Page 56 of Silenced

I tilt the screen at him.

Boris: The Albanians are on the hunt for Rundel but they can’t find him.

Boris: He’s a slippery motherfucker. I broke into the motel’s office to see if he’d paid cash or on credit, but though he paid by card, it wasn’t under Rundel.

Boris: It was under Turgenev. Does Dmitri know of a family branch over here?

“I don’t, and you know how rare a surname it is. What didn’t die out in the First World War, the rest almost faded with Stalin’s purges. That’s why the remainder aligned with the Bratva—safety.” When I nod my agreement, Dmitri inquires, “You think Rundel’s got a Russian background, or is it a stolen ID?”

I ponder the question and answer it with one of my own: “Can you get into the Social Security Administration still?”

He nods and drags his laptop over to him. “Give me five.”

“Sure.”

Three minutes later, he pushes his computer my way and I type into the search feature of the database: Cassiopeia Turgenev.

I get a hit.

“He’s using her maiden name,” Dmitri exclaims. “I said she had to be Russian with that hair.”

I elbow him in the side, hard enough to wind him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses, spluttering around a cough. “She’s yours.” Because I didn’t raise a fool, he’s quick to change the subject. “So, thereisa branch of Turgenevs over here. I wonder how that happened.”

“Immigration,” I drawl.

But he shakes his head. “My great-great-grandfather would never have allowed that. Ever since we aligned with the Bratva, we remained true to the brotherhood and its wiles or got our throats cut.”

I can hear the belief dripping from every word—family lore that’s as bred into him as his dirty-blond hair.

“Can you get me her birth certificate?” I sign.

“Yup.”

As he seeks that out, I flick on the app that enables me to access the cameras in my bedroom.

She’s still sleeping.

That’s thirty-six hours now…

I consulted Grigoriy yesterday, and he said not to wake her but to get her to drink fluids and if she slept in between bathroom breaks to let her rest.

If she sleeps much longer, I’ll contact him again.

“Here you go,” Dmitri says, drawing my attention to him. “And the twilight zone expandeth.”

When I read all the data on her birth certificate, I see why. “You know who that is?” I ask, pointing to her father’s name.

“Aside from a relative I’ve never heard of before? Nope.”

“Only in your line do you learn your family tree as if it’s the gospel.”

He snorts. “Not by choice, Niko. Not mine, at any rate.”

Though I grunt, I sign, “Ever heard of Peshnya?”

He blinks. “The KGB assassin? Sure.”

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