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I scan the final entries. “She called Vera twice?”

Abramov points to the first. “At eight fifty, from the hospital security office. The number appeared as blocked, and the call went unanswered.”

“And the second?”

“Nine fifty-eight, from her mobile. It rang until voicemail.”

“We were outside Vera’s apartment,” Dmitri says.

I remember the packed bag, Misha behind her, and the men already moving into position.

“She couldn’t answer,” I say. “But Marina was still alive when we reached the building.”

“And still trying to warn her,” Dmitri says.

Abramov changes the image on the tablet. “There’s more. At ten-oh-seven, someone used a fake Volkov badge to enter the hospital security office.”

“Whose badge did they copy?”

“We don’t know. The hospital marked it as a Volkov badge, but the number wasn’t one of ours.”

“The door still opened?”

“Yes. Five minutes later, Marina’s report was deleted from the office computer. Whoever did it also erased the door record, but the hospital’s main log kept a copy.”

Dmitri looks at the screen. “They went inside, deleted her report, and made it look as if one of our men did it.”

Abramov opens another file. “Yuri found the program used to make the fake badge in the old New Harbor files.”

“New Harbor was shut down.”

“Someone saved the program,” Abramov says.

Dmitri looks at the badge record. “Belov is using it now.”

I lean back carefully and study Marina’s photograph again.

Did she recognize Belov?

Maybe she heard his voice through the side door or recognized a senior captain dressed as a guard while everyone else was watching my heart stop. Whatever happened, she understood enough to call security, try Vera, and report what she’d seen to an officer who disappeared hours later.

Dima enters without knocking and looks at Abramov. “Ilya’s on the screen.”

Abramov brings up the secure feed, and Ilya appears beside a parked vehicle, wind cutting across the microphone.

“We found the missing officer,” he says. “He’s alive.”

“Where was he?” I sit straighter, and the movement pulls at the dressing beneath my shirt.

“At his mistress’s apartment near Khamovniki.”

“Pavel Gurin,” Abramov says, opening a staff photograph. “Twenty-six. Married. One daughter.”

Ilya’s mouth tightens. Blood marks two of his knuckles, and the handkerchief he folds over them is already stained. “He forgot the entire conversation until I showed him the photograph of Marina’s body.”

“I assume his memory improved.”

“He remembered Belov’s aide entering the office at ten-oh-seven. The aide paid him to delete Marina’s report.”