Page 45 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“You look cheerful,” I say.

Yuri is brilliant with Volkov systems and useless with people unless they come with passwords.

“I saw your mood coming on the cameras and accepted my death,” he says without looking up.

Then he notices Abramov behind me and straightens by half an inch. “Respectfully.”

Two guards stand by the door. Nobody talks unless the work needs words.

Yuri turns a monitor toward me. “Patrick didn’t break in clean. He used old permissions. He had account pieces, old vendor IDs, and clearance notes. Those things were useless alone, but someone matched them with current routes.”

“Show me.”

A cluster opens across the screen. “Riga bonded warehouse lane. Two medical fronts rerouted through Saint Agnes Relief and a pharmacy distributor that doesn’t move medicine.”

He scrolls, then brings up a spreadsheet with three highlighted rows. “This one matters. Fake charity invoices piggybacked on the Sokolov Children’s Fund header, but the payment address changed after upload.”

My hand tightens on the chair back. Yuri feels it first. His fingers pause over the keyboard, and Abramov’s gaze shifts from the screen to my hand. No one says Elena’s name.

Yuri keeps going, which proves he has more sense than posture. “The fund name was left visible to contaminate Elena, but separated enough to deny direct theft. Fast glance, Elena’s foundation looks dirty. Deep audit, Volkov controls look compromised. Either read weakens the house.”

Morozov likes pressure points. First fire. Then family. Now Elena’s name, and Cara’s. The bastard has learned nothing except where to press harder.

The door opens behind us, and one of Petrov’s men waits at the threshold until Abramov inclines his head. He crosses in, hands over a file, and leaves without adding a word. Petrov has already briefed me on the contents. I turn the first pages, confirm the markings, then pass the file to Abramov.

Abramov reads fast. His throat clears once. “Charity invoice groups tied to medical cargo,” he says. “Kiev, Riga, Smolensk. Someone was testing access in small steps. They were not pulling the full load yet.”

“Show me what you have,” I say.

Yuri clicks into another set of records. “They’re checking which doors open and which doors push back. Warehouse timing, customs delay, fuel stop, Blacklist handler query. Someone is testing us through paperwork.”

“Patrick?”

His name appears at every turn, like mold under paint.

“Patrick writes like a man who thinks templates make him invisible,” Yuri says. “This section is his. The current routing isn’t.”

I look at Abramov. “Who handles old clearances, minor corrections, boring amendments? Someone experienced. Someone forgettable.”

Abramov’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes move to the screen.

Yuri turns in his chair with his chin propped in his palm, elbow braced on the desk. “You want a clerk with good access and no presence.”

“Self-effacing,” Abramov says.

“Useful with paperwork,” I add. “Ordinary face. Talkative enough to seem harmless. Not clever enough to design this alone.”

Yuri lowers his hand and types through a short list of names.

Most pass without interest, but one name stays on the screen beside clearance history, routine amendments, and old routing corrections.

Oleg Baranov has made himself ordinary enough to disappear if no one is looking for him.

I lean closer. “Pull everything he touched.”

Yuri exhales. “That’s a lot.”

“Then start with yesterday and work backward.”