Page 77 of Emerald

“Simply an attempt to retrieve my property,” he says. “Or neutralize it. Nothing personal.”

I laugh, remembering that I once said the same thing to Ivan.

Remizov doesn’t like that laugh either. He doesn’t understand the joke, and I can tell that when he doesn’t understand something, it angers him.

“You’re not a Petrov,” he says sharply. “I read your file from Zima’s computer. You’re an American. Your father was CIA.”

“What’s your point?”

“You have no loyalty to Ivan Petrov. You were hired to kill him, and you failed to complete the job. Why are you working with him now? Why didn’t you leave, after you lost your apartment?”

I shrug, not wanting to give Remizov any more information than he already has.

“I like St. Petersburg,” I say.

To stay on the conversational offensive, I add, “Why are you so determined to take over? You’re not Bratva either.”

“That’s right,” Remizov says. He takes another bite of his steak, chewing slowly, and washing it down with a swallow of wine. “I have no family. No clan. That’s a strength, not a weakness. My organization will be a true meritocracy. Not weighed down by tradition and birthright.”

He looks me over, in the revealing red dress.

It takes a lot to make me uncomfortable, but his cold, inhuman stare does it. He’s not like a normal man, inflamed by lust. He evaluates me the same way he probably evaluated the furniture for this house. With no attachment or emotion—just a consideration of whether or not it would fit his purposes.

“You Americans appreciate egalitarianism,” he says. “With the exception of the contract on Petrov, you’re good at your job. Ivan isn’t leaving this house tonight—he had his chance to fall in line, and he refused. But I extend the same offer to you that I did to him. Come work for me. I’m always in need of good help.”

Men are always offering to hire me. As if I’ve just been wandering around, pining for a good healthcare plan and a 401K. Usually it annoys me. But the only part of that paragraph I can seem to focus on is “Ivan isn’t leaving this house tonight.”

Remizov intends to kill him.

I can’t let that happen.

If Ivan comes here, it will be for my sake.

If he takes that risk for me, I can’t let him die.

“So,” Remizov says, putting down his fork. “Where is it? Where is the drive? I assume you took it to Moscow with you?”

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to stare at him with my mouth hanging open.

He doesn’t know what I was doing in Moscow.

He knows I went there. His men found me on the train back. But they missed my meeting first thing in the morning.

“Ivan has it,” I lie smoothly. “My trip to Moscow had nothing to do with the drive.”

Remizov stares at me, silently. Watching my face.

The tension stretches between us like a rubber band, longer and longer until one of us has to snap.

He who speaks first, loses.

It’s the oldest trick, and the hardest to withstand. The temptation to fill the silence is almost overwhelming. My father always told me to pinch the skin on the inside of my palm to relieve the anxiety, to help me stay quiet.

I pinch myself hard.

At last, Remizov says, “You know what’s on the drive?”

This is a ploy to check my honesty. He’s asking me a question to which he already knows the answer.

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