is as Taylor said. He is my soldier.

On the desk before me lies the file Arkady brought me after I ordered Taylor vetted. Taylor Morgan Hayes. Twenty years old. Student. No political affiliations of concern. No known connection to foreign intelligence. No threat. The conclusion now feels almost insulting.

She’s a threat because she has seen too much. She’s a threat because she asks questions even when warned not to. She’s a threat because she looked at me tonight and understood that every explanation I could offer would be a lie.

I have ordered deaths for less.