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Abramov turns his tablet toward me.

“Yuri recovered the corridor footage from the hospital backup. It shows Gurin entering the security office with the fake Volkov badge.”

I don’t react. The answer is expected. “And Gurin had said Vlasov went inside.”

“He lied. Vlasov gave him the badge and a stolen supervisor login. Gurin deleted Marina’s report himself, then erased the door record.”

“Can we prove Gurin deleted it?”

Maksim braces one hand against the window frame and says, “Dmitri broke enough teeth to make him tell us where to look.”

“Yuri pulled the backup logs after Gurin opened his mouth,” Leonid says. “They show Gurin using the fake badge and the stolen login. The badge number matches the pattern used in New Harbor’s old fake badges.”

“Where’s Gurin now?”

“Downstairs.”

“And Vlasov?” I ask.

“He fled. The house was empty.”

Maksim moves away from the window and takes the chair opposite mine. He looks toward Misha’s closed door. “Belov’s next move will be political.”

“How?”

“A hidden son gives our enemies leverage. The undecided captains will question your judgment, and the others will test what you’ll risk for him.”

My private lab result sits inside my phone. It no longer matters. Misha called me Papa in a linen closet, ordered me to wash my hands, and sentenced a one-eyed bear for cake theft.

“He’s my son,” I say.

Leonid’s phone vibrates.

He reads the message, and his face hardens. “Too late.”

He turns the screen toward us. “Petrov’s man intercepted this encrypted voice note. Rudenko sent it to three captains and a lawyer’s clerk outside Moscow.”

Rudenko’s voice is clear.

“Orlov has hidden an heir inside the estate.”

21

VERA

Soft gold sunlight spreads across the enclosed courtyard, and Misha decides the apple slices are boats.

I stand in the small kitchen with a dish towel over one shoulder, one apple slice between my teeth, and a pan of egg, cheese, and torn bread ready for the oven. Misha sits on the counter with Oksana beside him, pushing blueberries through a line of yogurt and calling it a river.

I step closer and check the clean bandage above Oksana’s eyebrow. “How are you feeling today?”

She smiles. “Khorosho, spasibo.”

“Boats don’t go in yogurt,” she tells him, catching one berry before it rolls off the counter.

“These do,” Misha says, then points at the apple in my mouth. “Mama is eating the ship.”

I bite down and drop the rest onto his plate. “The ship failed inspection.”