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Twisting the cord of the hospital badge in my pocket around my fist, I caress the name printed on the laminated card with my thumb. I’ve traced the letters so many times with my gaze that when I close my eyes, I see them behind my eyelids. “I’ll be damned if I sit on my ass and sip tea while some ublyudok threatens Katerina.”
“We’ll get the motherfucker.” Igor’s upper lip curls. “Only a coward hides behind a woman’s skirt.”
I nod grimly. I won’t rest until I put that cockroach in his grave.
“What do you want us to do?” Leonid asks.
“For now? Keep your ears on the ground. Ask around. See if we unknowingly stepped on any toes or if there are any changes in the power hierarchy we’re not aware of.”
“Yes, boss,” Leonid says. “I’ll talk to some guys in the city I know.”
“Go with him,” I tell Dimitri. “Igor, you stay with me.”
Dimitri nods, already following Leonid to the exit.
When they’re gone, I consider my options. I still hope we’ll get lucky with the hospital tapes, but since we haven’t found anything after ten of my best men and women have gone through every second of the security feed frame by frame, the chances that we’ll pick up something are slim.
“Fuck.” I kick the chair next to the door, nearly sending it flying. Frustration eats at me like acid.
“What do you want to do?” Igor asks. “It’s dark. Shall we go back to the house?”
I’m eager to be with Katerina, but she could do with a little space to get over her anger. In time, she’ll see this is the only way. For now, at least she’s safe.
Somewhat calmed by the thought, I say, “I’m going to spend a few hours in the office.” I may as well catch up on some work while I’m here. There are new contracts to sign off on and some investment opportunities I’d like to suss out.
Making my way to the elevator, I take my phone from my pocket to check if there’s a message from Lena. There’s still nothing, just like ten minutes ago when I checked. Before the door opens and I lose my signal in the elevator, I type a quick message and send it to Lena.
A reply comes a second later. Katerina is napping and all is well at home. Reassured, I pocket the phone, enter the elevator with Igor, and press the button for the top floor.
My executive assistant, Grigori, is a young man who reminds me of myself at his age. His desk stands in the foyer of the top floor where Igor and I emerge. Grigori always dresses formally and fashionably. Today, he’s wearing a navy suit cut to the latest Italian fashion, paired with a red cravat. Very European.
Rising to his feet, he bows his head. “Mr. Volkov. Igor. I didn’t expect you.”
“I didn’t plan on coming in,” I say as I cross the floor. “Messages?”
“In your agenda, sir. I filtered the unimportant ones. The urgent ones, I emailed to you.”
“Good. Anything new?”
Grigori is my eyes and ears when I’m not around. Whenever something happens, like when someone isn’t happy with the way I do things, he lets me know.
“Nothing new, sir. Would you like me to order tea or dinner?”
“No, thank you. We’re not staying that long. On second thought, bring a bottle of vodka and a chilled glass.”
He acknowledges the instruction with another bow.
Igor takes out his phone and makes himself comfortable in the visitor’s lounge area in the back while I push open the door of my corner office.
The furnishings consist of a glass desktop suspended on metal cables from the ceiling, a chair in which I’ve spent more hours than in my bed, and several monitors locked away behind a fireproof metal shutter that covers the entire wall facing the desk. A simple lounge area with a sofa and coffee table is set up against the window for meetings. A door on the side leads to an en-suite bathroom. One of my favorite paintings, a piece by David Hockney, hangs on the wall to the left of my desk. Other than that, there are no knickknacks or photos. Nothing to hint at an attachment. As the situation with Katerina has so effectively demonstrated, flaunting your weaknesses only gives your enemies ammunition to use against you.
While I make myself comfortable behind my desk, Grigori enters with a tray on which a bottle of premium vodka and a glass are sitting. He keeps the alcohol and the glass cold at exactly the right temperature. Once a month, a technician verifies that the bar fridge is set at two degrees Celsius—the optimal temperature for drinking vodka, not a degree more or less.
Grigori places the tray on the corner of the desk, uncaps the bottle, and pours a double shot while I unlock the fireproof shutter with my thumbprint on the electronic device attached to my desk. When the shutter lifts, Grigori gets the laptop I keep there for when I’m in the office and carries it to my desk.
