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In fact, I should probably refresh my makeup before he calls.
“Want to race?” I ask Slava, and make engine-revving noises to remind him of our racing game with toy cars. “See who can eat faster?”
He blinks, not understanding, so I pick up my fork and begin shoveling food into my mouth with exaggerated speed. Catching on, he does the same, and we clean our plates in record time. Alina, who’s eating at a normal pace, watches our race with amusement, and by the time we’re done, she pushes away her half-eaten chicken.
“I guess I’m done as well,” she says dryly. Louder, she calls, “Lyuda, Slava gotov!”
Lyudmila appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. I smile and thank her for the delicious meal—though, truth be told, it was nowhere near as good as what her husband makes. The chicken was on the dry side, the potatoes were too salty, and most of the appetizers and side dishes were leftovers. But I’m not about to quibble: Food is food, and I’m grateful to have it.
Smiling back at me, Lyudmila picks up Slava, and just like that, my evening is free.
* * *
As soon as I get to my room, I completely redo my makeup—all I had on at dinner was a light layer of foundation and a coat of mascara—and fix up my hair. I still don’t look nearly as polished as when Alina did this for me, but hopefully, Nikolai won’t mind.
I was barefaced and in my PJs on our last two calls, so this is a definite improvement.
Feeling giddy again, I grin at my reflection. I look much better than when I first got here. My cheeks are no longer painfully hollow and the dark circles under my eyes have faded, as has the look of desperation in them. Last night was another one with no nightmares, only sex dreams, and I have Nikolai to thank for that. I may have woken up wet and aching, with my hand pressed between my thighs, but at least I slept through the night.
God, I can’t wait to talk to him.
Hurrying over to my bed, I sprawl on my stomach and grab the laptop, willing him to call at this very moment.
He doesn’t. I guess my mental powers aren’t up to snuff.
Sighing, I go into my inbox to check for any replies from the journalists. There’s nothing, naturally—though there is a quote from one of the PI firms, detailing their hourly rates and retainer fees.
I skim it and wince. It’s a lot, way more than I can hope to cover with my first week’s paycheck, at least given the number of hours I anticipate they’ll have to spend. I’ll need at least a couple weeks’ pay for the retainer alone. Maybe the other PIs will be cheaper, but they haven’t responded yet, so I have to wait.
Like I’m waiting for Nikolai, who’s still not calling.
Taking a breath, I remind myself to be patient. He said he’d call me around the same time as yesterday, and it’s nowhere near that. For now, I need to distract myself with something, so I begin researching my mom’s friends and co-workers again on the off chance I missed something the first time.
I’m scrolling through the pictures of her manager’s daughter’s quinceañera when the call request pops up, sending my pulse skyrocketing.
Beaming, I smooth my hair and click “Accept.”
38
Nikolai
Chloe’s smile is so radiant I feel like I’ve stepped out of an underground bunker onto a sunlit beach. “Hi,” she says, slightly breathless as she sits back against a stack of pillows and places the computer on her lap. “How’s it going? How’s your nuclear bidding thing?”
I smile back at her, pleasure spreading through me like molten honey. “It’s good, zaychik, thank you.”
And it is. Valery’s operation has gone off without a hitch, and the Energy Commission is already swarming around the Atomprom plant, seeking to contain the fallout from the reactor that exploded overnight. The radiation leakage is minimal, as expected, but the damage to Atomprom’s reputation is significant—which sets us up well for my lunch meeting with the Commission head today.
More importantly, for the past hour, I’ve been watching Chloe’s online activities and examining her browser history from yesterday, and I’ve concluded that she’s unlikely to be affiliated with any government or rival organization. If she were a plant, she’d know everything about me already and wouldn’t need to translate Russian articles with the aid of free online tools. Nor would she be researching her mother’s friends and co-workers using nothing more than their public social media—or looking into PI firms.
Something else is going on with Chloe, something I find both worrisome and intriguing.
My best bet is to get her to open up to me, to tell me the truth, but if I press her on it now, she might get spooked and try to run—and I don’t want that. Not when I’m an ocean away. The next best option is to get Konstantin’s team to hack her Gmail; the spyware allows me to see what sites she’s on but not the content of them, like individual emails.
