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They hadn’t known in advance where they were going to meet with Sinaver, as he’d said only that he would send a car to pick them up. She’d expected to end up in Sevastopol at a government building. Instead, they were in the lush, hilly countryside halfway between the resort and Sevastopol, driving up to a multistory building of white stone in the center of grassy lawns dotted with copses of trees. The long driveway passed through an iron gate in the wall that circled the property.
If they’d been in England, she’d call this a country estate. At home, she’d just call it a mansion.
The building was pleasingly symmetrical, with the entrance in the center, a porte-cochère shading the front steps and door. It was Italianate in style, with tall columns and elongated vertical windows. A low decorative wall edged the flat roof, the stone railing matching the railing of the balconies on the second floor.
“I wonder how many bedrooms it has,” Dahlia said, loudly enough the driver would hear, even if he didn’t understand the question.
Vadisk leaned forward to the driver, having a quick conversation in Russian. Her question did what she’d hoped—prompted a normally silent Vadisk to translate, and the answer would help determine if this was a massive private residence or a remote government office.
Dahlia and Montana were seated behind Vadisk, who was in the center row, so she pulled out her phone, keeping it on her knee, and typed a quick translation of Vadisk’s conversation into her notes app so Montana could read it.
Driver confirmed it’s a private residence. Sinaver’s house. But also the headquarters of the Crimean Security Force.
As Minister of the Interior, he would have to have an office in a government building, and the fact that he’d brought them to his house instead could mean several different things.
It could be that since she’d told him she was filming an episode about the impact of tourism, and he’d been affected by the closure of the resort when he was a child—a clearly personal issue—he felt it more appropriate to speak at his private residence.
That was the best-case scenario.
She didn’t want to think about the other, less-ideal scenarios. They’d spent more than enough time discussing them when she got a reply to her email late last night. Vadisk and Montana had argued pros and cons, discussed safety measures, and then argued some more even though they were both saying the same thing. They needed to vent their worry and fears, so she’d let them, while she made a list of carefully worded questions.
Given that they were at a private residence, she was especially glad she had one of the boxes of chocolates tucked into her satchel with her camera equipment.
Their plan was for her to ask questions and guide the conversation, getting as much information as possible without risking a confrontation. Vadisk would watch for trouble, and step in to help distract Sinaver only if needed, as they didn’t want Sinaver to pay too much attention to him. Montana would get them access to Sinaver’s phone, and they’d discussed exactly what he’d need to do so she knew what kind of opportunities they were trying to create. If they could mirror his phone, and see what he was doing, including who he was calling, they would have interesting…and dangerous…options for getting the information they needed.
When she proposed that particular idea, Montana and Vadisk were united in their outrage at her willingness to take risks.
It was so nice to see her boys working together…
The van pulled to a stop. Vadisk got out first, standing off to the side as Montana offered her a hand to help step down. Dahlia adjusted her satchel full of camera equipment, smoothing the strap along her shoulder.
The driver looked at Vadisk, speaking to him, though his words were clearly meant for her. He’d never been taught to look at the person you were talking to, not the translator.
Vadisk translated. “He says that Minister Abduramanov is in a meeting right now, but he’ll take us inside to wait. You can’t film until you see Minister Abduramanov.”
Dahlia smiled. “Of course, thank you for being our guide.”
The inside of the house was distinctly less grand than the outside. Not that it wasn’t well maintained, more that the same attention to detail that had gone into the Italianate architecture wasn’t evident in the decor or furnishings. Through a doorway on the left, she could see into a large room that had probably been meant as some sort of formal drawing room at some point, but was now filled with ugly metal desks and men wearing urban camo.
Montana leaned in, whispering in her ear. “Look at their feet.”
It took her a minute, but she realized what he was pointing out. None of them had matching shoes. Some wore what looked like military-issue lace-up boots, some wore trainers, and one was even in slides. Any official military or law enforcement group would have had uniforms that included matching footwear.
Her heart beat hard and fast as they passed the headquarters of the Crimean Security Force. If something went wrong with this interview, Sinaver—whom she needed to remember to call Minister Abduramanov, even though they’d been referring to him by his first name in discussions—had a lot of manpower at his disposal.
They were led upstairs, turned left, and ended in an elegant room with inelegant office furniture, including two hardwood chairs facing the laminate desk. Vadisk stood off to the side, leaning against the wall, while she and Montana sat.
Dahlia and Montana engaged in bland small talk in English while they waited, only because if someone was watching or listening, sitting in silence would have been even weirder.
They all heard the footsteps, and Vadisk and Montana both tensed. Dahlia laced her fingers with Montana’s, and he relaxed back into his chair.
The door opened and an older man with silver hair entered. The one photo—besides the one of him as a young teen—they’d been able to find was at least twenty years old, and showed a man with brown hair and lines around his eyes that weren’t as deep as those on the man striding toward the desk.
Dahlia and Montana rose as he approached. She stepped forward with a smile, holding eye contact. “Minister Sinaver Abduramanov, thank you so much for meeting with me.”
Vadisk translated her greeting.
“It is nice to meet you, Dahlia McKean,” he said in Russian.
