Chapter 2 - THE WORD THAT CHANGED THE ROOM
Stellan Varo did not react to Celia’s note.
That frightened her more than anger would have.
He simply placed one finger over the sentence she had written, looked across the conference table at Viktor Grekov, and spoke in English.
“Thursday?”
Grekov’s interpreter hesitated.
Only for half a second.
But Celia saw it.
Grekov did too.
The Russian crime lord slowly turned toward his interpreter.
“What did he ask?”
The interpreter answered in Russian.
Celia translated quietly for Stellan.
“He told Grekov you asked whether Thursday was still convenient.”
Stellan’s pale eyes remained on the other interpreter.
“That is not what I said.”
“No.”
Grekov leaned back.
He was older than Stellan by perhaps fifteen years, broad through the shoulders, silver-haired, with a broken nose that looked almost deliberate on his expensive face.
He said something in Russian.
His interpreter began translating.
“Mr. Grekov says there appears to have been—”
“He said, ‘If the girl understands me, let the girl speak,’” Celia interrupted.
The room went still.
Every man at the table looked at her.
Archer, standing near the far wall, lowered his chin slightly.
The interpreter’s face drained of color.
Celia’s heart began pounding hard enough to hurt.
She did not look at Stellan.
Grekov did.
Then he smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
“So,” Grekov said in Russian, looking directly at Celia. “The little American hears everything.”
Celia translated.
Stellan answered in English.
“She does.”
The next forty minutes changed the negotiation completely.
Grekov stopped pretending his interpreter was accurate.
He spoke directly to Celia instead.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes fast.
Sometimes in obscure regional phrases intended to make her stumble.
She did not.
When he threatened to seize the Eastern port, she translated threaten.
When he called Stellan an arrogant orphan sitting on his father’s dead throne, she translated every word.
When Stellan replied that Grekov had mistaken patience for weakness, Celia gave him exactly that sentence in Russian.
No softer.
No harder.
Exactly.
And something strange began happening.
The two most dangerous men in the room stopped looking at one another when they spoke.
They looked at Celia.
Not because she was powerful.
Because suddenly every ounce of power in the room had to pass through her mouth.
At 6:17 p.m., Grekov stood.
“This meeting is finished.”
His interpreter reached for the papers in front of him.
Grekov stopped him with one look.
Then he turned to Celia.
“Ms. Rowe.”
She waited.
His English was heavily accented but clear.
“Ask your mother about Omsk.”
Celia forgot to breathe.
Nobody in the room moved.
Grekov smiled faintly.
Then he walked out.
His men followed.
The interpreter remained behind for three seconds.
Long enough to look at Celia with something between hatred and fear.
Then he left too.
The conference-room doors closed.
Celia stared at them.
Stellan spoke behind her.
“What does Omsk mean to you?”
She forced herself to turn.
“My mother was born near there.”
“You told me that yesterday.”
“That’s all I know.”
Stellan studied her.
“Is it?”
The question irritated her because she had been asking herself exactly the same thing.
“My mother came to the United States when she was twenty-three. She married my father. They divorced when I was fourteen. She has spent most of my adult life working in medical billing offices and telling me not to spend money on things I can’t afford.”
“What did she do before America?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“Of course I asked.”
“And?”
“She said she translated paperwork for shipping companies.”
Archer crossed the room.
“What companies?”
Celia looked at him.
“I was twelve the last time I asked. I didn’t request audited financial records.”
Archer’s mouth tightened.
Stellan walked to the window.
Outside, three black vehicles carrying Grekov’s delegation moved through the gates.
“Grekov doesn’t make casual remarks,” Stellan said.
Celia folded her arms.
“Neither do you.”
His reflection looked back at her in the glass.
“No.”
“So tell me what you’re not telling me.”
Archer glanced at Stellan.
That glance told Celia everything.
There was something.
Stellan turned.
“Your agency didn’t send me your original file.”
“What?”
“They sent a revised file.”
Celia’s pulse changed.
“How do you know?”
“Because I pay people to know when information has been revised.”
“That answer is annoyingly consistent with your personality.”
Something almost moved at the corner of his mouth.
Almost.
Then it was gone.
“Someone removed fourteen months of your mother’s employment history before your file reached my desk.”
Celia’s anger vanished.
“Fourteen months where?”
“Russia.”
She stared at him.
“I need to call her.”
“You can.”
Celia reached for her phone.
No signal.
She looked up.
Archer said, “Internal network only during active negotiations.”
“Then give me a secure line.”
Stellan nodded.
Archer led her into the adjoining library and handed her a phone.
Her mother answered on the sixth ring.
“Celia?”
“Mom.”
“You sound strange.”
“I’m working.”
“At the terrible job?”
Celia almost laughed.
Her mother had refused to hear details when Celia accepted it.
“Yes.”
“Then quit.”
“I can’t.”
“You can always quit.”
Celia closed her eyes.
“Mom, who is Viktor Grekov?”
Silence.
Not surprise.
Silence.
The kind that contained recognition.
Celia stood slowly.
“Mom?”
Her mother spoke in Russian.
“Come home.”
Celia’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“Why?”
“Come home tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“Celia.”
She had never heard her mother sound like that.
Not during dialysis.
Not when they received the first hospital bill.
Not when Celia’s father left.
“Tell me who he is.”
Her mother breathed once.
Then said quietly, “A man you should never have met.”
The line went dead.
Celia stared at the phone.
Behind her, the library door was open.
Stellan stood there.
He had heard enough.
“My mother knows him,” Celia said.
“Yes.”
“You knew that before I arrived?”
“No.”
“Do you believe me?”
Stellan looked almost offended.
“If I believed you were working for Grekov, you would not be holding a telephone.”
Celia decided not to ask what she would be holding instead.
She walked past him.
“I’m going home.”
Stellan followed her into the hall.
“You agreed to seventy-two hours.”
“My mother sounded terrified.”
“And Grekov wants you outside these gates.”
Celia stopped.
“That’s convenient.”
“For whom?”
“For you.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Stellan became very still.
“You think I arranged this?”
“I think I arrived yesterday and now a Russian gangster knows my mother’s name.”
“So does your agency.”
“My agency doesn’t control armed men.”
“Neither do I outside these gates.”
Celia stared at him.
That was the first time he had admitted there was something he could not control.
Archer appeared at the top of the staircase.
“Sir.”
Stellan looked over.
Archer held a small white envelope.
“Found outside Ms. Rowe’s room.”
Celia’s stomach dropped.
“Who put it there?”
“We’re checking.”
Archer handed it to Stellan.
“No prints.”
Stellan opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Three words.
Written in black ink.
Celia read them upside down.
THE SEVENTH STAYED.
She looked at Archer.
Yesterday, when she had said seven interpreters had walked out, Archer had corrected her.
Six.
At the time, she had assumed he was trying to erase a scandal.
Now she understood.
Maybe he had been telling the truth.
“The seventh interpreter,” Celia whispered.
Stellan said nothing.
“Where is she?”
Archer’s face had become unreadable.
Celia looked from him to Stellan.
“Where is she?”
Stellan folded the note once.
May you like
Then said the one thing she had not expected.
“Still on the property.”
