by Shamim Sarif
While I’m trying to find out more about Gregory’s Russian companies and the directors of the Victory Clinic, I tune in to the Athena comms every so often, just to keep tabs. I find out that Peggy is meeting Aleks for dinner in a couple of hours. She doesn’t say where, but that bit of code that I smuggled onto Aleks’s work computer weeks ago is still sitting there and it’s easy enough for me to access his calendar and get hold of the name of the restaurant he’s booked into. I don’t have a specific purpose in mind in keeping an eye on Peggy, but I’d like to see Aleks in person, get a feel for him.
I’m glad that my next bit of sleuthing will be around a meal because I’m hungry. I make myself a dinner reservation and get decently dressed in black jeans and a smart top. The place Aleks is taking Peggy is one of the best restaurants in the city, according to tourist sites. Before I leave, I make a quick trawl through Paulina’s online usage. A couple of Instagram posts, some WhatsApp messages to friends, some browsing on a shopping site that sells art books. And then, while I’m watching, she accesses her online banking. She clicks on statements (thank you, Paulina) and once those are downloaded to her phone, it’s not hard for me to open them. A quick scan shows a healthy bank balance, a fair number of charges to clothes shops—and then, something more interesting. Two very large deposits from a bank in Moscow, at around the same time she was there. We’re talking mid-six-figure sums. So maybe my hunch that Paulina is part of her father’s empire is more than wishful thinking.
I’m itching to sit down and look up the bank, work on this some more, but I figure it can wait a couple of hours. So I head off to tail Peggy and Aleks at dinner.
I get to the restaurant a good forty minutes before Peggy is due to arrive. It wouldn’t be great to bump into her at the front door.
Outside, the summer light is soft and golden, but inside the place, it’s really dark, which is probably a good thing for me, since I want to skulk around unnoticed. As my eyes get accustomed to the low light, what reveals itself is a place made to look like a 1930s speakeasy. It’s sort of like I’ve walked onto the set of Casablanca, except in color. There are booths covered in rich green leather, wooden tables, a long zinc bar, waiters in white tuxedo jackets, ornate brass wall lamps, and, basically, every cliché in the book. There’s even a guy playing jazz piano on a black baby grand. Next to him is a small round platform and a microphone, where a blond woman in a tight-fitting dress is singing. It’s an old American classic—Gershwin—but she sings it with a strong Eastern European accent.
The waiter seems taken aback that I’m eating on my own, but he gets over it and leads me right to the back of the room, past tables where couples and groups are already sitting and drinking, to a small booth in the rear. He hands me a leather-bound menu with more pages than the complete works of Shakespeare. Since I don’t have two spare hours to read it end to end, I immediately settle for the set menu that’s on the first page.
I’ve worked my way through a salad mixed with mayonnaise and nuts, and I’m tucking into some grilled fish with lemon, when I notice Aleks Yuchic. He’s way across the room, to the left, holding a chair for Peggy. He’s tall and lean and Peggy looks great in a deep-blue dress. Instinctively, I shrink back into my seat, but she has her back to me, so there’s not much chance she’ll notice me. I call my waiter over and tell him that I’ll skip dessert and just take the bill.
While I wait, I watch Aleks. I have a better view of him than of Peggy. Animated, warm, smiling a lot. He doesn’t speak much; he’s just asking Peggy questions, and looking like he cares about the answers, which is actually pretty rare if you think about it. How many conversations have you been in where people are waiting for you to finish talking so they can chip in and tell their story of a similar thing that happened to them?
Then, the headwaiter goes over and shakes Aleks’s hand like he’s his long-lost brother. He talks animatedly, maybe describing all the special dishes he’ll have the chef knock out just for them.
The headwaiter disappears, and I notice that Aleks’s hand comes up to touch Peggy’s, which is resting on the table. I can’t tell if it’s a romantic thing or a friendly reassurance thing. Peggy squeezes his hand back, then puts her hands down, off the table, back in her lap. I can’t get a read on it. Peggy’s a widow—her husband died just a few years back, and she can still barely mention him without tears coming to her eyes. But maybe she gets lonely sometimes. I mean, Aleks is still sort of handsome, and Peggy’s not that old.
Within five minutes, the waiter returns with a wine bottle and goes through the opening and tasting rigmarole, after which he leaves it in an ice bucket near the table. As I’d hoped, Peggy excuses herself and goes off to the bathroom. I swear, there’s an etiquette handbook somewhere that Peggy’s parents had her inhale, and it says that a lady must always powder her nose ten minutes after arrival at dinner.
Leaving enough cash on the table to cover my meal, I get up to leave while Peggy is away. Aleks’s waiter is still scooping ice into the bucket around the wine bottle. As I walk, I pretend to look in my bag for something and bring out a tiny dot microphone on my fingertip. As I pass their table, I touch it to the base of the ice bucket and keep walking. The bucket is wet, but Amber’s microphone dots stick to anything.
Once I’m safely outside and on the next side street, I insert a tiny receiver into my ear and instantly I can hear the waiter talking, and a lot of rattling, which I assume is the ice inside the bucket. In a few seconds, it stops, and I can hear Aleks welcome Peggy back to the table. I stand in the quiet doorway of a closed butcher’s shop where a lamb’s carcass hangs in the window beside me, and listen intently. It’s all old friends catching up with each other at the moment.
“How are the children?” Aleks asks her.
“Alice is in college in New York and Joseph’s in Seattle now, with my first grandchild.” Peggy sounds as pleased as punch.
“It’s unbelievable. You don’t look nearly old enough to be a grandmother.”
What a line. Followed by silence. I wonder if he’s trying the hand-holding again.
“And your son?” she asks.
“In the States.”
That’s true, I checked on young Sasha’s whereabouts. He’s studying in Minnesota.
“And Maya?” Peggy asks.
“We divorced, finally.”
“I heard. I’m sorry.”
Aleks makes a dismissive noise. “She’s married again. To a so-called businessman who makes his money on the black market. Now she can have the Chanel bags she always wanted.”
Another thing that checks out with what I dug up on Aleks. He pursued this thug through the courts only to have the case dismissed by a judge who somehow found the money to retire to Bermuda soon afterward. Then, to add insult to injury, Aleks’s wife, who was a former model, up and left him for the same thug.
After this, they get onto the subject of Gregory Pavlic pretty quickly. Aleks’s tone drops much lower, almost to a whisper.
“He’s repulsive. But he has a lot of people in his pocket with blackmail.”
“Aleks, don’t feel I’m being impertinent, but does he have anything on you?”
“I’m not into drugs or one-night stands.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask.”
“Don’t be,” Aleks said. “Cleaning up this town has been a long road, getting one bastard at a time behind bars. There are one or two judges who care. And a small group of police. I meet with all of them every week, to keep them inspired. But getting Pavlic would send a message to the whole of Serbia. What’s your interest in him?”
“I can’t really discuss it at this point. But there may be some information coming that can help you.”
“Well, with your contacts, nothing would surprise me. But be careful, Peggy,” Aleks says. “You know I care about you.”
Good God. Is he flirting with her? But Peggy says nothing and moves the conversation on to a charity gala she’s organizing at the end of the year. Everything I’ve heard directly from
Aleks’s mouth bears out my research and supports Peggy’s faith in their friendship. I decide to head back home and follow up on Paulina’s Russian money, which looks like a much more promising lead.
7
THE NEXT MORNING, I GO for a long run first thing. It’s a good way to get to know a place, and I’ve been neglecting my usual training regimen. Along the way, I stop at the main state registry building, to see if I can find any information (ideally a home address) on the directors of Lavit, since my online trawling hasn’t yielded anything new. I hand over the details of Mikhail Rostov, the Russian guy, and Katarina Volim, the Serbian girl, but apparently, it takes twenty-four hours to lodge a request and have files brought up from storage. Seriously? Hasn’t anyone heard of computer records? I fill in the required bits of paper and make an appointment to return the next morning.
On my way back home, I pick up some bread, cheese, eggs, and a few other bits so I can make breakfast. After which, I get dressed in my favorite shirt, a soft blue one, and check myself in the chipped bathroom mirror. I’m not one for makeup or spending ages on my hair, but I want to look halfway decent today.
What I see in the mirror is dark hair, green eyes, and Kit’s nose, which she considers to be one of my best features—unlike my mouth, which she describes as “sullen.” Maybe that’s from my father.
I bring myself back to the task at hand and smile at my reflection. My whole face changes—for the better, I’ll admit. I have a big smile, wide enough that it used to make me feel self-conscious, but people are always telling me they like it. By “people,” I mean a couple of guys who wanted to go out with me. One at school, one at this programming class I did on weekends. When you’re genuinely not interested, it’s amazing how people are attracted to you.
I go back to my computer and tune in to listen for any Athena chatter, but nobody’s online, it seems. Then I hang around by my window, waiting for Paulina Pavlic to arrive at the gallery, which she does, at about the same time as she did yesterday. I look down onto the street as she goes through the same bribery routine with the traffic cop. Then I head down to the gallery and take my time to settle in at a table in the coffee area, rummaging in my bag. I pull out the expensive camera I bought right before leaving London. Carelessly, I place it on the edge of my table. Then I switch on my iPad, yawn gently, and start to read.
Within a few minutes, a polite guy in a half apron arrives beside me. Irritably, I look up from my reading and snap out a complex coffee order. He has a little trouble with it, but I’ve already gone back to my tablet and given him little option but to retreat back to the barista and interpret it as best he can.
When he returns, I throw a glance at the cup and shake my head.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” I say.
“Double shot cappuccino?” the waiter stutters.
“Double macchiato,” I say, a little too loudly. I make a show of tasting the coffee before pulling a face. Completely obnoxious. By now, the couple at the next table are watching me, and from the corner of my eye, I am sure that I can see Paulina heading toward me. I just keep my eyes fixed on the waiter as he hastily removes the cup.
Paulina doesn’t come all the way to the table though. She gets close enough to beckon to the waiter and then walks with him back to the coffee machine, where she edges out the barista and prepares the coffee herself. Cool as a cucumber.
I pretend to be surprised when the cup touches the table. I look up, and Paulina is looking down at me coolly. Like she’s daring me to make another scene.
“Your macchiato,” Paulina says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
“It’s my job.”
“Trouble?” I ask, and Paulina smiles. It’s like her surface composure splits open, allowing a tiny glimpse of a real person to peek through.
“Making sure my guests are happy,” she replies.
I take a sip of the coffee. Paulina appears in no hurry to leave.
“It’s delicious,” I tell her.
“I know.”
This time, I smile. At the arrogance, at the impressive self-assurance. I’m a bit out of my depth, to be honest—not half as composed as Paulina herself. But I’d rather she didn’t know that. I look around the gallery, giving myself time to get back in control.
“Is this your place?” I ask.
There is a very slight hesitation from Paulina, and then she nods.
“The photography is stunning,” I say. Not a genius comment, but I’m working under pressure here.
“I choose it all myself,” she says.
“You have good taste.”
Paulina smiles. “I know.”
I hold her look, and it’s exactly what I wanted; without any words passing between us, the moments seem to stretch out into some quiet meaning, until Paulina makes a conscious effort to look away. As I’d hoped, her gaze catches on the camera that sits on the table and her face lights up.
“Is that a Flex 1201?” she asks.
Silently, I thank the universe for making Paulina a real photography geek and not just a rich girl with artistic pretensions. I pass her the camera. Her fingers explore the controls easily, as if they are familiar to her.
“You can’t get this model here yet,” she says. “You’re a photographer?” She looks at me with total interest now.
“It’s my passion,” I lie. “Not my profession. I’m still at university.”
“Where?”
“London,” I reply, which is somewhat vague, as the University of London is made up of a ton of different colleges all over the place, but I’d rather avoid specifics for as long as possible.
“I miss London so much,” Paulina says, breaking into a genuine smile. “I was at school in England, and I went into the city as much as I could.”
I hold out my hand. “Jessie.”
“Paulina.”
As her hand takes mine, I am surprised by a literal crackle of feeling in the touch between us. For a moment I think it might just be in my head, because, let’s face it, I’m more than a bit taken with Paulina’s looks. But when I look at her, I can tell that she has felt it too. She stops being so perfect and in control, just for a fraction of a second. But, immediately, she places down the camera and gives me a quick smile.
“Enjoy the coffee. It’s on the house.”
“There’s no need—” I start to say, but I stop, because Paulina is already weaving her way between tables to the back of the room.
Returning to my apartment, I run through that interaction with Paulina again and again in my head. That thing that happened when she took my hand—it’s thrilling to think about, but it also freaks me the hell out. This is the daughter of a criminal and a woman who’s becoming a major suspect, in my investigations at least. I don’t want to feel anything at all when I think of her (except, maybe, disgust). I pace about for a few minutes, then sit down to work. But Paulina and her eyes and her smile keep hanging there, where my logic should be.
That line I spun her about being a university student is partly true. I am registered (with a fake last name) on a master’s degree course with a really good college in London. I’m sure the fact that their electronic engineering school got a shedload of new equipment from Li must have helped. It gives me some semblance of a life, if anyone were to ask.
Hala is registered as a cleaner with the company that handles Li’s office-cleaning contracts, so when the asylum social workers come around, she has a legitimate job. And Caitlin is officially still Peggy’s administrative assistant.
I get back to work. I can’t find anything strange about the Russian bank that Paulina’s payments came from. It’s big, well-known, not an obvious money laundry for gangsters. For a break, I scroll some more through Paulina’s Instagram feed. It’s her main social media presence and is refreshingly free of pouting selfies and heavy on photos of artwork. She follows lots of photographers too.
From my window, I peer down inside the gallery as best I
can, but there is no sign of Paulina. I leave my building and walk away from the gallery until I find a small place that serves local food. I order some kind of steak special and watch the world go by outside the window while I eat it. When I’m done, the waitress smiles at my clean plate and asks me if I want to try the homemade plum brandy. I decline, so she brings me a coffee instead and a slice of cake, even though I haven’t asked for it. She’s kind, and really young, maybe sixteen. Gregory Pavlic would look at her and calculate the profit he could make from selling her.
The thought bothers me. Every day we leave Gregory alone, another lot of girls gets trapped in his system. How many, I’m not sure, because the tentacles of a man like that go on and on. I finish up the coffee; pay the bill in cash, leaving a generous tip; and go back to my place.
I’m deep in tracking a trail on Gregory’s Russian connection when my earpiece sputters into life, more clearly than it has in ages. It’s Hala’s voice that I hear, crisp and loud, and she’s speaking in Arabic. All of which is really weird. If she’s having a personal call with someone, why would she be connected to her Athena mic? Unless she’s flipped it to a different channel and just carried on talking because she’s not bothered to take it out of her ear. Whatever it is, her voice sounds warm and happy. My first thought is that she has a secret boyfriend somewhere, but then she says the name Omar, and I realize that it must be her brother she’s speaking to. She has one brother who wasn’t home when the attack on her parents happened. But he’s still in the Middle East as far as I know. I listen, unable to piece together more than a few fragments of the meaning, but Hala’s voice has changed now. She feels stressed, under pressure, talking to him. I flick on an app on my computer that records the audio. The conversation goes for another fifteen seconds before Hala hangs up. Immediately, I run the bit I taped through an online audio translator. I get back something like this:
Omar: “What time do you start work?”
Hala: “I have the late shift.”
Her brother thinks she’s a cleaner, so this makes sense, and I suppose it’s even true, except that she will be gathering evidence from deep inside Gregory’s illegal trafficking facility while Omar thinks she will be mopping floors in an office building somewhere. But then his tone changes.