Chapter 2 - THE PRICE OF TELLING THE TRUTH
Stellan Varo didn't raise his voice.
That was the first thing Celia noticed when the negotiation ended.
He didn't slam his fist against the table, threaten to kill anyone, or throw the expensive glass of whiskey sitting beside his right hand.
He simply closed the folder in front of him.
"Mr. Grekov," he said in Russian, "I believe we've misunderstood one another."
Celia translated.
Grekov leaned back.
His interpreter shifted in his chair.
"Perhaps your translator has misunderstood me," Grekov replied.
Celia rendered the sentence exactly.
Stellan looked directly at the other interpreter.
"Then let us remove the possibility of misunderstanding. Ask him whether he intends to seize the Eastern port by Thursday."
Celia translated the question.
Grekov's expression hardened.
He answered in a rapid stream of Russian, his voice rising as he spoke.
His interpreter hesitated.
It lasted less than a second.
But Celia saw it.
"Translate," Stellan ordered.
The man swallowed.
"He says there has been no decision regarding the port."
Celia looked down at her notes.
Then she looked up.
"That's not what he said."
Every head turned.
Stellan remained motionless.
"Go on."
"He said, 'The port will belong to us by Thursday. If you want to prevent that, you should have negotiated six months ago.'"
Grekov's face darkened.
He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped backward.
"Who is this woman?"
Celia translated.
Stellan folded his hands.
"Someone who understands what you say."
The next ten minutes were ugly.
Grekov accused Stellan of manufacturing a disagreement. Stellan accused Grekov of violating their existing territorial arrangement. Both men understood perfectly well that the argument had stopped being about translation.
It was about power.
Finally, Grekov stood.
"You have until tomorrow night," he said. "After that, the port changes hands."
Celia translated every word.
Stellan smiled without warmth.
"Then tomorrow night, Mr. Grekov, you will discover how expensive a misunderstanding can become."
The delegation departed.
The doors closed.
Nobody spoke.
Celia gathered her notebook and began collecting the abandoned water glasses.
"Leave those."
She stopped.
Stellan was still sitting.
"Mr. Varo?"
"Why did you interrupt?"
"Because your interpreter was lying."
"That wasn't what I asked."
Celia considered him.
"You asked why I interrupted. Because if I had remained silent, you would have negotiated against information that wasn't real."
"You could have let me discover it myself."
"And potentially lose a port?"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do you always have an answer?"
"Only when people ask questions."
For the first time, she saw something almost resembling amusement cross his face.
It disappeared quickly.
"Archer will show you to your room."
"I need to call my mother."
"No."
Celia froze.
"I'm sorry?"
"You agreed to remain available."
"I agreed to remain on the property. I did not agree to surrender my phone."
Stellan stood.
He was close enough now that she had to tilt her head slightly to meet his eyes.
"Your mother?"
"My mother is undergoing dialysis. She expects my call after her appointment."
Something changed in his expression.
Not softness.
Something quieter.
"How long?"
"Four hours."
"Archer."
The older man appeared at the door.
"Arrange a private call. Secure connection."
"Thank you," Celia said.
Stellan turned away.
"Don't thank me. I need you functional."
It was the closest thing to kindness she expected from him.
An hour later, Celia sat on the edge of her temporary bedroom, phone pressed to her ear.
Her mother sounded tired.
"Did you eat, sweetheart?"
"Yes."
A lie.
"Are they paying you?"
"Enough."
Another lie.
Her mother sighed.
"You're always trying to fix everything."
Celia looked toward the window.
Beyond it, two armed guards stood beneath the garden lights.
"I'm working on it, Mom."
After the call, she checked her banking app.
The agency had transferred an advance.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Celia stared at the number.
It was enough to cover several months of treatment, overdue bills, and the rent she had been pretending wasn't a problem.
She was still looking at the screen when someone knocked.
Archer entered carrying a small envelope.
"Your mother’s treatment facility has received a payment."
Celia stood.
"What?"
"Three months of treatment. Paid in full."
"I didn't authorize that."
"Mr. Varo did."
Anger rose so quickly she almost couldn't speak.
"Tell him to reverse it."
Archer looked genuinely surprised.
"Miss Rowe—"
"I didn't ask him to pay for my mother."
"He knows."
"Then he should know better."
Archer studied her.
"You're the first person I've seen refuse something from him."
"Then perhaps he's been surrounded by the wrong people."
For a moment, Archer's expression became unreadable.
"Be careful with that kind of honesty."
He left.
Celia went downstairs.
Stellan was in the study, speaking on the telephone.
He ended the call when she entered.
"You paid my mother's medical bills."
"Yes."
"I want the payment reversed."
"No."
"That's not a negotiation."
"Neither is her treatment."
Celia placed the envelope on his desk.
"I came here to work. Pay me for the work. Don't buy access to my family."
Stellan looked at the envelope.
Then at her.
"Most people would be grateful."
"Most people aren't being told they owe you something they never requested."
Silence.
Finally, Stellan picked up the telephone.
"Archer. Reverse the payment."
Celia exhaled.
"Thank you."
"However," he continued, "your compensation will include a substantial emergency medical allowance. Contractually. No personal debt, no repayment, no conditions beyond your employment."
He hung up.
Celia stared at him.
"You're remarkably difficult."
"So I've been told."
She turned toward the door.
"Ms. Rowe."
She stopped.
"Tomorrow, I want you in the negotiation room."
"Obviously."
"No. Tomorrow, I want you to listen to something Grekov hasn't said yet."
Celia frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Stellan opened a drawer and removed a photograph.
A woman stood beside him in front of a snowy building. She was smiling, with one hand resting against his chest.
Celia recognized her immediately.
It was the missing seventh interpreter.
"Her name was Nadia," Stellan said. "And she disappeared because someone in this house betrayed me."
Celia looked at the photograph.
Then at him.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because she was the last person who heard the truth before everything fell apart."
He slid another photograph across the desk.
This one showed Nadia standing beside a younger Archer.
On the back, someone had written six words.
The girl knows what her father did.
Celia felt the room tilt.
May you like
Her father had been dead for eleven years.
And she recognized his handwriting.
