Page 69 of Emerald

“No. Most of the evidence speaks for itself, though.”

She’s watching me through narrowed eyes. Her gaze is no less intimidating without the glasses. I suspect they’re just for show, because she seems to see just fine without them.

“Why did you bring this to me?” she snaps. “What are you trying to get out of it?”

“Well, I don’t like some of the stuff in there,” I tell her.

That’s true enough. Some of it turns my stomach. I hate the idea of keeping it secret, using it for leverage myself. I was relieved when Ivan came up with this idea instead.

But Alya knows there’s more to it than that.

“Who are you trying to get into trouble?” she persists. “Which of these people?”

“None of them,” I tell her. “I don’t even know them.”

That’s sort of true. I don’t personally know anybody mentioned on the flash drive.

Alya is folding and unfolding her glasses, debating with herself. She knows all of this is highly suspicious. But of course, she wants the drive.

“Who are you?” she says. “What are you doing in Russia?”

“Amanda Wallace,” I say, giving her my name from the strip club. “I was working at a club called Raketa. That’s where I got the drive.”

She purses her lips. She doesn’t believe I’m a stripper.

“What do you want in exchange for the drive?” she asks.

It’ll look even sketchier if I don’t ask for anything. So I say, “Five hundred dollars.”

“I’ll give you two hundred.”

“Three fifty. I had to take the train from St. Petersburg.”

“Two fifty,” she says.

“Fine,” I say. “But I want those cookies, too.”

I nod toward the little tin of shortbread cookies.

Alya snorts and shoves the tin toward me.

“My grandmother made those,” she tells me. “They’re shit.”

I take one out of the tin anyway and dunk it in my coffee while Alya counts the money out of petty cash. She gives it to me partly in American bills, partly in Rubles, because that’s what she’s got on hand.

I don’t make a fuss about it. I just fold up the bills and shove them in my pocket.

“You going to tell me what your real angle is on this?” Alya says, looking up at me while I stand up from my seat.

“It’s not relevant,” I tell her.

She purses her lips and scowls, putting her glasses back on her face once more. She starts typing on her laptop, dismissing me.

She hasn’t thanked me for the flash drive, but I know she’s going to use it, nonetheless.

As I’m about to leave she says, without looking up, “You going to take those cookies?”

“No,” I say. “You’re right—they’re shit.”

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