Page 73 of The Pakhan's Bride
He turns to leave, but I stop him with a look. "Good work," I say.
He allows himself a smile, then vanishes down the hall.
Vera glances over at me. "That's it?"
"For now." I close the laptop. It feels lighter than before.
I take a moment, staring at the map of Europe on the wall. Red pins mark hot zones. Gold pins show the safe routes. For the first time in weeks, the gold outnumber the red. I stand, smooth my skirt, and check the clock. In four minutes, the calls will start.Offers, threats, apologies, all flooding into the switchboard like water through a cracked dam.
But for now, it is quiet. I savor it. Then I pick up the phone, dial the suite where Konstantin waits. He answers on the first ring. "Report."
"It's done," I say. "Your friend is coming home."
He grunts, not quite a laugh, but close. "Come upstairs."
The suite's terrace is sealed off from the city by bulletproof glass, but I open the window anyway. Konstantin stands at the edge, a bottle of Pol Roger in one hand, the label already flecked with ice. He doesn't turn as I approach, but I see his shoulders relax, the line of his back less rigid than in the morning.
He gestures to the table. Two flutes, clean as crystal. A single white rose in a bud vase, probably a joke from the concierge. I sit. My legs ache. I didn't realize how tense I was until this exact moment.
He uncorks the bottle. The pop is almost vulgar in the hush of the terrace. He pours, careful to hit the right angle. The foam rises, then settles. He sets the glass in front of me. "Three banking channels, gone in a day."
I pick up the flute. The bubbles race for the surface, as eager as the sons in Berlin. "And the patriarch?" I ask.
He grins, lips barely moving. "Just where we need him to be."
I take a sip. "Funny," I say, "how transparency can fix what decades of threats couldn't."
He shrugs. "Violence is loud. Information is permanent."
The city glitters under us, a million windows pulsing like nerve endings. He sits opposite, arms folded. "You used the Baranov files."
I nod. "I used what I had."
He looks at me for a long time, then says, "Your father would have been proud."
I almost choke on the champagne. "My father was never proud of anyone. Not even himself."
He laughs, a real sound, and for a second I see the boy he might have been. I finish my glass. He refills it, then his own. We clink, the sound barely audible above the city's pulse.
He lifts his glass in salute. "To old enemies. May they live long enough to see us win."
I copy him. "To family."
27
EPILOGUE: ZOYA
It's been a very long evening of my mind refusing to settle, even though I'm reading what is otherwise a very interesting book. I'm on page three and about to give up when Lev appears in the doorway of my suite's office. His pajamas are too short, wrists and ankles poking out like twigs. He's holding a scrap of paper, his face a riot of sleep lines and confusion. I make room for him on the ottoman. He climbs up and sits with knees to his chest. "Are you okay, sweetie?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I want to know if Aunty is really dead."
I take the paper from his hand. It's a child's drawing—two stick figures, one in a blue dress, one in yellow. Both have crowns. The yellow one has X’s for eyes. I trace the line of the crown with my thumb. "She's not coming back," I say. "But she's not gone, either. She's just… far away."
He considers this. "Like outer space?"
I want to say yes, but I can't lie. "Like a different country," I say. "A place where we can't follow."
He leans against me, small but solid. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asks.
