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Rage burns inside me as I picture her getting attacked, hurt and traumatized, and it’s all I can do not to demand that she tell me the truth right now, so I can exterminate those responsible. Only the fear that she might pull back and try to leave keeps me silent. That and the recollection of those damaged tapes, the ones that indicate that something more is going on, that she’s involved with someone or something with the resources to conceal her movements.
Oblivious to the storm inside me, she grins and says, “All right then. You can tell Pavel not to stress about it. I’m guessing he’s upset he lost them?”
“I’ll talk to him, don’t worry.” And I will. I need to explain the situation and ask him to apologize to Chloe. Right now, he has no clue that anything’s amiss. “As to the—”
A soft chime interrupts me, and to my disappointment, I see it’s time to head to my meeting. I set an alarm on my phone so I wouldn’t be late.
“Do you have to go?” Chloe asks astutely, and I nod, buttoning my jacket.
“This is the meeting I’m here for. The good news is, if all goes as expected, I’m getting on a plane home right after.”
Her eyes brighten. “Really? What time does your flight leave?”
“When I tell it to. It’s my plane.” Leaning into the camera, I murmur, “I can’t wait to see you in person.”
She gives me a sweet smile. “Same here. Good luck at your meeting and fly home safe.”
“Thank you, zaychik.” Voice roughening, I advise, “Sleep well tonight—you’ll need it.”
And as her lips part on a startled inhale, I hang up, eager to conclude the meeting so I can be in the air, on the way to her.
* * *
I’m already at the table when Yusup Bahori walks into Al Sham, one of the best Middle Eastern restaurants in Dushanbe and, according to Konstantin’s research, a favorite spot of Yusup’s. After the obligatory half hour of catching up on our favorite school memories and discussing our classmates and other mutual acquaintances, I shift the conversation toward our permits and the bidding for the contract with the Tajik government.
“Nikolai, you know I can’t—” he starts, but I hold up my hand, stopping the bullshit in its tracks.
“Let’s not play games. You and I both know our product is superior to Atomprom’s. So why were our permits pulled?”
He blinks, not expecting me to be that direct. “Well, there were safety concerns and—”
“We’ve never had a meltdown or a leak. Our safety protocols go above and beyond any government requirements, and best of all, our reactors can provide cheap, clean energy to every settlement and village, no matter how inaccessible or remote.”
He sighs, pushing away his half-finished kebab. “Look, I don’t know the particulars, but if our inspectors—”
“Are these the same inspectors that greenlit Atomprom’s bid? If so, for how much?”
He has the grace to flush. “We’ve just begun the investigation of last night’s accident,” he says stiffly. “If it turns out there was any improper conduct, we’ll take appropriate measures. We don’t tolerate corruption and bribery. The safety of our citizens and the environment is of utmost importance to us.”
I nod, picking up my fork. “Which is why Atomprom was never the right company to partner with you. Their safety record is abysmal.”
Calmly, I eat two bites of falafel, letting him mull it over, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he says abruptly, “Fine. I can look into the permits for you. Maybe some inspector did get overzealous.”
“That would be much appreciated. And if it does turn out there’s been a misunderstanding, we would be grateful if you reversed the decision and put in a good word for us during the bidding.”
He licks his lips. “I understand.”
Of course he does. Gratitude from the Molotov organization is a very lucrative thing. As is gratitude from the Leonovs—but he’s already received it.
His new mansion in Khujand is proof of that.
It would be easy to point that out, to use the evidence of corruption Konstantin’s hackers have uncovered to get him to do what we want, but unlike Valery, I believe in waving the carrot before grabbing the stick.
Things tend to go smoother that way.
Goal achieved, I return to neutral topics, and the rest of the meal passes in pleasant conversation. He doesn’t bring up the specifics of our “gratitude,” and neither do I. Let him have plausible deniability when our payment lands in his offshore account; it doesn’t hurt us in the least.
When we’re done, he heads out to his car, and I stop by the restroom before the long drive to the small airport where my jet is waiting. I’m washing my hands when the door opens and a tall, athletically built man about my age steps in.
