27. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
A little after midnight, Taylor is in the guest room asleep. At least, I assume she is sleeping. She should be tired after a long night of chasing and fighting me.
I sit in my study with a glass of vodka I have not touched and consider whether I should have locked her in.
I don’t want to confirm for her that she is a prisoner, but I likely should imprison her.
Or I should let her go and tell her to tell no one or I will have her killed.
Perhaps a threat would be enough to keep her silent.
She has known for some time that I am no ordinary politician.
Arkady calls, and I answer before the first ring finishes. “What do they know about her?” I ask.
“Nothing yet. But they will.” I hold the cold glass against my forehead.
I know it’s true. They will want to know who the young American was that showed up at the warehouse.
It’s only a matter of time before they realize that she works in my office and only a day after that that they realize that she is not dead if I do not kill her.
I will not kill her. And if I do not, and I can make them accept that, they will want her deported. Threatened. Tortured. Something. I should want that too. It is only right. It only makes sense.
“Vladimir searched her before he brought her inside,” Arkady says. “Half the room saw the identification in her wallet. You have maybe a day before everyone who matters knows exactly who she is.”
Fuck. I lick my asphalt lips. “What would you recommend?” I ask.
I never ask for recommendations. Arkady knows this. He knows when a question is not truly a question. “If she were anyone else,” he says carefully, “she would not have left the warehouse.”
“She is not anyone else.”
“No.”
“She’s an American student attached to my office. If she disappears, there will be questions. Her program will notice. Her family will notice. Viktoriya will notice.”
“Yes.”
“She has access to the office, internal records, donor files, schedules. That is useful.”
“Yes.”
“She is observant.”
“Painfully.”
“She speaks English and Russian. She understands Western institutions. The fellowship program. Foreign press.”
“All useful.” His tone tells me he hears the argument collapsing as I construct it.
“She can remain valuable,” I say.
Arkady exhales quietly. “You do not need to convince me. I am your—” He stops. “I will do what you say.”
I end the call, wondering if he was going to say I am your friend and stopped himself from saying something untrue. He is not my friend. He is something else. It is as Taylor said. He is my soldier.
On the desk before me lies the file Arkady brought me after I ordered Taylor vetted. Taylor Morgan Hayes. Twenty years old. Student. No political affiliations of concern. No known connection to foreign intelligence. No threat. The conclusion now feels almost insulting.
She’s a threat because she has seen too much. She’s a threat because she asks questions even when warned not to. She’s a threat because she looked at me tonight and understood that every explanation I could offer would be a lie.
I have ordered deaths for less.
The glass remains untouched. I tell myself Taylor is useful.
Smart. Bilingual. Already inside the office.
Familiar with the records, capable of identifying patterns others miss.
Her foreignness gives her access to spaces where my men would attract attention.
Her position beside Viktoriya could be expanded. Controlled. Protected.
The decision arrives before I can stop it. It is not that I cannot kill her. No, the truth is more dangerous.
I cannot let her go.
I carry the vodka into the piano room and sit down at the bench, wondering whether Rachmaninoff can shake loose an answer where alcohol has failed. I begin with the Prelude in C-sharp minor and let the weight of it fill the room.
My mother wanders in when I’m on my second song, leaning heavily on her cane, a cup of tea in her hand. She sits next to me and sets the mug beside my drink, listening to the rest.
“Rachmaninoff,” she says solemnly when I’m done, a smile across the grooves of her face. “You must have something heavy on your mind, my son.”
“Nothing I cannot cure with alcohol and piano, as always.”
She studies my face. “There are guards outside the east guest room.”
“It is nothing. Extra security after all that.” I wave my hand.
“You will tell me next time men with guns are in my house,” she says briskly. The possessive irritates me. It is my house.
Before I can respond, footsteps sound in the corridor.
My mother’s head turns. Taylor stops when she sees us.
She is cleaner, so she must have showered, but she has chosen not to change into the clothing I left her.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was looking for the bathroom.”
Her voice is controlled. Too controlled. My mother stands. Taylor straightens as if preparing for another threat.
“Do not be sorry, Taylor. This is my mother,” I say, not wanting to tip off my mother that anything is amiss.
“Nikita Koroleva,” she says, offering her hand.
Taylor looks at me. The surprise on her face would be amusing under any other circumstances. Then she takes my mother’s hand with two hands. It is a charming handshake that I know my mother will approve of. “Taylor Hayes.”
“You are American,” she says.
“Yes.”
“She works at my office on a student visa,” I explain.
“And more than that, clearly.” My mother chuckles. “If she is here—”
“No, not more than that. She got into some trouble tonight and needed somewhere to sleep. Taylor, I will show you the bathroom,” I interject.
Taylor shakes her head. “No, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She eyes the piano. “I can find it.”
“There is one attached to your room.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Because you did not look.”
“Because I was busy wondering whether the windows opened.”
My mother watches the interaction with a stoic expression that tells me she is going to give me an earful as soon as Taylor walks away.
“Okay. They do not. Goodnight, Taylor. What do the Americans say?” I say in English, “Sleep tight. Do not let the bed bugs bite.”
Taylor’s green eyes pierce mine with so much venom that I look away first. She disappears around the corner. A door closes a moment later.
My mother turns to me. “You brought a frightened girl into my home with marks around her wrists.”
“I wish you would not say my home.”
“Oh, good, so you are also greedy like your father, not only violent.”
“She followed me into a dangerous situation. I needed to make sure she would keep quiet before she put herself in more danger.”
“I saw the way you were watching her. She is not only a prisoner.”
“No, she is not only a prisoner.”
“Mikhail,” she says low, her voice a warning, “Do not ruin her like your father ruined me.”
“I have no intention of ruining anyone.”
“You never do.”
“She is not mine to ruin.”
She rises and gathers her robe around herself. “Well, your not-yours is getting away, moy syn, whatever she is.” My son. Even when she thinks—knows—I have kidnapped a girl, I am her son.
From the piano bench, I listen to Taylor’s footsteps disappear down the corridor toward the front door. The front door slams shut. I know my men will stop her before she gets far.
I sigh and call Yuri. “Just let her go. Have someone make sure she gets home.”
My mother smiles sadly and pats my face. “Drink some tea with your alcohol please, Mishka. I cannot stand to see you like this.”