Chapter 3 - THE DEAD MAN'S HANDWRITING
Celia didn't touch the photograph again.
She couldn't.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Her father had written in narrow, right-slanting letters, with the capital T extending farther than it needed to. He used the same habit on birthday cards, grocery lists, and the occasional note he left beside her breakfast when he came home late.
She had spent years trying not to remember his handwriting.
Now it was sitting on the desk of a crime lord.
"Where did you get this?"
Stellan watched her carefully.
"From Nadia's apartment."
"When?"
"Three months ago."
"Why wasn't it given to the police?"
A humorless smile touched his mouth.
"Because the police have been asking me questions about Nadia for three months."
Celia looked again at the photograph.
"Who was my father?"
"That's what I was hoping you could tell me."
"My father was Daniel Rowe. He worked in international shipping. He died in a car accident when I was fifteen."
"That's what your family was told."
Her stomach tightened.
"What are you suggesting?"
Stellan stood and walked to the fireplace.
"Daniel Rowe was an interpreter. Not an ordinary one. He worked for several organizations that negotiated shipping corridors between Eastern Europe and North America."
"My father was a shipping consultant."
"He was also the man who translated the original agreement between my father and Viktor Grekov."
Celia felt her fingers go cold.
"Your father?"
"Anton Varo. He was killed when I was twenty-three."
Stellan turned.
"Officially, it was a robbery. Unofficially, someone arranged for his vehicle to be stopped on a deserted road."
"Why would my father have anything to do with that?"
"Because the agreement he translated contained a clause that could have destroyed the Grekov organization."
Celia shook her head.
"This is ridiculous."
"Then prove it."
He opened another drawer.
Inside was a yellowed document, its edges worn and its Russian text covered in handwritten corrections.
Celia stepped closer.
She recognized the signature at the bottom.
Daniel Rowe.
Her father's.
But something else caught her attention.
The translation contained a small correction beside a paragraph about the Eastern port.
A single word had been crossed out.
The replacement changed the meaning of the entire clause.
"That's not a translation error," she whispered.
Stellan watched her.
"What is it?"
"Someone altered the agreement after it was signed."
"Can you prove it?"
"Not from this copy."
She studied the document more closely.
"My father used to mark originals with a second verification code. He called it a linguistic fingerprint. He said it was a way to prove whether a document had been changed after translation."
"Where would he keep it?"
"I don't know."
"Think."
Celia closed her eyes.
Her father had a habit of hiding important papers inside ordinary objects.
He once kept his passport inside an empty cereal box for six months because he didn't trust the hotel safe.
There had been a blue metal dictionary on his desk.
She remembered the dictionary.
After his funeral, her mother had packed it away.
"At home," she said.
Stellan reached for his phone.
"I'll have someone retrieve it."
"No."
His hand stopped.
"I'm going myself."
"Absolutely not."
"My mother is at home. I'm not sending armed strangers into her house to search through my father's belongings."
"Your mother may already be in danger."
The words landed hard.
Celia stared at him.
"What?"
Stellan turned the photograph around.
A small black mark was visible near the bottom corner.
"That mark appeared on the photograph when Nadia sent it to me. It was a warning."
"From whom?"
"Someone who knew where she was."
Before Celia could respond, the study door opened.
Archer entered without knocking.
"Mr. Varo. We have a problem."
Stellan's expression hardened.
"What?"
"Grekov has moved his deadline forward."
"To when?"
"Tonight."
"That's impossible. His men are still in the city."
"Apparently not all of them."
Archer placed a tablet on the desk.
A security photograph showed a black sedan parked near the compound's northern gate.
Celia recognized the vehicle.
It was her Honda.
Her car had been moved.
The photograph showed someone standing beside the driver's door.
A woman.
The image was blurry, but Celia could make out the pale scarf around her neck.
"That's my mother."
Stellan moved immediately.
"Lock down the property."
Archer reached for his radio.
Celia grabbed Stellan's sleeve.
"Wait."
He looked down at her hand.
She released him.
"My mother was supposed to be at the clinic today. She shouldn't be here."
"Call her."
Celia dialed.
No answer.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Then a message arrived.
It was from an unknown number.
A photograph.
Her mother sitting in the passenger seat of a car.
A man's hand rested on her shoulder.
Beneath it were seven words.
Bring the translator, or she disappears.
Celia couldn't breathe.
Stellan read the message.
His face became terrifyingly calm.
"Archer."
"Already moving."
Celia looked at him.
"Get me to her."
"No."
"She's my mother!"
"And you're the reason they took her."
"I don't care."
"You will if you get yourself killed."
He stepped toward the door.
Celia followed.
"Stellan!"
He stopped.
It was the first time she had used his first name.
His eyes met hers.
"Bring her home," she said. "And I'll translate anything you need. Every document. Every conversation. But bring her home."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Stellan gave Archer a single instruction.
"Prepare the cars."
But as they reached the entrance hall, Celia's phone rang.
Her mother's number.
She answered immediately.
"Mom?"
A man's voice responded.
"Good evening, Ms. Rowe."
Celia recognized the accent.
It was Grekov's interpreter.
He laughed softly.
"Your father was a much better negotiator than you."
Then he said something that made Stellan turn sharply toward her.
"Ask Mr. Varo what really happened to Nadia."
May you like
The call ended.
And the compound's security alarms began screaming.
