be harassed until someone comes up with information on Vorontsov’s killer.”
“You’re assuming they have it.”
“No. I’m assuming that squeezed hard enough they’ll make it their business to get it.”
The elevator deposits us on the fourth floor. We navigate the labryinth of depressing corridors to Shevchenko’s office.
“In case you’re wondering, I’m sparing you the humiliation of being processed like a common criminal.” He falls into his chair like a rag doll and pushes my paperwork across the desk. “Sign these.” There are at least a half-dozen forms. Vera is listed as the person who vouched for me. I begin scrawling my signature beneath hers. Shevchenko leans back, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. “She’s moving out,” he says softly.
“Pardon me?”
“My wife. She’s leaving me. She and the children.”
I’m caught completely off guard, taken by his surprising vulnerability and willingness to share it. An awkward moment passes before I regain my composure. “I’m sorry.”
Shevchenko shrugs forlornly, then, shutting me out, swivels around and stares at a photograph of his family atop a file cabinet behind him. “You’ll find Miss Fedorenko downstairs.”
I whisper, “Thanks,” and hurry from the office. While searching the maze of corridors for the elevator, I turn a corner and catch sight of a familiar face through the window of a conferenceroom. It’s Drevnya, the kid from Pravda. He’s writing furiously on his notepad while an obese man in a rumpled suit circles the table, slashing the air with emphatic gestures as he talks. His back is to me at first; then, reversing direction, he reveals himself to be a repulsive fellow with thick lips, scarred complexion, and small eyes that briefly catch mine. I’ve no idea who he is, but Sergei said the kid has connections here. I guess he does.
Vera is waiting in the lobby, reading another book from my library when I join her. She looks up and frowns with concern. “You look awful.”
“Long night.”
“You should’ve called.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I mean when I beeped you.”
“Oh,” I exclaim, recalling it vaguely. After all that’s happened, it seems like a week ago. “Too much going on. I couldn’t. Why?”
“I was on duty when the Lenin Hills operation got the green light.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“Well, it didn’t seem important at first. Then when you didn’t show up at the apartment, I thought maybe you’d gotten a line on the dealers. Obviously, by then it was too late.”
“The story of my life.”
“You’re your own worst enemy, Nikolai.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Vera.”
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Come on,” I say, directing her aside. “You know how I hate it when you play these games.”
“Okay. If you really want to know, why can’t you take a job like a normal person?”
“You’re really hung up on that, aren’t you?”
“Most people are.”
“That’s not the answer, and you know it. Besides, I’m not a normal person.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“What you see is what you get, Vera. I can’t be someone else. I thought you respected me for it.”
“I did. I mean, I do. I—”
“I don’t need this.”
“Neither do I, Niko. I can’t keep bailing you out of trouble. I can’t keep funding your crusades. I—”
“You wouldn’t have to if you’d get me copies of those documents like I asked.”
Her eyes flare as if something just dawned on her. “God. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? That’s all I am to you. An inside source. A spy. Well, I’m sick and tired of it. Tired of taking chances. Tired of"—she pauses, face reddening with anger, eyes welling with emotion—"tired of being used.”
“Vera, I . . .”
She turns and starts walking away.
“Vera? Vera, listen to me, dammit.” I catch up and take her arm.
She jerks it
“You’re assuming they have it.”
“No. I’m assuming that squeezed hard enough they’ll make it their business to get it.”
The elevator deposits us on the fourth floor. We navigate the labryinth of depressing corridors to Shevchenko’s office.
“In case you’re wondering, I’m sparing you the humiliation of being processed like a common criminal.” He falls into his chair like a rag doll and pushes my paperwork across the desk. “Sign these.” There are at least a half-dozen forms. Vera is listed as the person who vouched for me. I begin scrawling my signature beneath hers. Shevchenko leans back, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. “She’s moving out,” he says softly.
“Pardon me?”
“My wife. She’s leaving me. She and the children.”
I’m caught completely off guard, taken by his surprising vulnerability and willingness to share it. An awkward moment passes before I regain my composure. “I’m sorry.”
Shevchenko shrugs forlornly, then, shutting me out, swivels around and stares at a photograph of his family atop a file cabinet behind him. “You’ll find Miss Fedorenko downstairs.”
I whisper, “Thanks,” and hurry from the office. While searching the maze of corridors for the elevator, I turn a corner and catch sight of a familiar face through the window of a conferenceroom. It’s Drevnya, the kid from Pravda. He’s writing furiously on his notepad while an obese man in a rumpled suit circles the table, slashing the air with emphatic gestures as he talks. His back is to me at first; then, reversing direction, he reveals himself to be a repulsive fellow with thick lips, scarred complexion, and small eyes that briefly catch mine. I’ve no idea who he is, but Sergei said the kid has connections here. I guess he does.
Vera is waiting in the lobby, reading another book from my library when I join her. She looks up and frowns with concern. “You look awful.”
“Long night.”
“You should’ve called.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I mean when I beeped you.”
“Oh,” I exclaim, recalling it vaguely. After all that’s happened, it seems like a week ago. “Too much going on. I couldn’t. Why?”
“I was on duty when the Lenin Hills operation got the green light.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“Well, it didn’t seem important at first. Then when you didn’t show up at the apartment, I thought maybe you’d gotten a line on the dealers. Obviously, by then it was too late.”
“The story of my life.”
“You’re your own worst enemy, Nikolai.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Vera.”
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Come on,” I say, directing her aside. “You know how I hate it when you play these games.”
“Okay. If you really want to know, why can’t you take a job like a normal person?”
“You’re really hung up on that, aren’t you?”
“Most people are.”
“That’s not the answer, and you know it. Besides, I’m not a normal person.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“What you see is what you get, Vera. I can’t be someone else. I thought you respected me for it.”
“I did. I mean, I do. I—”
“I don’t need this.”
“Neither do I, Niko. I can’t keep bailing you out of trouble. I can’t keep funding your crusades. I—”
“You wouldn’t have to if you’d get me copies of those documents like I asked.”
Her eyes flare as if something just dawned on her. “God. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? That’s all I am to you. An inside source. A spy. Well, I’m sick and tired of it. Tired of taking chances. Tired of"—she pauses, face reddening with anger, eyes welling with emotion—"tired of being used.”
“Vera, I . . .”
She turns and starts walking away.
“Vera? Vera, listen to me, dammit.” I catch up and take her arm.
She jerks it
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