Page 5

“Maksim,” I say.

“He’s outside.”

“And Dmitri?”

Her mouth tightens. “He’s also here.”

That explains why the hospital is still standing but feels personally threatened. The nurse checks the monitor and then my pupils. “Tell me your name.”

“Alexei Orlov.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I was shot.”

She lowers the light. “Good.”

I frown. “Which hospital?”

“Sklifosovsky.” She adjusts the line beside my bed.

“How long have I been here?”

“You’ve been here three days.”

Three days is enough time for an enemy to clean a scene, move money, kill witnesses, and compose a sincere statement about my regrettable passing.

“Who operated on me?” I ask.

The nurse hesitates, and I hold her gaze until she answers.

“Dr. Vera Markova.”

Something stirs at the edge of memory. Green eyes in the warm gala lights, a slightly wide mouth against the rim of a champagne glass, and dark hair pinned up badly because she’d done it herself and hadn’t cared whether anyone approved. The image slips away through blood loss and medication before I can hold on to it.

“Have I met her?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“She should come and see me.”

“You’ve been awake for four minutes.”

“That’s long enough.”

The nurse gives me a flat look. “Dr. Markova will come when it’s time. Until then, try not to pull out anything else.”

The door opens and Maksim walks in. His suit is dark, his expression gives nothing away, and a faint red mark near his cuff tells me someone bled close to him before he came here.

The nurse steps aside. “He can’t be upset.”

Maksim looks at me. “That may be beyond medical science.”

“Get the restraint removed,” I tell him.

Maksim looks at my wrist. “You pulled at your central line twice.”

“I don’t remember.”