Page 149 of Dark King Daddy

“What channels?”

“Mutual contacts. People who move between organizations. You know how information travels, Daniil.”

“I know how it travels when someone wants it to travel.”

Another silence. Longer. I let it hold. I did not fill it. I sat in the back of the car with five photographs of my wife on my lap and the phone pressed to my ear and I waited for Kostya to explain why he already knew the terms of an offer that had been made to me less than an hour ago in a private dining room.

“The information reached me through intermediaries,” Kostya said. “I took it seriously. I’m calling to advise you, as someone who has your interests at heart.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Daniil—”

“I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up. I set the phone on the seat beside me. I looked at Nikita.

He had heard every word. His phone was already in his hand, his expression unchanged—the smooth, pleasant mask that concealed whatever was happening beneath it.

“Find out when Kostya began communicating with Viktor,” I said.

“Directly or through intermediaries?”

“Both. Start with the timeline. When did he first receive information about the terms? Before or after the meeting was requested? Before or after the Maspeth fire?”

“You think he’s compromised.”

“I think he knew the terms of an offer that was made to me in a closed room less than an hour ago. I think he called to encourage me to accept it.”

Nikita typed. His fingers moved across the phone with the focused efficiency of a man who had been given a task he intended to complete before the car stopped.

Kostya had been at Volna. Kostya had raised the issue. Kostya’s circle had received the schedule that burned. And now Kostya knew the terms and wanted me to comply.

I picked up the phone. I dialed Ksenia.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hi.”

“Are you at home?”

“Yes. I called Luis. He’s handling Henry Street. I’m at the kitchen table with Galina’s soup and Nikita’s dispatch files. Are you—”

“Oleg threatened you.”

The words came out without softening. I had no patience for framing. She deserved the truth delivered straight.

Silence. One second. Two.

“How?” she said.

“Photographs. Of you. Leaving The Glasshouse yesterday. In the car. Arriving at Dover Street. He had them on the table when I sat down. Five images. Timestamped. He told me to take you somewhere far away.”

Her breathing was steady. I heard the creak of a chair—she was standing up. The sound of a door closing. She had moved to another room. Away from Galina.

“Are you safe right now?” I asked.

“I’m at Dover Street. Boris is here. The house is locked.”