Chapter 38: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 38

Chloe’s smile is so radiant I feel like I’ve stepped out of an underground bunker onto a sunlit beach. “Hi,” she says, slightly breathless as she sits back against a stack of pillows and places the computer on her lap. “How’s it going? How’s your nuclear bidding thing?”

I smile back at her, pleasure spreading through me like molten honey. “It’s good, zaychik, thank you.”

And it is. Valery’s operation has gone off without a hitch, and the Energy Commission is already swarming around the Atomprom plant, seeking to contain the fallout from the reactor that exploded overnight. The radiation leakage is minimal, as expected, but the damage to Atomprom’s reputation is significant—which sets us up well for my lunch meeting with the Commission head today.

More importantly, for the past hour, I’ve been watching Chloe’s online activities and examining her browser history from yesterday, and I’ve concluded that she’s unlikely to be affiliated with any government or rival organization. If she were a plant, she’d know everything about me already and wouldn’t need to translate Russian articles with the aid of free online tools. Nor would she be researching her mother’s friends and co-workers using nothing more than their public social media—or looking into PI firms.

Something else is going on with Chloe, something I find both worrisome and intriguing.

My best bet is to get her to open up to me, to tell me the truth, but if I press her on it now, she might get spooked and try to run—and I don’t want that. Not when I’m an ocean away. The next best option is to get Konstantin’s team to hack her Gmail; the spyware allows me to see what sites she’s on but not the content of them, like individual emails.

Either way, I’m going to get the answers. I just need to be patient a little longer.

“How was your day?” I ask, settling more comfortably into my chair. “What did you and Slava do?”

Her smile turns impossibly brighter, and she tells me all about my son’s amazing progress, her small face so animated I can’t take my eyes off it. She sounds as proud as any parent, and for the first time since I’ve learned of Slava’s existence and Ksenia’s death, my chest doesn’t feel as painfully tight when I think of him and the future that awaits him because of the tainted blood running through his veins. Instead, I feel a sliver of hope as I picture Chloe with Slava, playing with him, cuddling him, loving him… giving him what his mother can’t.

What I can’t.

And that’s part of it, I realize, part of why I want her so badly. I want her not just for myself but for my son. I want her sunshine to touch him, to warm him… to keep away the darkness of his heritage for as long as possible. I want her the way I’ve seen her through the cameras in Slava’s room, gracing my son with her radiant smile, making him feel like he’s the most important person in the world to her.

And I want him to be that.

I want her to love Slava even more than I want her to love me.

Hungrily, I listen to her talk about him, absorbing every word, drinking in every expression. She’s wearing one of her new evening dresses, a pale-yellow number with thin straps that bares her delicate shoulders. Her brown eyes sparkle, and even through the camera, her bronzed skin glows in the golden light cast by her bedside lamp. She’s breathtaking, this sweet mystery of a girl—and mine. All mine. I might not have claimed her physically yet, but it doesn’t change the facts. She was made for me, her light the perfect foil to the dark void inside me, her warmth filling every cold, empty crevice in my heart. I don’t care who she turns out to be or what secrets she’s hiding.

Criminal or victim, she belongs to me, no matter what.

When she’s done telling me about Slava, I ask her about her favorite books and music, and we bond over our mutual love of eighties bands and Dean Koontz novels. I’m not surprised that we have things in common; that’s how it often works when you find your other half, the puzzle piece that completes you. She’s my opposite in so many ways, yet there are threads that connect us, that bound us together long before we met.

We talk for a solid hour, and I find out more about her childhood and teenage years, about her young mother and how hard she worked to raise Chloe by herself. She tells me about hanging out downtown with her friends and vacationing in Florida with her mother, about struggling with calculus in high school and working two jobs for three summers straight to buy her rickety Corolla on her own.

“It’s almost as old as I am,” she says fondly, “but it still runs. Even after all the miles I put on it driving across the country. Speaking of which, did you ever have a chance to ask Pavel about my car keys? I still don’t have them.”

I veil my expression, concealing the beast that stirs inside me at the thought of her getting into her rust bucket of a car and leaving. “He said he couldn’t find them. We’ll look for them when we get back.”

It’s a lie, but I can’t tell her the truth. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t fully understand it myself. All I know is that I sleep better knowing the keys on that furry chain are in my possession, that my zaychik is safe and sound under my roof.

A tiny frown creases her forehead. “Oh, okay. But he’ll find them, right?”

“I’m sure he will. If not, I’ll buy you another car.”

She laughs, clearly thinking it’s a joke, but I’m completely serious. I will buy her a car, something better, safer than the Corolla. It’s a miracle it hasn’t broken down on some deserted road, leaving her stranded with no phone, at the mercy of any murderer or rapist who might be passing by.

Just the thought of her in that situation makes me break out in a cold sweat.

“I’ll just call a locksmith,” she says when she stops laughing. “There are locksmiths in Elkwood Creek, right?”

“I’m sure there’s at least one.” And I’m just as sure he’s getting nowhere near Chloe’s car. The more I think about her driving across the country all alone, the darker my mood turns. Anything could’ve happened to her, absolutely anything—and for all I know, it did.

Her nightmares could have nothing to do with what happened to her mother and everything to do with some lowlife assaulting her on the road.

Rage burns inside me as I picture her getting attacked, hurt and traumatized, and it’s all I can do not to demand that she tell me the truth right now, so I can exterminate those responsible. Only the fear that she might pull back and try to leave keeps me silent. That and the recollection of those damaged tapes, the ones that indicate that something more is going on, that she’s involved with someone or something with the resources to conceal her movements.

Oblivious to the storm inside me, she grins and says, “All right then. You can tell Pavel not to stress about it. I’m guessing he’s upset he lost them?”

“I’ll talk to him, don’t worry.” And I will. I need to explain the situation and ask him to apologize to Chloe. Right now, he has no clue that anything’s amiss. “As to the—”

A soft chime interrupts me, and to my disappointment, I see it’s time to head to my meeting. I set an alarm on my phone so I wouldn’t be late.

“Do you have to go?” Chloe asks astutely, and I nod, buttoning my jacket.

“This is the meeting I’m here for. The good news is, if all goes as expected, I’m getting on a plane home right after.”

Her eyes brighten. “Really? What time does your flight leave?”

“When I tell it to. It’s my plane.” Leaning into the camera, I murmur, “I can’t wait to see you in person.”

She gives me a sweet smile. “Same here. Good luck at your meeting and fly home safe.”

“Thank you, zaychik.” Voice roughening, I advise, “Sleep well tonight—you’ll need it.”

And as her lips part on a startled inhale, I hang up, eager to conclude the meeting so I can be in the air, on the way to her.

I’m already at the table when Yusup Bahori walks into Al Sham, one of the best Middle Eastern restaurants in Dushanbe and, according to Konstantin’s research, a favorite spot of Yusup’s. After the obligatory half hour of catching up on our favorite school memories and discussing our classmates and other mutual acquaintances, I shift the conversation toward our permits and the bidding for the contract with the Tajik government.

“Nikolai, you know I can’t—” he starts, but I hold up my hand, stopping the bullshit in its tracks.

“Let’s not play games. You and I both know our product is superior to Atomprom’s. So why were our permits pulled?”

He blinks, not expecting me to be that direct. “Well, there were safety concerns and—”

“We’ve never had a meltdown or a leak. Our safety protocols go above and beyond any government requirements, and best of all, our reactors can provide cheap, clean energy to every settlement and village, no matter how inaccessible or remote.”

He sighs, pushing away his half-finished kebab. “Look, I don’t know the particulars, but if our inspectors—”

“Are these the same inspectors that greenlit Atomprom’s bid? If so, for how much?”

He has the grace to flush. “We’ve just begun the investigation of last night’s accident,” he says stiffly. “If it turns out there was any improper conduct, we’ll take appropriate measures. We don’t tolerate corruption and bribery. The safety of our citizens and the environment is of utmost importance to us.”

I nod, picking up my fork. “Which is why Atomprom was never the right company to partner with you. Their safety record is abysmal.”

Calmly, I eat two bites of falafel, letting him mull it over, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he says abruptly, “Fine. I can look into the permits for you. Maybe some inspector did get overzealous.”

“That would be much appreciated. And if it does turn out there’s been a misunderstanding, we would be grateful if you reversed the decision and put in a good word for us during the bidding.”

He licks his lips. “I understand.”

Of course he does. Gratitude from the Molotov organization is a very lucrative thing. As is gratitude from the Leonovs—but he’s already received it.

His new mansion in Khujand is proof of that.

It would be easy to point that out, to use the evidence of corruption Konstantin’s hackers have uncovered to get him to do what we want, but unlike Valery, I believe in waving the carrot before grabbing the stick.

Things tend to go smoother that way.

Goal achieved, I return to neutral topics, and the rest of the meal passes in pleasant conversation. He doesn’t bring up the specifics of our “gratitude,” and neither do I. Let him have plausible deniability when our payment lands in his offshore account; it doesn’t hurt us in the least.

When we’re done, he heads out to his car, and I stop by the restroom before the long drive to the small airport where my jet is waiting. I’m washing my hands when the door opens and a tall, athletically built man about my age steps in.

A man I instantly recognize.

“Well, if it isn’t the missing Molotov brother,” Alexei Leonov drawls, leaning against the door and folding his tattooed arms across his chest. “Fancy running into you here.”