Page 78 of Emerald

He knows we’ve decoded the drive. He wants to see if I’ll admit it.

“Yes,” I say. “I saw it.”

“Did you make copies?”

“No.”

Long, painful silence again.

“Don’t lie to me,” Remizov says softly. “There are no second chances with me.”

Well, I might as well swing for the fences then.

“Look,” I say, “I don’t care about a bunch of dirty little secrets. I stole the drive because I thought I could sell it. But if it’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth, I’m happy to give it back to you.”

I try to sound as reasonable as possible. But all the while that I’m speaking, I’m focusing on the steak knife to the right of my plate. It has a heavy wooden handle, a serrated blade, and a sharply pointed tip.

“If you don’t mind,” I say to Remizov, “I would like some of that wine after all.”

“Of course,” he says.

He lifts the dark-colored bottle, pours the thick red wine into my glass. While he’s doing so, I slip the knife off the table, into my lap.

Then I take the glass and raise it.

“What should we toast to?” I say.

“To new management,” Remizov says.

“To new management,” I agree.

With my right hand, I hold up my glass. With my left, I clutch the steak knife. As Remizov leans forward to clink his glass against mine, I swing the knife, intending to plunge it into the side of his throat.

Remizov catches my hand, his cold fingers closing around my wrist like a manacle.

He’s moved so fast that I can hardly understand what’s happened. I’ve dropped my wineglass. It tips over on the table, the dark liquid spreading across the bare wood. But Remizov hasn’t spilled a drop.

He gives a sharp twist to my wrist. My hand opens helplessly, the knife clattering down on the table next to the wine glass.

Remizov shoves me back down in my seat.

My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s on fire.

Remizov hardly even looks angry—just annoyed.

“Consider your offer of employment rescinded,” he says. “And don’t try that again.”

I’ve never seen someone move so fast.

I have a horrible feeling that after all that’s happened, I’ve still underestimated this man.

Remizov glances down at his watch. It’s a Vacheron Constantine. One of the simplest models, with no numbers or complications. Plain and utilitarian, if you can say that about a twenty thousand-dollar watch.

“Ivan said he would be here in an hour,” Remizov says. “Do you think he’s on his way?”

Ivan could stay home, I suppose. Wait for Remizov to send him another horrific package to his gate. He’ll know this is a trap as well as I do. Staying home would be the smart thing to do.

Yet I’m sure that he’ll come for me.

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