Page 43 of Power's Fall

“Yes. As you can see, it was extensively remodeled.”

“When was the resort remodeled?” Dahlia asked.

“About fifteen years ago, when we were at a point that the current owners could reinvest in the property.”

“Can you tell me more about that?” Dahlia asked mildly, hiding her excitement that they might finally be getting to the good stuff.

“The current owner purchased the property thirty years ago. Prior to the sale, the resort had been closed for several years.”

“That’s unfortunate. Was there some damage or…”

“The original owner wasn’t Russian, and there was no explanation as to why it suddenly closed.”

She’d closed it because everyone was getting blackmailed.

“That must have been hard on the local economy,” Montana said, his voice tight. Dahlia put her hand on his leg, and Izolda tracked the movement.

“It was. The resort was the main employer for the local village. When it closed, many people were left to starve.”

Montana frowned. “It’s terrible that the owner didn’t think about the impact to his employees when he closed.”

“Itwasterrible.” Izolda nodded so violently, Dahlia worried about her neck.

“I’d love to talk to someone about that, really dig into the impact something like that can have. Are any employees from back then still around?” Dahlia asked.

“Not current employees, but a few had family who were staff back then.”

“Wonderful. Could you put me in touch with them?”

Izolda rose, going to a bookcase behind her elegant glass and stone desk and plucking out a slim volume. “I can, and I have photos.”

Dahlia wasn’t sure if it was their criticism of the original owner, or if Izolda had just been nervous at first and was now more relaxed. When she returned to her seat, Dahlia transferred to the other armchair, pulling it up next to Izolda. Page by page, they went through the photo album, Dahlia peppering compliments in between questions about the photos.

“This is the oldest photo I found.” Izolda touched the page just under the small image. The colors had faded, the whole image tinged yellow. In it, a dozen people stood in front of the main doors of the original hotel, all wearing what looked like brand-new uniforms and distinct hairstyles from that decade. In the center was a smiling woman with her hand on the shoulder of what looked like a young teenager, tall but gangly and awkward.

“These are all employees?”

“Not him.” She pointed to the tween. “The original owner wouldn’t employ children, but he came to work with his mother so often they made him a uniform. She was the head housekeeper.”

“He might still be alive,” Dahlia mused, watching Izolda from the corner of her eye.

“He is.” Izolda tapped her finger on the page. “This little boy is Sinaver Abduramanov. He’s the Minister of the Interior and head of the Crimean Security Force.” There was pride in her words, as if the resort was somehow responsible for the man’s success.

Dahlia shot Montana a glance, and the set of his shoulders told her that he was thinking the same thing she was. The head housekeeper probably had access to every part of the resort.

And now he was in a leadership role within Crimea. Someone like that would be well positioned to blackmail foreign guests.

“Sinaver,” Dahlia said. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before.”

“He’s a Crimean Tartar. His family is from the local village and has been for many generations.”

Meaning, that when the resort shut down and economically gutted the area, his family would have suffered.

Not wanting to jump to conclusions, Dahlia asked about the people in several other pictures, as well as current employees who had family that worked here under the original owner. There was one other possibility—a woman whose great-aunt by marriage had owned the local bakery that supplied all the breads and cakes to the resort. When the resort closed, the family had been forced to move to Russia or starve, but the great-niece returned to Crimea and was now one of the masseuses.

An hour later, Izolda had fully relaxed and called for tea. Dahlia lightly teased Montana about drinking his tea straight, and then Izolda showed him how to hold a sugar cube between his teeth and drink the tea through that, an old custom that was rarely seen anymore, though Izolda said her father still drank it that way, or put a spoonful of jam in his mouth before drinking.

Dahlia waited until they were fully relaxed to ask if they could have a tour, and if she could film. Izolda didn’t hesitate, and Dahlia carefully filmed the pages of the photo album as she flipped through them, then continued to film as they were given a tour, occasionally passing her small camera to Montana so he could film her and Izolda showing off some features of the resort.

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