30. Ana
ANA
The fourth-floor stairwell empties into a lower corridor that smells dusty and stale. The lights burn steady and bright, every corner exposed.
Cameras sit in the ceiling domes. The lenses face the hall. I smooth my coat and set my pace. Not fast. Not slow. Just a woman who signed in upstairs and is leaving because something disrupted her work.
Two doors down, a man stands frozen in the threshold, phone in his hand. He looks at the blood on my sleeve, then at my face. My breath stutters before I speak.
“There’s a woman by the stairwell,” I say, voice shaking. “She’s bleeding. Please. You have to help her.”
His forehead pulls tight. He steps toward me.
“Where?” he asks.
I point back the way I came, toward the main stairwell, not the service one. “Second landing. She fell. Please.”
He hesitates for a second, scanning my face to see if I’m lying.
I let my hands tremble. I let my mouth move without control. “Please. Hurry.”
He swallows and starts down the corridor in the direction I indicate, phone pressed to his ear now. He walks fast, then faster. Halfway down, he glances back. I’m still standing where he left me, eyes wide, frozen in place.
“Go,” I call after him. “Please.”
When he turns the corner and disappears from sight, I count to three. Then I move.
A woman farther down the hall flattens herself against the wall as I pass. She stares at my hands.
I grip the strap of my bag and steady them. If anyone opens it, they’ll find paperwork. Nothing more.
I keep my pace even. I don’t run.
The route we mapped is clear in my head. Four turns. Down two flights. Through the records wing. Out the rear service door. Six minutes if I keep steady. I follow it for three. Then I change it.
Anyone disciplined enough to shut down the building without noise will assume I stick to the plan. They’ll watch the exits Dominik is positioned to defend. They’ll expect me to trust what we rehearsed.
I turn down a side corridor instead.
A red fire door opens into a maintenance stairwell. I take it down one level and step into a loading hallway that opens behind the block.
A delivery truck idles near the curb, the driver leaning against the door with a cigarette. I walk past him without looking. My shoulder brushes the side mirror and I keep going. I cut into the narrow space between two buildings where the pavement breaks and weeds push through.
There’s a second car waiting two streets over.
I don’t go to it.
If they’re watching Dominik, they’re waiting for me to run to the car. If they lose him, they’ll keep eyes on it anyway. I won’t give them that.
I cut across the next block and fall in with people heading toward the tram stop. A tram rolls in from the opposite side. I cross the street between cars, step over the rails, and reach the doors as they start to close. I slip inside before they seal.
I don’t take a seat. I stay on my feet near the center pole, one hand steady, the file tucked under my coat. I keep my eyes on the glass across from me and watch what moves in reflection instead of turning my head.
Three stops later, I get off and circle back on foot, doubling through streets that don’t lead anywhere important. I change direction twice more before I angle toward where the second car waits.
When I reach the spot, I don’t approach from the front. I come in from behind the building and watch first.
The car is still there. The mirror is folded in.
We never fold the mirror.
Instead of heading for the car, I walk three blocks straight, matching my pace to the people around me.
At the bus stop, I stand with the others and stare at nothing in particular.
When the bus pulls in, I let it block the view from the street, step around its rear, cross, and slide into a taxi waiting at the curb.
The car smells like lemon cleaner and worn vinyl. The driver glances at me in the mirror, half curious. I give him an address that fits the hour, promise extra if he keeps moving, and tell him to stop two streets short.
I change again.
I take the metro two stops and get off without looking back. I go down one set of stairs, up another, and come out onto a different street. I take apart the phone in a restroom stall in a transit hub, drop the pieces into three different bins, then wash my hands until they steady.
Then I keep going. The copy isn’t paper. It isn’t bulky. It doesn’t rustle or weigh me down.
I walk toward a grocery store two blocks from a tram line. I go in, take a basket, and move through the aisles for bread and bottled water. A packet of tea I don’t need. I stand in line and watch the door through the reflection in the freezer glass.
No one comes in twice. No one waits outside. No one studies me longer than it takes to be polite.
I pay in cash.
Outside, I step back into the street and pause at the corner. I let three cars pass. A couple argues about directions. A man jogs by with headphones in, breath fogging in the cold. Nothing repeats. No engine idles too long. No face returns.
I walk.
Two more turns. A narrow side street with older buildings and dark windows. I slow at one doorway and tie my shoe, using the glass to check behind me. A woman hurries past. A delivery van blocks half the road and then pulls away.
Still nothing. That’s when I let myself breathe.
I don’t go home. I go somewhere I haven’t been in years.
The storefront is small and dim, the sign half burned out. The repair shop fixes laptops, printers, and old phones.
Andrei looks up from behind the counter. He’s older, thinner. His eyes haven’t changed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“I know.”
He studies my face, then the way I’m standing.
“Back room,” he says.
I don’t take the memory card out until the door is closed behind us. When I do, it looks harmless. A black sliver resting in my palm.
He doesn’t touch it yet.
“How many?” he asks.
“Two,” I say. “Split.”
He nods once and turns to a machine that isn’t connected to anything. I watch his hands as he works. He doesn’t open the files. He doesn’t ask what they are. When it’s done, he slides the original toward me.
“Check.”
I plug each new card into a second machine and open them myself. The structure matches. The partial extracts load without errors. The sections are intact. I run a quick verification. Then I snap the original card in half and drop the pieces into his metal bin.
He doesn’t react.
I delete the temporary copy from his system and watch the drive wipe.
I split them the way I planned. One card goes back into the lined pocket under my jacket. The second slides into the hollow seam of my bag, sewn months ago for something I hoped I’d never need.
“If anyone asks,” I say, “you never saw me.”
He almost smiles.
“They always ask,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I answer.”
I stop in front of a building that looks like it was built to make people relax. It has glass doors, pale stone walls, and a brass plaque by the entrance.
Inside, I give the name Dominik told me to use. Ana Sokolova. Married. Healthcare investments. I keep my voice steady and say I have documents tied to procurement frauds.
I don’t rush.
They listen because I sound like someone who has already checked her facts and is tired of carrying them.
They take me into a small office with a desk that has seen too many files.
“I’m not here about missing boxes,” I say. “I’m here about signatures.”
I place a small encrypted drive on the desk.
“Open the folder marked Procurement Review.”
One of them hesitates, then plugs it into a secured terminal. The screen fills with scanned ledger entries. Handwritten approvals, dates, cross-referenced transaction logs I layered over them.
I step aside and let them scroll.
Council names appear beside duplicated authorizations. Emergency waivers signed after shipment dates had already passed. Port clearance numbers that match records on file, but the consignments never appear in intake logs.
They stop scrolling.
One of them leans forward.
“Where did you get this?”
“I review investment compliance,” I say. “I found irregularities.”
They exchange a look. I don’t stay long enough for more.
An hour later, I enter a different building across the district. This one smells like carpet glue and burned coffee. Fluorescent lights hum overhead.
I ask for the financial oversight department.
The auditor who meets me looks bored until she opens the summary file.
The transfers are broken down line by line. Foundation disbursements routed through cultural trusts. Recurring payments authorized just under reporting thresholds. The same three signatures appearing across unrelated charitable boards.
She turns the page more slowly.
“These were filed as charitable grants,” she says.
“They were.”
I let the numbers sit between us.
I leave before she can ask about my background, before she can ask for identification beyond what I have already shown.
The third meeting isn’t in a public building.
It’s a small office above a hardware store. The blinds are half drawn. The man waiting for me has credentials clipped inside his jacket and a face that doesn’t move much. He works in financial crimes. Not Bratva. Not council. He answers to the state.
I don’t give him documents. I give him directions.
“Start with the Krestov Cultural Trust,” I say. “Compare its grants to Baltic Med Logistics between 2017 and 2022. Then match those transfers against emergency procurement waivers signed by Council member Orlov.”
He doesn’t move.
“Cross-check the fuel transport codes tied to Roman Kadeev’s holding company. They’re filed as medical refrigeration shipments. They never reach hospital intake logs.”
His pen taps once against the desk.
“And look at the port clearance numbers for shipments routed through disputed waters,” I continue. “They clear customs. They never clear inventory.”
I pause.
“The rival faction used clinic construction funds to collateralize private security contracts,” I say. “Shell clinics. The money loops back into political campaign trusts and ‘disaster relief’ foundations.”
Now he looks at me.
“They skimmed small,” I add. “Under reporting thresholds. Year after year. It’s layered. Foundations to logistics. Logistics to procurement. Procurement to council signatories.”
He still hasn’t written anything down.
“Why bring this to me?” he asks.
“Because this isn’t just fraud,” I say. “It’s coordinated money movement between elected officials and organized crime.”
Silence.
“You can verify it without me,” I say. “Once you start pulling the foundation filings, the rest surfaces.”
When I walk back down the stairs, my legs are steady. My hands aren’t.
I move again. I walk three blocks before I take a tram. I get off before the last stop and change direction. I borrow a car arranged under a name that’s not mine and drive without music, without calls, without looking at my phone.
Dawn breaks while I’m still moving. The sky turns gray, then pale. Morning traffic fills the roads and makes everyone look ordinary.
Somewhere behind me, Dominik is still inside the line he chose to hold.
I don’t know if he’s upright or bleeding or already down. I only know that the ledger is no longer sitting in the dark. And neither am I.
Now I have to find him.