Since Writers' Circle construction is going rather slowly, I decided to post up this chapter to give you guys something to chew on. I'll warn you all that the last section of this chapter will probably be edited drastically before it appears on WC, as it has several characterization issues that I've been meaning to take care of.
Chapter 14
Yekaterinburg
The annoying tinny ring of his cell phone raised Vladimir Iosevich out of his television-induced torpor and out of his chair. Cursing, he shuffled across the room to where his jacket was hanging on a hook, one of the outer pockets already glowing bright. Snatching the offending piece of technology out of his coat, he flipped it open, his eyebrows shooting up at the name on the display.
"What is it Roman?" he asked before the phone had even reached his ear.
"Uncle…" said the strained voice on the phone. "I need to ask you something."
"What is it?" snapped Vladimir, his silvery eyes glowing from the flickering TV, not enjoying the interruption of his nighttime channel surfing. Not that he had many better things to do at this time of night. That, and his young nephew never called unless he needed money. Or there was a problem. Which usually required him needing money. Something in his gut told him that it was the latter.
"Uncle…" Roman's voice was hushed, sounding almost scared. "Are there any negodyai?"
Vladimir felt his throat go dry. He hadn't heard that word in so long, except in his private thoughts. Negodyai. It's meaning had yet to change either. Black sheep. Outsider.
"Why?" he managed at last. Roman cleared his throat, taking a deep breath that hissed over the phone connection.
"U- Uncle, I- I - I -"
"You what Roman?!" demanded Vladimir, starting to pace the length of the room, his free hand shaking in irritation.
"I got a call from a girl," said Roman, sounding thoroughly shaken. "She – She asked if I wielded the Ability."
"What did you say to her?" gasped Vladimir, stopping dead.
"I hung up. I didn't know what else to do, Uncle."
Vladimir's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Did you check the number? It might have been Natasya playing a joke. If it was, she'd get in trouble for sure this time – such an irresponsible girl!"
"It's not her," replied Roman nervously. "I checked. It's a Petersburg number. Even Natasya's not that good."
"Did you record it?"
"Yes,"
"Good boy. What is it?"
Roman quickly rattled it off, sending Vladimir scrambling for a scrap of paper and a pen. "Hold on boy!" he cried as he scribbled it down.
"What should I do now, Uncle?"
"Stay where you are. If that girl calls again, find out who she is without revealing anything. Call me back if that happens."
"Okay," said Roman, sounding relieved. "What about you though? What are you going to do?"
"Leave that to me, boy," replied Vladimir heavily. "I must go now. Remember what I told you to do."
"I will, Uncle."
"Good." Vladimir snapped the phone shut, his heart pounding as he turned on his heel and strode through the apartment to his bedroom. Deep in the back of the wardrobe was a small, featureless safe. No dials or keyholes marred its surface. Poking the middle of the door, then measuring two finger-widths to the right to remind himself of where the mechanism was, he opened it with the merest flicker of his brow. Shuffling through a stack of documents within, he pulled out a long list of phone numbers.
Dialling the first one with his thumb, he brought the phone to his ear.
"Boris, it's Vova. We have a problem."
"He hung up before I could even ask him everything!" said Katya indignantly, putting down the phone. Timofey glanced up at her from across the table, his head propped up by one of his hands, frowning. "Really? He was the last on that list. Put him down as a maybe."
"Rude bastard," she muttered, underlining the name Rezanov, Roman Arkadevich. She paused for a moment, tilting her head. "RAR," she said, pronouncing it rawr. "Those are better initials than mine at any rate."
"Mine are TIM," replied Timofey with a wane smile as he slid another list across the table to her and checked the map he had been using. "Timofey Igorovitch Motkov."
"Cool," said Katya, taking a sip of coffee that Wickstrom had brought them both several hours ago. The bitter blend was now stone cold, but still drinkable. She had been in the consulate for three days, sleeping on a couch in a back room. Timofey had been going home to his apartment somewhere north of the city, where he lived with his parents. Neither of them, as far as Katya could tell, were sleeping well.
"I'm starting to wonder if this was a good idea," said Timofey wearily, scratching his head and breaking Katya out of her trance.
"It is a good idea! We've got leads."
"A list of four or five people."
"Four or five is better than nobody," replied Katya stubbornly, staring at the list. "Anyways, It feels better that we're doing something."
"Done what? I mean, I've ripped the online directories for Yekaterinburg to shreds," said Timofey. "And we've been accused of being pranksters, telemarketers and loonies. I think the only promising reaction was your rude guy. Try him again."
"Fine," sighed Katya, staring at the list. Timofey's messy handwriting slid out of focus, then back in and she quickly rubbed her eyes. "Goddamnit, I think I need glasses."
"You're tired," remarked Timofey without looking up, his voice coloured with sleepiness and concern.
"No shit, Sherlock," said Katya, dialling the number again. Timofey's answer sounded suspiciously like a snore. Looking up, she saw that the large boy had indeed fallen asleep on his map. Rolling her eyes, she waited as the phone rang.
Roman Arkadevich dove for the phone the moment it rang. Snatching it up, he fumbled and it slid out of his hands. He managed to halt its fall a few centimetres shy of the floor and bent low to retrieve it.
"Hello?"
"Roman Arkadevich?"
"Yes?"
"I – I called you earlier. I asked you something and you hung up, right?"
"Yes," Roman elected to sound dignified. Truth was, he was as nervous as hell. Oddly enough, the girl's voice on the other end of the line seemed no more confident than he was now. Uncle Vova had told him to stay on the line with her. What did that mean?
"I know it's a big thing to ask… I mean…"
"Who are you? How did you find me?" demanded Roman, panic suddenly taking control, then he kicked himself. Sure way to tip her off there. Act suspicious. Not that you didn't already wave a bloody flag, asshole.
"Katya. My name's Katya," replied the girl. Roman had the sudden image of someone small sitting on the other end of the line. For a second, he felt less threatened. Then he thought of his sister, and remembered even the smallest of people could be dangerous. The Katya girl registered his silence; "And I know you have it now. Don't worry. I know it's not something you can really admit to."
"I don't admit to anything" he replied.
"You don't have to."
"I could hang up again. You could be some creepy telemarketer."
"I'd keep calling. I really need your help…" her voice trailed off for a moment, and he heard a man's voice in the background, then Katya's muffled reply. There was a silence. Then the man spoke again, his voice indistinct. "… sure then? Tell him straight."
Katya took a deep breath that hissed over the line. "Okay," she said, though her tone made it clear to Roman what she wasn't speaking to him. He went to the window, wondering what to think. The ingrained fear of being seen – let alone an outright accusation - was making adrenaline sing through his body and it was all he could do to keep from pacing and chewing on his nails. It was situations like this when they had been told that it would be okay to kill someone. The underlying understanding being that if you didn't do the job yourself, someone would for you. It was enough to terrify even their boldest from entering into bets. Unbidden, Roman wondered if Vova had ever killed anyone. The thought of his irritable but uncommonly fair uncle doing something like that was hard to picture.
And now he was facing someone he didn't even know, let alone locate. Yet she knew enough to be someone he was supposed to kill on sight. The thought was making him shudder.
"I suppose you think I'm some conspiracy nut or some government thing," said Katya softly.
"Don't forget the mad journalist approach," added the man's voice in the background, dripping with defeated sarcasm. "Or a scientist out to pick apart their brains like Nikolai said."
Katya chuckled weakly. "Ignore Timofey," she said. Roman didn't dare ignore anything at this point.
"How many are you?" he demanded. It's more than just her. Fuck!
Katya was quiet for a moment. "There's two of us here."
"No no no, how many in total? How many people know?"
"Um… five, I think. No, wait… seven. Seven people."
Roman nearly fainted. "Seven?" he said weakly. Uncle Vova was not going to like this. Not one bit. No one was going to. As far back as he could remember, things had never gotten so out of hand. Nothing this bad in fifteen or sixteen years. Not since before the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
Katya sniffed. "Yeah," she said in a choked voice. "Used to be eight, but they got Mom."
"They got mom?" repeated Roman blankly.
"The guys who grabbed us. Rezanov's men. They… They killed her."
Roman froze, his ears ringing as though he had been hit over the head with a frying pan. "Who?"
"Grigory Rezanov," said Katya. "He wants my brother to do something for him. He killed Mom and he was going to kill me. But I got out and he got Cori instead. So now Kolya's trapped and there isn't anything we can do to get him out. We really need help. Please… can you do something?"
Roman blinked, struggling to grasp the thread of clues that had been woven, struggling to pull them together and make sense of what he was hearing. Grigory Rezanov. He had seen that name before, in charts and heard it in talk, among some of the older men. He'd heard it on the news too. But Rezanov wasn't exactly an uncommon name. Could they be one and the same?
He felt a vibration deep in one of his pockets. Pulling out his cell phone, he saw a message blinking on the screen.
We're coming. Keep talking. V.I.R.
Bolstered by the thought that he wasn't going to be alone for much longer, he managed to find his voice. "How do you know about us?"
"I – I don't really know anything," said Katya, a sob escaping her. "Mom and Kolya never told me anything. I don't know – I don't know why they didn't trust me. They never talked about Papa, about anything! I wouldn't have told anyone. I know how to keep secrets. Papa would have told me. I know he would have. I mean… he wouldn't have pretended I was too little to know anything, would have he? Would he?"
She was crying now, so much that Roman could barely understand her. "I mean, I didn't ask. I couldn't. I don't know. I just couldn't…." her voice trailed off for a few minutes. Roman couldn't think of anything to say, until finally, she spoke again; "I just want to help my brother…. And I can't."
"I don't know if I can either," said Roman, without thinking, then back-pedalled when he heard another sob. God, he hated it when girls cried. "Wait wait! I mean I don't know if I myself can help."
"The others might?" There was a hopeful note in Katya's voice. Roman nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "Maybe," he said cautiously. "I don't know enough."
"W-what do you need to know?"
"To put it frankly, everything. Starting with how you found out about it, to where your brother is right now."
"How I found out about it?" said Katya, sounding confused.
"Every detail."
"Um… I've always known. Like about it."
Roman's eyebrows shot up. "How?"
"Kolya's always had it. For as long as I can remember. He got it from Papa."
Something occurred to Roman. "What's your name? Your full name?"
"Ekaterina Maximovna Krichevstova."
Roman blinked, feeling too startled to speak. Suddenly, he understood. He had no clear memories of what had happened – he had been only four or so – but the story had been told often enough, a cautionary tale about what could happen if your loyalties shifted to the outsiders. If you turned your back on your family. Maxim Krichevstov had done just that – deserting the community for the fading love of some outsider and he had corrupted his brother, Andrei and his best friend – Vova's cousin Grisha - into deserting also. The details were sketchy after that – varying slightly from person to person, but the general consensus was that they had all met bad ends. But now…. That had evidently not been the case.
"Do you have it also?" he asked quietly.
"No," said Katya. "Only my brother. And all he knows is what Papa taught him."
"How….What happened to Maxim?"
"He's dead," she replied shakily. "Murdered when I was four."
Roman winced. "And your brother?"
"I think Kolya was seven then."
"And what's happened since then?"
And Katya told him, detailing her life from her father's murder onwards. She was just telling him about being captured when Vova stormed in, followed by several members of the elders council that Roman vaguely recognized from meetings and his early training and two people he knew right away.
"Lev!" he said, startled. "You're back from Moscow!"
Vova made a violent shushing motion and Lev wisely nodded in reply, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. Behind him, Anna favoured Roman with a friendly nod.
"She's still on the phone?" hissed Vova. Roman gave him a thumbs up.
"Who are you talking to?" asked Katya on the other end of the line.
Roman hesitated for a moment. "A friend," he answered carefully.
"Who is it?" demanded Vova again. "You've been talking to her this long, surely you know her name."
Roman grimaced. "One second," he told Katya and covered the phone's mouthpiece, turning to face the rest of them, who were crowded around him in a semi-circle, their faces varying from drawn and anxious to downright angry. "Her name's Katya," he said, hesitating for a moment before he dropped the bombshell. "She's Maxim Krichevstov's daughter."
Dead silence. They all stared at him.
"You can't be serious," whispered Boris Olegevich, their commander, running a hand through his thinning curly hair. "Max died over ten years ago. His family too. It has to be a lie."
"They went into hiding," said Roman. "They've been living in America for the past four years at least."
"Why'd they do that?" said another member irritably – Fyodor, his name was, remembered Roman.
Vova rounded on him. "It's not like you lot would have let them return here even if they were still alive!" he snapped. Fyodor glared back at him, his frown deepening. "They aren't," he said.
"But I'm talking to her right now," protested Roman. "It's her. She just wants us to help her brother. He's one of us."
"He has the Ability?" asked Boris, frowning.
Roman nodded, glancing up at the tall man.
"It can't be true," said Kirill, one of the other members. "Max married that woman. Their babies sure wouldn't have had it! Whoever this girl is, she knows too much. She should be eliminated."
"We don't know that Kirill!" snapped Boris, glowering at him. "We need to find out how the fuck this girl knows this stuff before we do anything. Where is she calling from?"
"Saint Petersburg," said Vova.
"Where in Saint Petersburg?" demanded Boris. Roman and Vova shrugged. "We have the number though," said Roman and rattled it off.
Boris pointed to the computer desk that was in the corner of Roman's apartment. "Lev, get on it."
Lev nodded, pushing his long hair out of his face as he sat down and tapped the mouse. Roman's screensaver vanished, leaving a password box. Lev raised an eyebrow. "The usual one?" he asked. Roman nodded.
The others crowded around Lev as he began his hunt, while Roman took the opportunity to uncover the phone.
"You still there?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Katya. "What's happening over there?"
"People showed up," he replied, shrugging.
"They don't really want to help, do they?" she asked. Roman blinked. She was quick.
"We'll see," he replied neutrally. At the moment, he had no idea which way things would swing. Turning back to face the group, he saw that most of the older men were crowded around Lev, impatiently tapping their feet or checking their watches. Uncle Vova had hung back and was talking to Anna in a low voice. The older woman was nodding slowly, her lips pursed. Roman wondered what he was telling her.
"Got it," said Lev suddenly and Roman quickly muffled the phone's receiver. "It's an extension from the American Consulate in St. Petersburg."
Boris turned on Roman. "Is that where she is? Ask her – wait – Does that phone have a speaker?"
Roman nodded.
"Put her on," ordered Boris. Roman obliged. "Katya, you're on the speaker. Everyone can hear you."
"Oh…. Okay," said Katya's voice, crackling as Roman turned up the volume.
"What's your name, girl? Your full name?"
"Ekaterina Maximovna Krichevstova," replied Katya. "Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter who I am right now," said Boris gruffly, sounding slightly put off. "Right now, you're going to tell me exactly what's going on. Do not leave anything out."
For the second time, Katya recited her story, her voice getting progressively softer and more hoarse until Boris abruptly ordered her to go drink something halfway through before her voice deserted her entirely.
It was interesting to watch the effect of Katya's words had on the men who had intimidated Roman most of his life. Some, like Kirill, had a stubborn set to their jaws, their thoughts showing plainly on their faces. It was an intricate web of a conspiracy, meant to lure them out of the comfortable hiding places they'd established for themselves as 'normal' citizens, below the net of the government's radar. Others, like Boris and Vova, were clearly on the fence. Details that Katya was providing obviously had struck some uncomfortable chords with them, but suspicion was one thing that had kept them all alive in a past that Roman was too young to remember. Anna was looking solemn, but Roman could see Katya had gotten through to her also. She wasn't as set in her ways as the older council members. Glancing at Lev, Roman noticed with some surprise that his friend was having trouble deciding who to believe. It wasn't an obvious thing – he looked as calm as ever – but the way his eyes slowly shifted back and forth was enough. Then, just as Roman had noticed his momentary lapse in decisiveness, Lev arrived at his conclusion.
"I think she's telling the truth," he said suddenly. All the older men swung around to look at him, their shoulders squaring. Roman caught a look from Vova and turned off the speaker phone.
"What makes you say that?" said Kirill. "Know something we don't?"
Lev shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "But her story makes sense."
"No it doesn't!" repeated Kirill insistently. "It's all fabricated. God knows where she may have heard all of this!"
"From her mother and brother?" replied Lev pointedly. Kirill shot him a look that would have made Roman quail inside, but Lev held his ground. "No one could know that without knowing someone who lived here," he continued, motioning to the phone. Shifty, suspicious looks filtered around the room.
"He's not saying any one of us was a traitor," snapped Vova irritably. "Lev Leonidevich has a point. We didn't keep tabs on Max after he left. I don't know what we were thinking back then. Maybe we weren't thinking a damn thing and now it's come back to bite us in the ass. Truth or not, this has to be investigated thoroughly. I'll lead the team that does it."
A murmur passed the old men and a few of them nodded, Boris included. "Very well then," he said, pointedly ignoring Kirill's sputtering protests. "Vova, you're team leader, with Anna as your second. Take Roman – he knows the girl and Lev knows his way around."
"Why the hell is Anna Petrovna the second?" demanded Lev, sitting up straight.
"To keep you lot in line," snapped Anna, a ghost of a smile belying her tone. Lev's disgruntled expression was enough to make Roman smile inwardly.
"But -"
"Shut up," said Vova sharply. Lev drew back like a wounded animal, folding his arms across his chest and retreating behind a dark scowl as Boris sent him on a virtual errand to buy plane tickets for the four of them.
"What's going on?" asked Katya in a small voice in Roman's ear and he jumped. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here," he replied. "To be truthful, I'm not sure what's going on."
"Are they going to help…?" she asked, sounding cautiously hopeful. Roman looked around the room, evaluating each person. His eyes lingered on Boris Olegevich, who caught his eye and shook his head. Don't tell her.
"The Elders have to think about it," said Roman at last. "We'll get back to you."
"Oh…" Katya's disappointment was palpable. "Okay… Thank you though…for listening, at least."
"No problem," replied Roman faintly.
Click. Roman slowly hung up. Behind him, he could hear Boris and Kirill arguing in low voices. It was a strange thing he had noticed among the older men and women – while quite often at odds with one another on various issues, the Elders rarely shouted or lost their tempers with each other. Even when he had been growing up, arguments had been carefully regulated among the children. A special precaution among those who had the strength to back up every word they said.
"I hope you don't have any classes," said Vova, sidling up to him. Roman jumped, startled out of his thoughts. "What?"
"We're going to be gone for a week at least," continued Vova. "Figure out what you are going to do for your classes. Anyways, I'll clear this lot out."
It took nearly an hour to get the dozen or so men out of Roman's apartment, leaving only Lev, who still had a black cloud hovering over his head. The moment the last of them had stepped across the threshold, Lev exploded.
"Fuck, Boris Olegevich knows I've been trying to get a command for ages! Why'd Anna get the job?"
"Uncle Vova probably asked her along to do it. He trained her and he….doesn't exactly trust you."
"What's not to trust, damnit? I've been doing assignments for those old bastards for months! Every time they want me somewhere, off I go! No complaints! Lev, go to Samara and pick up this thing! Lev, go to Petersburg and do that! Lev, go to Moscow and clear out the records! Lev! Come fix my fucking computer, because I'm an old fart who can't even figure out how to turn the damn thing on! I don't even complain, fuck it! I keep my head down and do the job and -"
Roman rolled his eyes. "I don't think I've ever heard you do something you don't like without complaining," he said. "At least you got on the team. They're harder than solo."
"Fuck your reasonableness," snapped Lev, scowling. "I was just getting to the best part and it's not like you know anything about it."
"I know enough," replied Roman, grimacing as he headed towards his room. "I'm going to hit the sack. Lock the door behind you when you leave - the usual – and don't touch the cake-thing in the fridge. Mum's saving that for something and she said she'd flay me alive if any of you lot got at it before she gets back."
"Whatever," said Lev without looking back.
Nikolai could swear they were taunting him. They had left a window open in the apartment's kitchen, one that – if one happened to poke their head out it – one could have an unrestricted view to the street seven stories below. Not that he'd actually jump. But it was a tempting idea.
Shifting his chair so that he could face the window and the blue sky beyond, he reshuffled the stacks of maps and drawings in front of him, shaking his head. Somehow Rezanov had managed to get his hands on detailed topographical maps of Strelna and the Konstantin Palace. There were architectural drawings for the buildings, detailed charts for the movements of various guards, the itineraries of nearly all the heads of state – even a map detailing which snipers had clear shots to where. Whether these were copies of official documents that had been given him due to security contracts or something Rezanov had managed to compile on his own over the years, Nikolai did not know. But the sheer wealth of the information sitting in front of him ensured that even the men guarding him were wary about drinking coffee at the same table.
Coffee stains were not something that would go over well with the higher-ups, Nikolai had quickly gathered.
"Day dreaming?" said a harsh voice. Nikolai's head snapped around to face the oldest of his captors, a man called Varuschenko. Nikolai matched his scowl and made a point of reshuffling the papers once again. "No."
"Get back to work," snapped Varuschenko, shuffling across the kitchen to the fridge and pulling out a carton of yoghurt. Nikolai eyed the container, grimacing. He wasn't allowed to eat when he was studying the documents, for the risk of ruining them by an accidental spill. Not that he was actually studying them anymore. He had had them thoroughly memorized yesterday. But letting them think he was still struggling with them put them off pulling out whatever else they wanted him to learn for now.
Returning his attention to a diagram of the Konstantin Palace, he went back to plotting escape routes. Working with the guard outline, he had managed to formulate a few plausible ones, though it was a challenge to memorize them, because they were something he couldn't write down and quiz himself with, not even in English, which he had quickly discovered two of the four men (all of whom seemed to be former academics) could read. Varuschenko himself spoke Ukrainian and German as well and was more suspicious than himself.
It was strange, the amount of freedom he had been given, despite not being able to leave the apartment. He had noticed upon arriving that there weren't any phones or televisions in the apartment. Nor was there a computer. The only communication device that his captors seemed to have was a cell phone that was attached to Varuschenko's belt by a length of metal wire. The man never removed it and didn't sleep in the apartment like the other three.
"Hey boss, he's getting that look again," remarked Stanislav, footsteps announcing his arrival. Nikolai rolled his eyes.
"What look?" snapped Varuschenko, wheeling around and glowering at them both through narrowed eyes.
"Like he's getting ideas," said Stanislav, leaning on the door frame. Nikolai winced, turning around to look at the youngest of his captors – a thickset, bespectacled and unemployed man of Siberian origin. "Too many of those and I don't get my payoff."
"If you'd done your job properly Slava, you wouldn't need your goddamned payoff," muttered Nikolai.
Stanislav smirked. "And leave you with somebody nicer than me? I don't think so."
"Or maybe, I could be blessed with the company of someone with a shred of intelligence."
"Blessed my ass, you don't understand these old duffers either."
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING OLD?" shouted Vitaly from the next room.
"Did I say old? I meant impotent."
"Why you -!" The loud scraping of an armchair announced Vitaly's sudden appearance, filling the doorway.
"Shut it, both of you or I'll knock you both so hard that both your mothers will still be turning in their graves in fifty years!" Varuschenko had had enough.
Nikolai choked, his retort dying in his throat with a wheeze. Giving himself over to a coughing fit as he struggled to breathe, tried to keep the pinprick tears in his eyes at bay.
"What's wrong with you, boy?" said Vitaly
"Nothing," growled Nikolai, not looking up. He bit his tongue, the physical sting doing little to distract from the tightness in his chest. But it was something. Enough to keep him from throwing them all into the nearest wall. If he did anything to them, they wouldn't even have to pull a gun. It wouldn't be him who suffered.
"Ne trogai eto!"
Cori jumped at the admonition, nearly dropping the glass butterfly paperweight that she had picked up off the shelf above Elena's desk to look at. The woman blanched, leaping forward with an agility that Cori would have never expected from someone her age and snatched the precious piece out of her hands, placing it lovingly back on the shelf.
After a stern look and another forceful "Ne trogai!", Cori was left to her own devices again with a new phrase to add to her small foreign vocabulary. 'Ne trogai' means don't do that, I guess.
Four days in Rezanov's captivity hadn't been as bad as she thought it could have been. The language barrier was getting to be a trial though and it wasn't like she could do much to shake off her bodyguard shadow anyways. He was as devoted as a bulldog. Stefan always seemed to be nearby as well, turning up at the most random moments. The man seemed to have a sixth sense about when he was needed for anything. When his presence wasn't required, he seemed perfectly content to disappear into his office and not speak to anyone.
Sighing, Cori resigned herself to the collection of magazines that she'd filched from various places around the office. The annoying thing about magazines though was that, even if they had been in English, she'd have had trouble reading them. At least here in Russia, she had an excuse to just look at the pictures. Picking up one from the pile she'd established, she hunkered down on the floor to look at it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw BNT shuffle several feet to the side of his post at the door, to keep her in sight.
It didn't take her long to realize that another set of shoes had arrived and that they were polished well enough that she could see her reflection in them. Hello Stefan… she thought, glancing up to meet his eyes. The thought didn't quite translate into speech though. Not many of them did anymore.
"Grigory Iakovitch wants to speak to you," he said quietly.
Cori felt a start of surprise and more than a little bit of fear. Rezanov had ignored her completely since he had last spoken to her. Half of it, she gratefully chalked up to just the workload of someone who ran a company. He and Stefan would still be working when she bedded down on the couch in the break room at night and they would be there, fully dressed and still going full throttle when she woke up in the morning. If hadn't been for the time she had seen Rezanov leaving several times during the day, only to return an hour or so later, she would have thought he lived in his offices. Stefan, she still wasn't sure about.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and followed Stefan out of the room, anxiety rising with every step. She had been off the radar ever since she had asked the about Ira. It wasn't a comfort to suddenly be on it again. Stefan held Rezanov's door open for her.
"She's here, Boss," he said as Cori tiptoed past him.
"Spasiba, Stefan," murmured Rezanov, motioning to one of the chairs across from his desk.
Stefan nodded and vanished, leaving Cori to edge towards the chair that Rezanov had indicated and sit down. As the minutes went by, Cori was startled to discover that she felt a lot calmer than she thought she would have been. Rezanov was still working on something on his computer, frowning at something on the screen, the hollows in his exhausted face illuminated by the glow. He looked like he hadn't slept properly for days. Recalling his late nights, Cori suddenly realized that that was probably the truth.
Looking around the office, she could suddenly see how austere it was. It was decorated well and the furniture felt expensive, but beyond a few paintings and some old fashioned looking books on the far wall, it was a far cry from even the rather Spartan office that her father maintained. Dad has pictures of us everywhere, in those black frames.
"Were all your pictures at your other office?" The question came out without warning.
"Pictures?" said Rezanov, glancing over at her with raised eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"Like, pictures… of your family?" As Cori said the last bit, she realized she didn't even know if he had one. She hoped he did, as a repeat of their previous meeting was not something she really wanted to go through with again.
Rezanov glanced around his office, as if this was the first time he had noticed it properly. "I had a few at the other office," he replied curtly, before his attention pointedly was reverted back to his computer.
"So how'd you end up like this then?"
Rezanov looked up, looking faintly annoyed. "Like this?"
"Like this," repeated Cori emphatically, waving at the huge office space and its expensive furniture. "Didn't you used to be some sort of secret agent?"
Rezanov fixed her with a patronizing smirk. "Secret agent? My, I wasn't aware you knew my history."
Cori grimaced. "I don't. But I know Nick's dad did stuff like that and that you were his friend, right?"
Rezanov fixed her with an inscrutable look. "You're one for asking about things you know nothing about."
Something in his tone made Cori wary about replying. She gave a helpless shrug. Silence stretched out and Cori tugged on a loose thread at the end of her shirt. She wanted to ask why she was here. What was going on. But the words never surfaced out loud. Why would Grigory Rezanov want to see her in his office if he was just going to ignore her? Cori yawned and realized she was tired. She wanted to sleep. But that wasn't possible here. It was hard to sleep when you were wary even about how much you breathed.
"Hmmm…" said Rezanov, making Cori look up. He was sitting back in his chair, deftly manipulating the mouse. After a moment, the computer dimmed and he thumbed a lamp that sat on the corner of his desk, suddenly throwing the room into a sharp, golden relief. His face wasn't as pale now, but the shadows were more prominent and his grey eyes had mirrored the lamp's warm glow.
"I suppose I must apologize for my rudeness now and a few days ago. The past few days have been somewhat more stressful than usual."
"I…you mean – What?" said Cori, feeling her eyes go wide. Had she really just heard that?
A flicker of annoyance darted across Rezanov's face. "As you can understand, and probably had a hand in, my headquarters was damaged extensively. Several of my employees were injured as well and one was killed, and if it were not for the work I have, along with supervision of the clean up and repairs and checking up on their families, I'm sure I would have spent more time in discussion with you." The last bit held the bite of sarcasm.
Cori gaped at him, her mind feeling blank. Where did from? It's like a complete turn around.
"How many…?" she said faintly.
"Were injured? Ten. The last one was found dead – Mikhail Sergeevich, I believe his name was…" He trailed off as Cori's throat closed, tears welling up in her eyes. If Cori had been able to see straight, she would have noticed something had occurred to him, but she was lost again as her stomach turned, choking her, making her gasp.
"So it was not an incident of friendly fire," said Rezanov. Unable to speak or meet his eye, Cori hung her head.
"I'd turn you in to the militia," he continued, his voice hard. "But you're privy to far too much information at the moment."
Cori's head snapped up, outrage suddenly surging through her body. "Us both! It's not like it's just me! I didn't want to hurt him! I didn't want to…. I didn't want to -" She tried to hold back sobs, the words cracking as her throat constricted even more.. "I didn't want to….kill him….. but I don't suppose ….we could say…the same for you?"
Rezanov met her gaze squarely. "That is different."
"Different! What are you now? Above the law? Killing someone's okay because you did it?"
"I'm no more above the law than I am above justice. Justice is my law," replied Rezanov softly.
"So killing Nick and Katie's mom was justice? What did she ever do to you?" shouted Cori, slamming her hands down on Rezanov's desk.
"Sit down and lower your voice."
"Why the hell should I?!" demanded Cori angrily. "At least I feel bad! At least I know I'm guilty of something! But you! You just sit there like you have every fucking right to do whatever the fuck you please! Not above the law, my ass!"
"Corinne. Sit. Down."
Cori stared at him, shaking with rage. "Go -"
"I have employees who I would rather did not hear this conversation," snapped Rezanov. "I would prefer if they kept their deniability intact by virtue of not knowing anything suspicious to begin with."
"So…. You don't want them to know what you've done to Nick and his family then? Glad I can help you keep your reputation squeaky clean," hissed Cori, stepping back and crossing her arms. She wasn't about to sit down. She was short enough as is. But something in Rezanov's expression made her voice drop. His mouth twisted and his eyes narrowed and he clasped his hands together, in a way that Cori knew would turn them white. He seemed to be fighting some deep set emotion, his expression flickering between a semblance of calm and outrage. The glitter in his eyes was familiar. Cori took another step back, and then another, until her calves met the chair and she dropped into it. Fear had rightfully reasserted itself. She bit her lip as Rezanov wrestled himself into his mask.
"You both defend and condemn those who you do not know," he said at last. "Who are you to accuse me of wrong before you understand? How can you be so certain the family you defend is guiltless?"
Cori said nothing, her stomach twisting, her head spinning as the words sunk in. They didn't do anything! Nick is innocent. Katya… Ira… Innocent. They didn't do anything. But they didn't. They didn't do anything. They don't deserve this. I… I…don't… I do. I did something. I killed him. I killed Mikhail…. And if I could do that….
Shaking her head in disbelief, she rubbed her eyes and found wetness… the tears were flowing freely. "No… no….I don't believe it…"
"Don't believe it? Don't believe what?" replied Rezanov.
"I mean…" Cori shook her head again. "I mean… I didn't want to. Nick didn't do anything… and Katya…. They couldn't do that. They couldn't do anything like that. I mean…" she trailed off when she saw Rezanov shake his head in reply, her thread unravelling, her hope floating away - a wispy strand, already hard to cling to.
"Kolya's no more innocent than you, Corinne," said Rezanov calmly. Cori swallowed hard, remembering Nick's haunted face. The pain she could sense as she sat next to him. The pain she could feel within herself…. the pain the scarred the face of the frail man before her. She couldn't answer. Did she have a right to say anything now?
Hopefully this made you guys happy... or distressed? I wouldn't be sure. Drop me a review to share your opinion:D