20. Taylor
TAYLOR
Three days later, at five thirty, the office is mostly empty.
Viktoriya leaves first, wrapped in a camel-colored coat with Dima trailing after her, offering to carry her bags while both of them insist they don’t have plans after work.
I make a mental note to grill her about that later.
By six, the office has emptied itself of everyone with reasonable boundaries.
The assistants disappear. The phones stop ringing.
Printers stop printing. The office settles into silence.
By eight thirty, I’m still here. This is partly because Viktoriya trusted me with cross-checking the sponsor and vendor records for the Governor’s Winter Education Benefit before morning and partly because my mother sounded strained when we spoke earlier, and I’ve been thinking again about whether I can afford to send home more money.
That thought has become considerably less private since Mikhail informed me, three days ago and in the middle of an argument, that he knows exactly what I do with my bank account.
I glance toward the darkened glass of his office and feel my face heat despite myself.
Mostly, though, I’m still here because going back to the apartment means turning Anya down about Petyr again.
I don’t care if he is a “nice guy.” I don’t care if she thinks I’m being unfair.
I don’t particularly want to sit in my kitchen while he pretends that the way he behaved at the bar was concern instead of some bizarre claim of ownership over a woman he barely knows.
The irony of this thought is not lost on me.
I stare at Mikhail’s office. No. Absolutely not.
Those are different things. I return to the spreadsheet.
His office door has been closed for nearly an hour.
Light glows faintly beneath it, and every so often I hear the low movement of his voice.
He’s on the phone, speaking too quietly for me to understand more than the occasional change in tone.
I try not to listen. This is difficult because Mikhail does not speak on the phone like a politician.
Politicians perform even when no one is watching.
They soften statements, repeat names, manufacture intimacy.
Every phone call is another small stage.
Mikhail gives orders. Sometimes he argues, but even then, he never sounds as though the outcome is uncertain.
I glance at the clock again. Eight thirty-seven.
My eyes drift toward the dark glass. This job doesn’t make sense, and I’ve been trying not to think about that.
Three days ago, I might have convinced myself I was being dramatic.
He’s the governor of Moscow Oblast. Of course he has money.
Of course he has security. Of course powerful men know other powerful men.
Then he told me I had sent my parents two hundred dollars three weeks ago.
Now I’m less inclined to explain things away.
If I had met Mikhail only here, I might believe he was exactly what his public biography says he is. The governor of Moscow Oblast from a well-connected family. Wealthy, certainly. Influential enough that no one would question a few luxuries.
But I didn’t meet him here. I met him at a bar and went home with him, and his home is not a few luxuries.
The property alone must be worth more than he could earn in several lifetimes of government work.
Then there are the cars, the staff, the guards, and the men stationed around him who do not behave like ordinary political security.
Having protection is one thing. Mikhail has men who scan people for disobedience. When people talk to him, they lower their voices. Men twice his age wait for permission to sit down. Sure, I could argue it’s respect. Except that it’s not. Fear is difficult to fake.
A drawer closes somewhere inside his office, and I look down quickly and return to the records.
Most of the paperwork is painfully legitimate.
Catering estimates. Floral invoices. Transportation vendors.
Sponsorship confirmations. Security clearances.
Temporary permits. Donations designated for teacher-retention bonuses and emergency school repairs.
I check one registration number against the internal vendor list, mark it verified, and move to the next.
The next company is a freight contractor.
Orlov Transport.
My fingers stop over the keyboard. I stare at the name.
I’ve heard it before. Not in a meeting. Through Mikhail’s office wall.
Three days ago, I was passing with paperwork for Viktoriya when I heard him say the name Orlov in a voice that made me walk a little faster.
At the time, I assumed it was a person. Apparently it is also a company.
I search the registration number. The company is real.
Large. Freight, storage, commercial transport throughout Moscow Oblast and several neighboring regions.
Nothing illegal about that. Nothing particularly interesting about that either, except that the company is listed here as providing temporary transportation support for the benefit despite another contractor already being assigned to the event.
I frown and compare the paperwork. Maybe it’s a backup vendor.
I flip to the next page and stop. A sheet has been tucked between the vendor summary and the insurance certificate.
It doesn’t belong there. The benefit documents are stamped, coded, numbered, and annoyingly thorough.
This page has none of that. There’s no letterhead.
No departmental seal. Only a short list typed in Russian with several handwritten notes beside it.
LYUBERTSY — CLEARED
17B — CONFIRMED
O.T. — TRANSFERRED
SIX — PENDING
I read it twice. Lyubertsy. That’s a district. Seventeen-B could be a permit number. O.T. could mean Orlov Transport. Six what? Six invoices? Six vehicles? Six permits? I turn the page over. Blank.
My pulse begins beating a little harder. This is ridiculous. It’s probably someone’s logistics note. I pick it up anyway.
The office door opens behind me.
I start so badly that the page slips from my fingers. Mikhail stands in the doorway. For one second neither of us moves. Then his eyes drop to the paper and something changes in his face. Not much. That somehow makes it worse.
“Where did you get that?” His voice is quiet.
I look at the page on the floor. “It was in the benefit folder.”
He crosses the room. There’s nothing hurried about him, but by the time he reaches my desk, every instinct in my body is telling me I’ve done something wrong.
He picks up the paper. “Which folder?”
I point.
He opens it, checks the remaining pages, then looks at me again. “Did you copy this?”
“No.”
“Photograph it?”
“No.”
“Send it to anyone?”
I stare at him. “Jesus. No.”
His jaw relaxes slightly. I don’t.
“What is Orlov Transport?”
“A company.”
I blink. “I gathered that.”
His eyes meet mine, and I wait. Nothing.
“You are very bad at answering questions.”
“I answer the questions that require answers.”
“That one requires an answer.”
“No. It does not.”
I fold my arms. “Why was this mixed in with government paperwork?”
“It should not have been.”
“That is also not an answer.”
“Taylor.”
There’s a warning in my name. Normally, this would make me want to push harder. Tonight, something about the paper in his hand makes me reconsider. I glance at it again. “What is Lyubertsy?”
“You know what Lyubertsy is.”
“I know where it is. I’m asking why it’s on that page.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Is this political?”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly.
My stomach tightens. “Then what is it?”
“Not your concern.”
I laugh once, mostly because I’m uncomfortable. “That phrase always makes things sound significantly more concerning.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost. Then it’s gone. He folds the page once and slips it inside his jacket. “It was placed in the wrong folder.”
“By who?”
“I will find out.”
Something about the way he says it makes me feel sorry for whoever did it. He looks at the clock, then at my coat hanging beside the door. “It’s late.”
“I have another twenty records.”
“They will exist tomorrow.”
“So will I.”
His gaze settles on me, and I immediately regret the phrasing. His eyes travel over my face in a way that makes the memory of his locked office door come rushing back with humiliating clarity.
“That is the intention,” he says.
Heat climbs into my cheeks. I close the spreadsheet harder than necessary. “Fine.”
I gather my things. As I pull on my coat, I look back at him. “Are you going to tell me anything?”
“No.”
“Very reassuring.”
“You are safe.”
I pause. Something about the words bothers me more than if he had said nothing. “I didn’t ask if I was safe.”
“I know.”
I stare at him. He opens his office door for me. “Go home, Taylor.”
The cold hits hard enough to clear my head when I step outside. For half a block, I consider going back. Not because I want to see the page again. Because leaving feels like admitting there was something on it worth being afraid of. I keep walking.
By the time I reach the apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself it was nothing. A misplaced logistics page. A transport company. A district name. Six something. Mikhail being secretive is hardly new.
This explanation survives until I open the front door and hear Petyr laughing in my kitchen.
I stop with one boot still on the hallway mat. Anya appears around the corner holding a bottle of vodka and wearing the guilty expression of someone caught feeding a stray animal after being specifically told not to. “You’re home,” she says brightly.
“I live here.”
“He was already with me when I came back,” she says quickly.
Petyr leans back in one of our kitchen chairs so I can see him through the doorway. He has made himself comfortable, his coat hanging from the back of the chair and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. “I brought food,” he says.