Chapter 18 Raina
RAINA
“Ichoose,” I say, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears. “But if I’m going to work with you, I deserve your truth. I deserve to know where I am.”
The line on the screen flickers once, then steadies. For a moment he does not speak. I imagine his hands on a keyboard somewhere, his eyes on my face, trying to decide how much to give.
“You’re safe,” he says at last. “That’s what matters.”
“That’s what matters to you,” I answer. “For me, it matters that I know where my body is when I close my eyes. It matters that if I die here, I know which ground takes me. You want my mind clear. Then give it something solid to stand on.”
There is a small pause. The camera field stays black. Only his voice comes through.
“You’re far from the city,” he says. “Far enough that your husband can’t reach you in an hour, even if he had a perfect map. You’re north of him. Past the ring roads and the main villages that cling to his routes.”
I picture maps in my head. The lines of the ring roads, the way they widen out. The routes we used for shipments, the ones we cut, the ones we never touched.
“Forest?” I ask. “Field? Coast?”
“Forest and water,” he says. “Old country. Old stories. The kind of place city men forget until they need a quiet house for hunting or hiding.”
My pulse jumps. There are only so many belts of forest and water north of Moscow that fit that description, and only some of those ever had strong enough connections to host a house like this.
“Which river?” I ask.
“You know better than to expect a name,” he says. “But you can guess. Thin river. Narrow lake. Old dam that no one maintains anymore. The road in is bad in winter and worse in spring.”
I let that sink in. The room around me feels sharper now.
The painted wood, the stove, the window.
I think through the list in my head. I know which of Sergei’s enemies held properties in those places.
I know which of his own men used quiet cottages for rest or punishment.
There is a patch of countryside that fits this too well.
“So I’m in one of the old cottage lines near a narrow lake,” I say. “North, not east or west. Not too close to the border, or you would have more patrol noise. Not too close to the big hunting estates, or someone would have seen something.”
I turn a slow circle in the room. The walls are paneled in painted wood, soft blue under the light. A carved frame hangs crookedly above the stove—a fox chasing a red sun.
My breath catches. I know this place.
I was here once, years ago, when the Baranovs still owned it.
Sergei brought me on that trip because he wanted me to see the country he fought to control.
I remember the narrow lake outside, half-frozen, the crooked birch by the path, the line of pines that leaned toward the water.
The Baranov crest had the same fox and sun carved into every door.
After their collapse, Sergei took the cottage deeds during cleanup, then forgot them.
So that’s where I am. One of the old Baranov cottages north of Klin, near the dam that always cracked in spring. The same road with three bridges, the last one half broken.
“You were always good with maps,” he says. “I knew you would enjoy the puzzle.”
“I don’t enjoy any of this,” I say. “But I need to know where my head is. You gave me enough. I’ll fill in the rest.”
He lets that go. He knows I will keep turning it over until I fix the shape.
I look at Nadia’s small feed in the corner of the screen again. She has rolled onto her side. Her hand rests on the pillow. Anastasia’s chin is on her chest. The guard at the door shifts his weight, then stills.
“I’ll work with you,” I say quietly. “I’ll help you build what you want. I’ll give you what I know about his routes and his men.”
“That’s a good start,” he replies. “We can begin as soon as you are ready to focus.”
“But first,” I say, and my voice tightens. “I want something from you.”
“Of course you do,” he says. “Say it.”
“I want to see them,” I say. “One more time, at least. On this screen. I want to speak to my daughter while she is awake. I want to look at him and know he is still breathing. You want me to work? Then let me clear that weight from my chest.”
He is silent again. I feel my jaw clench. I make myself loosen it.
“You already use them as leverage,” I say. “You already watch them. There is no harm in letting me watch for a few minutes too. You can stay on the line. You can listen to every word. You can cut the call when you wish. You still hold the knife. Just give me this.”
“You think seeing them will make you more useful to me?” he says.
“Yes,” I answer. “Right now, my thoughts keep circling the same fear. I need to see her eyes open. I need to hear his voice. After that, I can breathe. After that, I can do more than imagine worst cases. That’s good for you.”
He exhales slowly through the speaker.
“You’ll cry,” he says.
“Probably,” I say. “You can enjoy that if you want. It does not change the work I can do after.”
He lets out a low sound that might be a laugh.
“You’re very clear,” he says. “I appreciate that.”
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
“It’s a negotiation,” he says. “You say you’ll work with me. You haven’t shown it yet.”
“I’m here,” I say. “I’m talking. I’m not screaming his name or yours. I’m not breaking your machine. I said I would help you. I haven’t taken it back. Let me see them and you’ll have my first move.”
“You’ll give me something real,” he says. “Not useless details. Not stories I already know.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll give you the names of three men he still trusts with outer routes who already carry doubts. I’ll tell you which of them is easiest to move.”
He thinks about that. I can feel the shift.
“Fine,” he says. “You tell me now.”
I give him three names. I do not choose at random. I choose men already on the line, men whose loyalty is cracked, men whose tilt might break this whole war whether I stand still or move. If I hold them back, he’ll get them another way. This at least buys me something.
I don’t let myself think about how Sergei will look at me when he learns I said those names out loud.
When I finish, he types something.
“You’re not lying,” he says. “Your tone changes when you lie. This time, it did not.”
I don’t ask how he can hear that through a cheap microphone. I don’t want to know how many hours of my voice he has collected.
“So,” I say. “Do I get my call?”
“Yes,” he says. “You get your call.”
The small window with Nadia closes for a moment. The main screen goes dark again, then the image shifts. A new feed opens. For a second there is only static and a crooked angle, then the scene clears.
Sergei sits in his office chair. The lamp on his desk throws a hard circle of light over his shoulders and face.
He looks tired, older than he did when we left the house for the bathhouse.
His jaw is tight. There is a cut along his hairline.
Dried blood on one side of his neck. His eyes hit the camera and flare.
“Raina,” he says.
My throat closes and opens.
“Sergei,” I answer.
The screen splits again. Another window opens.
Nadia sits on his lap, wrapped in a blanket.
Her hair is messy. Her eyes are wide and red from crying.
She clutches her bear so hard I can see the stitches strain.
Anastasia stands behind the chair, one hand on Nadia’s shoulder.
Her face is pale. Her eyes are swollen. She looks like she has not slept at all.
“Mama,” Nadia cries. Her whole body moves with the word.
“I’m here,” I say. I lean closer to the screen. “Little star, I’m here.”
She reaches for the camera with her small hand. “Where are you?” she asks. “Papa looked everywhere.”
“I know,” I say. “I saw his tracks from here.”
Sergei’s eyes narrow just a little at that. He hears the edge. He hears everything.
“Where is here?” he asks. His voice is calm, but I see the vein in his neck.
“The Courier has me in a house,” I say. “I’m safe for now. There is food. There is a bed. The door is locked.”
Nadia looks back and forth between us on the screen. “When are you coming home?” she asks.
The words stab me clean. I steady my breath.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
Sergei’s gaze sharpens. “Did he hurt you?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
Nadia’s face begins pinching up. “Hey,” I say quickly. “Look at me. He gave me food. He gave me a room. He let me use this computer. See? That means I can talk to you. That’s good. That means you and Papa can see my face.”
She nods once, fast.
“Tell me where he is,” Sergei says. “Tell me what you can see.”
The Courier cuts in. His voice comes from somewhere outside the frame of both cameras, cold and smooth.
“Careful, Sergei Baranov,” he says. “This is my favor, not your interrogation. You speak to your partner and child, but don’t try to turn this into a map session. If you push, I cut the line.”
Sergei’s mouth tightens. His eyes flick sideways, but he doesn’t look away from me.
“I thought you wanted to listen,” he says. “You should let her talk.”
“Oh, I’m listening,” the Courier says. “Every word. Every breath.”
I fix my gaze on Nadia.
“Little star,” I say, “do you remember the song I sing when we travel, the one about the little house and the white water and the tall trees?”
She nods at once. “The river house song.”
“Good,” I say. “Papa is right there. He’ll hear it too. I’m going to sing it now for you. We start with the old verse. Then we add some new words. Can you remember the new words for me? Can you keep them safe in your head and tell Papa all of them later?”
She straightens in his lap. “Yes,” she says. “I promise.”
I see Sergei’s eyes sharpen. The Courier doesn’t stop me. Maybe he thinks a lullaby is only a lullaby. I don’t waste time guessing.