Page 62 of Boardroom Mask

I stand and shake her hand with a firm grip. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sorokina. Thanks for coming down.”

“Of course.” She very pointedly doesn’t invite me to join her anywhere. “Unfortunately, Mr. Lazarev’s schedule is completely full today. And for the foreseeable future, frankly. But I’m happyto take down the details of your request and pass it along to the appropriate team.”

I know the game we’re playing, and so does Vera here. We both know that that’s what she’s supposed to say, and I’m supposed to answer that she’s a damn fool if she thinks I’ll give up that easily.

“I’d really prefer to speak with someone from the CEO’s office directly,” I try.

“I understand. But all press inquiries go through my department first. That’s just how we do things here.” Her smile doesn’t budge. “If you can give me a sense of what the story’s about, I can make sure it gets to the right people.”

I pull out my notebook, more for show than anything else. “I’m working on a piece about Lazarev Global’s corporate structure. Specifically, some questions around subsidiary holdings and property acquisitions in the New York area. I’d love to get the company’s perspective.”

Vera doesn’t flinch. “We’re always happy to provide comment on our business operations through the proper channels. If you email me your questions, I’ll coordinate with our legal and executive teams and get back to you within a reasonable timeframe.”

“A reasonable timeframe being…?”

“That depends on the nature of the questions.”

“And if I told you the story has a tight deadline?”

“I’d say we’ll do our best to accommodate that, but I can’t make promises on behalf of the executive team’s availability.” She tilts her head. “You’re welcome to send everything to my email. I’ll make sure it lands on the right desk.”

She’s good. Every answer is polite and completely useless. She’s a wall made of pleasantries, and she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Is there anyone else I could speak with today?” I persist. “Even informally?”

“I’m afraid not. But I do have a card.” She produces one from her jacket pocket and holds it out. “My email’s on there.”

I take the card. “Thanks. I’ll be in?—”

I stop mid-sentence because a man just stepped out from behind the turnstiles on the far side of the lobby. He has dark hair, swept back off his forehead. In his light gray suit, he looks like his limbs go on forever, like he could easily reach up and touch the atrium ceiling above us. It’s his posture and attitude that stand out most of all, though. He moves through the world like he owns every square inch of it.

Probably because he does.

Because that’s Kir Lazarev.

Vera follows my gaze and her composure dips. “Oh,” she says regretfully. “What an odd coincidence. That’s Mr. Lazarev now.”

I watch him walk, like he stepped down out of the portrait and came to life. He hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s still talking to the man in glasses at his side, who is nodding rapidly at whatever Kir is saying.

“Ms. Pierce,” calls Vera, “I really do think the best course of action would be to?—”

“Absolutely,” I agree, already moving past her. “But since he’s right there, I might as well just introduce myself. Save everyone a step.”

Vera makes a small, strangled noise behind me, but I’m two steps ahead of her as I stride across the lobby floor. The CEO of the company I’m investigating just walked into my line of sight like a gift from the journalism gods, and I’m not about to let Vera Sorokina and herreasonable timeframestand between me and a face-to-face with Kir Lazarev.

I’m rehearsing the opening line in my head. Something casual but direct.Mr. Lazarev, I’m Jillian Pierce with the Times, I’d love just two minutes of your time.Keep it short. Keep it friendly. Don’t spook him.

I’m maybe fifteen feet away when Kir turns.

Nottowardme, butaway. He angles his body to face the man in glasses more fully, and as he does, his head leans to the right and his collar shifts. The back of his neck is exposed above the line of his shirt.

What I see there kills me in my tracks.

There are scratches. Four of them, raised and scabbed and angry red against his skin, running in parallel lines from just below his hairline down past the collar. They’re fresh. A day old, maybe two. The skin around them is still irritated, still healing.

Iknowthose scratches.

I know them becauseI’m the one who made them.