Page 14 of Cruel Demands

“You hear too much.”

“My staff speaks to your staff. Occasionally, government functions.”

Mama mouths, Is she married? I stare at her, and she repeats it silently, slower this time, as if I have lost the ability to understand Russian along with my patience.

I turn slightly away from her.

Olga says, “I think I have finally figured you out.”

The toast stops halfway to my mouth. My thoughts narrow immediately. What has she found? A name? An account? A contractor who speaks too freely when frightened? Something left behind by my father that I failed to bury deeply enough?

Olga is inconvenient, but inconvenience alone is not a reason to kill a minister.

Exposure would be.

If she has uncovered the organization, there are steps before death. Pressure. Compromise. A private conversation about the fragility of careers and reputations. If those fail, removal remains an option.

Not desirable.

Viable.

“What do you believe you have figured out?” I ask.

“You are not really the backward statesman you pretend to be.”

The tension leaves my shoulders so subtly that only Mama notices. Her gaze sharpens.

I place the toast back onto my plate.

Olga sounds pleased with herself. “You stand at podiums and talk about tradition and fiscal discipline as though school lunches will bring down the state. Then you quietly approve my entire budget.”

“Not your entire budget.”

“Ninety-four percent.”

“The remaining six was sentimental nonsense.”

“It was arts funding.”

“As I said.”

Mama gives me a look of disgust. I lift one shoulder.

“You approved enough,” Olga says. “And the hospitals. And now the salaries.”

“I have not approved the salary increase.”

“Yet.”

“You are very confident for a woman who has called to beg.”

“I called to thank you.”

“You called to confirm that I am secretly kinder than I appear.”

“And are you?”

“No.”