Page 84 of Cruel Demands

“Work faster.”

He nods.

I open the door.

Arkady taps the gray folder lightly with one finger. “You read this very carefully.”

“That is the purpose of a report.”

“Of course.”

I reach back for my briefcase.

“But you⁠—”

I look at him. His almost-black eyes are shining with pleasure, and I know before he opens his mouth that I am going to hate whatever comes next.

“You read it like a love letter.”

I slam the door.

There is nothing romantic about surveillance. Nothing tender about knowing the balance of a woman’s bank account or the route she walks home at night. Information is protection. Information is power. Information is the difference between anticipating danger and cleaning blood from the floor afterward.

I tell myself this several times before entering the building. It remains true even when it sounds less convincing each time.

By lunchtime, I have signed eleven documents, sat through two meetings, rejected an infrastructure proposal that should never have reached my desk, and received three increasingly impatient messages from Arkady about Orlov’s people.

I answer none of them immediately.

Taylor leaves at twelve thirty with Viktoriya and Dima. I know because I see them from the corridor as I return from a meeting.

I do not ask where they are going. That would be absurd.

They return less than an hour later.

Pavel’s car is still pulled near the entrance because he has returned with documents from another office, and their taxi stops behind it. Viktoriya gets out first, copper-red hair catching what little light the Moscow afternoon provides. Dima follows her, and Taylor climbs out last, holding a paper cup and laughing at something Viktoriya has said.

They look considerably more alive than they did the morning after the bar.

Viktoriya is wearing Dima’s scarf.

I notice that. I understand what it means.

Dima is looking at her as they walk.

I notice that too.

Taylor steps around the back of the taxi and catches her shoe on a ridge of packed, dirty snow. Dima moves without thinking. One hand closes around her elbow. The other lands at her waist. Taylor lets out a bright trill of surprise and embarrassment before laughing.

For one clean, vicious second, I imagine taking Dima by the back of the neck and introducing his face to the roof of the taxi. The thought is so immediate that my hand actually flexes at my side.

It is absurd.

He caught her. That is all.

Viktoriya is beside him wearing his scarf. I know who he looks at when he thinks no one is paying attention. I have watched him smile across the office at Viktoriya often enough to understand where his interest lies.

None of it matters.